Khalid stared out the window in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

With his silence, Gabriel made it clear he was.

“Do you know what will happen if I so much as set foot in there?”

“You’ll be murdered by a fifteen-member hit team and chopped into little pieces.”

Khalid stared at Gabriel with a look of genuine alarm.

“Just kidding, Khalid. Now get out of the car.”

25

Kensington, London

Khalid’s simple disguise did not fool the embassy security staff or the ambassador, who happened to be leaving for a diplomatic reception as Israel’s legendary spy chief came bursting into the chancellery with the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia at his side. “I’ll explain later,” said Gabriel quietly in Hebrew, and the ambassador was heard to mutter, “You’re damn right you will.”

Downstairs, Gabriel placed Khalid’s new mobile phone in a signal-blocking box known as a beehive before opening the station’s vaultlike door. Moshe Cohen, the new chief, was waiting on the other side. His eyes settled first on his director-general, then, in astonishment, on the crown prince of Saudi Arabia.

“What in God’s name is—”

“His phone is in the beehive,” interjected Gabriel in terse Hebrew.

Cohen did not require additional instructions. “How long can you give us?”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten would be better.”

Khalid did not understand the exchange but was visibly impressed by its tenor. He trailed Gabriel along the station’s central corridor to another secure door. The room behind it was small, about eight feet by ten. There were two telephones, a computer, and a wall-mounted video screen. The air was several degrees colder than in the rest of the station. Khalid kept his overcoat on.

“A safe-speech room?”

“We have another name for it.”

“What’s that?”

Gabriel hesitated. “The Holy of Holies.”

It was clear that Khalid, despite his Oxford education, did not understand the reference.

“The Holy of Holies was the inner sanctuary of the Temple of Jerusalem. It was a perfect cube, twenty cubits by twenty cubits by twenty cubits. It contained the Ark of the Covenant, and inside the Ark were the original Ten Commandments that God gave Moses on Sinai.”

“Stone tablets?” asked Khalid incredulously.

“God didn’t print them on an HP LaserJet.”

“And you believe this nonsense?”

“I’m willing to debate the authenticity of the tablets,” said Gabriel. “But not the rest of it.”

“The so-called Temple of Solomon never existed. It is a lie used by Zionists to justify the Jewish conquest of Arab Palestine.”

“The Temple was described in great detail in the Torah long before the advent of Zionism.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that it is untrue.” Khalid was clearly enjoying the debate. “I remember a few years ago when your government claimed to have found the pillars of the so-called Temple.”

“I remember it, too,” said Gabriel.

“They were placed in the Israel Museum, were they not?” Khalid shook his head disdainfully. “That exhibit is a piece of crude propaganda designed to justify your existence on Muslim lands.”

“My wife designed that exhibit.”

“Did she?”

“And I was the one who discovered the pillars.”

This time, Khalid offered no objection.

“The Waqf had hidden them in a chamber one hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface of the Temple Mount.” The Waqf was the Islamic religious authority that administered the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They assumed no one would ever find them. They were mistaken.”

“Another lie,” said Khalid.

“Come to Israel,” suggested Gabriel. “I’ll take you to the chamber.”

“Me? Visit Israel?”

“Why not?”

“Can you imagine the reaction?”

“Yes, I can.”

“I must admit, it would be a great privilege to pray in the Noble Sanctuary.” The Noble Sanctuary was how Muslims referred to the Temple Mount.

“We can do that, too.”

Khalid sat down along one side of the small conference table and glanced around the interior of the room. “How fortunate we were both in London at the same time.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “I’m searching desperately for your daughter, and you’re having dinner with Uncle Abdullah and staying in the most expensive suite at the Dorchester.”

“How did you know I saw my uncle?”

Ignoring the question, Gabriel held out a hand and asked to see the demand letter. Khalid placed it on the table. It was a photocopy. The original, he said, had been delivered to the Saudi Embassy in Paris. The typeface and margins were identical to those of the first letter. So was the flat, matter-of-fact wording. Khalid had until midnight the following evening to abdicate. If he refused, he would never see his daughter again.

“Was there any proof of life?”

Khalid handed over a copy of the photograph. The child was holding the previous day’s edition of the Telegraph and staring directly into the lens of the camera. She had her father’s eyes. She looked exhausted and unkempt, but not at all frightened.

Gabriel returned the photograph. “No father should ever have to see a picture like that.”

“Perhaps I deserve it.”

“Perhaps you do.” Gabriel laid a photograph of his own on the table. A man sitting in a café in Annecy. “Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

“What about this man?” Gabriel laid a second photo on the table. It was the DGSI surveillance shot of Rafiq al-Madani sitting next to Khalid aboard Tranquillity.

“Where did you get this?”

“The Tatler.” Gabriel withdrew the photo. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“I don’t have friends. I have subjects, houseguests, and family.”

“Into which category does al-Madani fall?”

“He is a temporary ally.”

“I thought you were going to shut down the flow of money to the jihadis and the Salafists.”

Khalid’s smile was condescending. “You don’t know much about Arabs, do you?” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “Shwaya, shwaya. Slowly, slowly. Little by little.”

“Which means you’re still funding the extremists with the help of your friend Rafiq al-Madani.”

“Which means I have to move carefully and with the support of someone like Rafiq. Someone who has the trust of important clerics. Someone who can provide me with the necessary cover. Otherwise, the House of Saud will crumble, and Arabia will be ruled by the sons of al-Qaeda and ISIS. Is that what you want?”

“You’re playing the same old double game.”

“I am holding a tiger by the ears. And if I let go, it will devour me.”

“It already has.” Gabriel called up a message on his BlackBerry. It was the message he had received while sitting in Christopher Keller’s kitchen. “It was al-Madani who told you about the second demand letter. He did so at three twelve p.m. London time.”