“He wanted you to jettison the Americans and become a Russian ally?”

“You’re thinking too small,” answered Khalid. “The Tsar wanted to form a partnership. He said the West was dying, in part because he was doing his best to sow social division and political chaos wherever he could. He said the future lay in Eurasia, with its massive supplies of energy and water and people. Russia, China, India, Turkey, Iran . . .”

“And Saudi Arabia?”

Khalid nodded. “We were going to rule the world together. And the best part was that he would never lecture me about democracy or human rights.”

“How could you refuse an offer like that?”

“Quite easily. I wanted American technology and expertise to power my economy, not Russian.” He was suddenly animated, like the KBM of old. “Tell me something, what was the last Russian product you purchased? What do they export other than vodka and oil and gas?”

“Wood.”

“Really? Perhaps we should begin exporting sand. That would solve all our problems.”

“Did you tell the Tsar how you felt?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How did he take it?”

“He gave me that dead-fish stare and told me I had made a mistake.”

“You and your father went to Moscow a few months later. You announced a deal to increase the price of oil. You also purchased a Russian air defense system.”

“We were hedging our bets, that’s all.”

“What about that ridiculous handshake in Buenos Aires? You and the Tsar looked as though you’d just scored the winning goal in the World Cup.”

“And do you know what he whispered into my ear after we sat down? He asked whether I’d had a chance to reconsider his offer.”

“What was your answer?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember. Whatever it was, it was obviously wrong. Reema was kidnapped two weeks later.” Khalid surveyed the mammoth vessel that was not really his. He was rubbing his hands together again, as though trying to remove a stain. “I suppose this means I’ll never be able to avenge her death.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The Tsar is the most powerful man in the world, never forget that. And that woman who led us to that field in France is almost certainly a Russian intelligence officer.”

“The man who detonated the bomb, too. But what’s your point?”

“They’re back in Moscow. You’ll never find them.”

“You’d be surprised. Besides,” said Gabriel, “vengeance comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“Is that another Jewish proverb?”

Gabriel smiled. “Close enough.”

48

Notting Hill, London

At half past five on a sodden London afternoon, Gabriel Allon, director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service, swung the heavy steel knocker against the door of the safe house in St. Luke’s Mews in Notting Hill and was admitted by a boyish-looking man of forty who insisted on referring to him as “Mr. Mudd.” In the cramped sitting room he found Graham Seymour staring despondently at the television. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster’s plan to withdraw the United Kingdom from the European Union in accordance with the wishes of the British electorate had just gone down to a humiliating defeat in the House of Commons.

“It’s the worst drubbing for any British leader in modern times.” Seymour’s eyes were still fastened to the screen. “Jonathan will no doubt have to face a vote of no confidence.”

“Will he survive?”

“Probably. But there’s no guarantee, not after this. If his government falls, there’s a good chance Labour will win the next election. Which means you will have to contend with the most anti-Israel prime minister in British history.”

Seymour went to the drinks trolley, a new addition to the safe house, and thrust a handful of ice into a cut-glass tumbler. He waved a bottle of Beefeater in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel held up a hand.

“Nigel put a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.”

“It’s a bit early in the day for me, Graham.”

Seymour frowned at his wristwatch. “It’s gone five o’clock, for heaven’s sake.” He poured a generous measure of gin over the ice and topped it with a dash of tonic and a wedge of lime. “Cheers.”

“What are we drinking to?”

“The demise of a once-great nation. The end of Western civilization as we know it.” Seymour gazed at the television and slowly shook his head. “The bloody Russians must be loving this.”

“So must Rebecca.”

Seymour nodded slowly. “I see that woman in my sleep. God forgive me for saying this, but sometimes I wish you’d let her drown that morning in the Potomac.”

“Let her drown? I was the one holding her head beneath the water, remember?”

“It must have been awful.” Seymour studied Gabriel carefully for a moment. “Almost as awful as what happened in France. Even Christopher seemed shell-shocked when he got home. I gather you’re lucky to be alive.”

“So is Khalid.”

“We haven’t heard a peep from him since he abdicated.”

“He’s aboard his yacht off Sharm el-Sheikh.”

“Poor lamb.” On the floor of the Commons, Jonathan Lancaster had risen to his feet to acknowledge the magnitude of the defeat he had just suffered, only to be heckled mercilessly by the back benches of the opposition. Seymour aimed the remote at the screen and pressed mute. “If only it were that easy.” Drink in hand, he reclaimed his seat. “It’s not all gloom and doom, though. Thanks to you, I had a rather pleasant meeting with my minister this morning.”

“Really?”

“I showed him those Iranian nuclear documents you gave me. And then he promptly closed the file and changed the subject to Abdullah.”

“What about Abdullah?”

“How far does he intend to go to placate the religious hard-liners? Is he going to play the same old double game when it comes to the jihadists and terrorists? Is he going to be a force for regional stability or regional chaos? Mainly, my minister wanted to know whether Abdullah, given his close ties to London, might be inclined to tilt our way rather than toward the Americans.”

“By that, you mean you’d like to sell Abdullah as many advanced fighter aircraft as he’s willing to buy, regardless of what it means for the security of my country.”

“More or less. We’re thinking about beating the Americans to the punch by inviting Abdullah to come to London for an official visit.”

“I think a visit to London is a wonderful idea. But I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to win over Abdullah.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already spoken for.”

“Bloody Americans,” murmured Seymour.

“We should be so lucky.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gabriel picked up the remote and raised the volume on the television to full.

Over the cacophony of British parliamentary democracy, Gabriel told Graham Seymour everything that had transpired since the night of Reema’s murder in France. Khalid, he said, had given Gabriel financial records concerning the sudden wealth of his uncle Abdullah. Office analysts had used the documents to establish a clear link between Abdullah and one Konstantin Dragunov, a Russian oligarch and personal friend of the Tsar. In addition, Gabriel had obtained an unpublished article written by Omar Nawwaf, purporting that Russian intelligence was involved in a plot to remove Khalid and install Abdullah as the new crown prince. It was Abdullah who had advised Khalid to have the journalist killed—and Abdullah, from his mansion in Belgravia, who had seen to the messy details. Through a cutout, he lured Omar Nawwaf to the Saudi consulate in Istanbul with a promise that Khalid would be waiting inside. That evening, while Nawwaf’s dismembered body was being disposed of, Russian agents entered the journalist’s room at the InterContinental Hotel, and his apartment in Berlin, and took his computers, portable storage devices, and written notes.