Keller sidestepped the spot where he and the dead terrorist had lain together, and presented himself at the security gate of Downing Street. Once again, after displaying his MI6 identification, he was allowed to pass. Ken Ramsey, the leader of Downing Street operations, was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10.

Ramsey handed Keller a radio set and a Glock 17. “Your boss is upstairs in the White Room. He’d like a word.”

Keller hurried up the Grand Staircase, which was lined with portraits of prime ministers past. Geoffrey Sloane was waiting in the corridor outside the White Room. Opening the door, he nodded for Keller to enter. Graham Seymour was seated in one of the wing chairs. In the other was Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster. His expression was grave and tense.

“Keller,” he said absently.

“Prime Minister.” Keller looked at Seymour. “Where is she?”

“The A12 bound for London.”

“What about Abdullah?”

“You tell me.”

Keller inserted his earpiece and listened to the chatter on the RaSP’s secure frequency. “Bang on target for a ten fifteen arrival.”

“Then perhaps,” said Lancaster, “you should be downstairs with your colleagues.”

“Does this mean—”

“That we’re proceeding with the summit meeting as planned?” Lancaster rose and buttoned his suit jacket. “Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we?”

61

Notting Hill, London

At 10:13 a.m., as a motorcade of Mercedes limousines flowed through Downing Street’s open gate, a single car, a dowdy Opel hatchback, drew up outside 7 St. Luke’s Mews in Notting Hill. The man in the backseat, Prince Khalid bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud, was in a foul mood. Like his uncle, he had arrived that morning at Heathrow Airport—not by private jet, his usual mode of travel, but on a commercial flight from Cairo, an experience he would not soon forget. The car was the final straw.

Khalid caught the driver’s eye in the rearview. “Aren’t you going to open my door?”

“Just pull the latch, luv. Works every time.”

Khalid stepped into the wet street. As he approached the door of Number 7, it remained tightly closed. He glanced over his shoulder. The driver, with a movement of his hand, indicated that Khalid should make his presence known by knocking on the door. Another calculated insult, he thought. Never in his life had he knocked on a door.

A boyish-looking man with a benevolent face admitted him. The house was very small and sparsely furnished. The sitting room contained a couple of cheap-looking chairs and a television tuned to the BBC. Before it stood Gabriel Allon, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Khalid joined him and watched his uncle, in traditional Saudi dress, emerge from the back of a limousine as cameras flashed like lightning. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was standing just outside the door of Number 10, a smile frozen on his face.

“I should be the one arriving at Downing Street,” said Khalid. “Not him.”

“Be glad you’re not.”

Khalid surveyed the room with disapproval. “I don’t suppose there’s any refreshment.”

Gabriel pointed toward a doorway. “Help yourself.”

Khalid went into the kitchen, another first. Bewildered, he called out, “How does the teakettle work?”

“Add water and push the power button,” answered Gabriel. “That should do the trick.”

Like his tempestuous young nephew, Crown Prince Abdullah was not impressed by the house he entered that morning. Though he had lived in London for many years and moved in lofty social circles, it was his first visit to Downing Street. He had been assured that beyond the rather staid entrance hall lay a house of extraordinary elegance and unexpected size. At first glance, however, it seemed hard to imagine. Abdullah much preferred his new billion-dollar palace in Riyadh—or the Grand Presidential Palace at the Kremlin, where he had met secretly on several occasions with the man to whom he now owed an enormous debt. Today he would make his first payment.

The prime minister insisted on showing Abdullah a scuffed, modular-looking leather chair beloved by Winston Churchill. Abdullah made appropriate noises of admiration. Inwardly, however, he was thinking that the chair, like Jonathan Lancaster, needed to be put out of its misery.

At last, Abdullah and his aides were shown into the Cabinet Room. Cabinet was definitely the right word for it. He took his assigned seat, and Lancaster sat down opposite. Before each of them was the agreed-upon agenda for the first session of the summit. Lancaster, however, after much throat clearing and shuffling of papers, suggested they get “some unpleasantness” out of the way first.

“Unpleasantness?”

“It has come to our attention that a dozen or more female activists are being held without charge in a Saudi prison and subjected to various forms of torture, including electric shock, waterboarding, and threats of rape. It is imperative these women be released at once. Otherwise, we cannot proceed with our relationship as normal.”

Abdullah managed to conceal his astonishment. He had been assured by his foreign minister and his ambassador to London that the meeting would be amicable.

“Those women,” he said calmly, “were arrested by my nephew.”

“Be that as it may,” Lancaster shot back, “you are responsible for their current confinement. They must be released at once.”

Abdullah’s gaze was level and cool. “The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia does not interfere in the internal matters of Great Britain. We expect to be shown the same courtesy.”

“The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia has directly and indirectly helped to turn this country into the world’s preeminent center for Salafist-jihadist ideology. This, too, must end.”

Abdullah hesitated, then said, “Perhaps we should move on to the next item on the agenda.”

“We just did.”

Beyond the government zones of Whitehall and Westminster, London’s midday traffic was its typical tangled mess. In fact, it took Anna Yurasova nearly two hours to drive from Tower Hamlets to the Q-Park garage on Kinnerton Street in Belgravia, much longer than she had expected.

The London rezidentura had clandestinely reserved a space at the garage. Anna concealed the Stechkin 9mm beneath the Renault’s passenger seat before surrendering the car to the attendant. Then she walked up the ramp, handbag dangling from one shoulder, and made her way to Motcomb Street, a narrow pedestrian lane lined with some of London’s most exclusive shops and restaurants. In her dark skirt and stockings and short leather coat, her heels clattering loudly over the paving stones, she drew admiring and envious glances. She was confident, however, that no one was following her.

At Lowndes Street she turned left and headed toward Eaton Square. The northwestern section was closed to vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Anna approached a Metropolitan Police officer and explained that she was employed at one of the houses on the square.

“Which one, please?”

“Number Seventy.”

“I need to have a look inside your bag.”

Anna removed it from her shoulder and held it open. The officer examined it thoroughly before allowing her to pass. The terrace of houses along the western flank of the square were some of the grandest in London: three bay windows, five stories, a basement, and a handsome portico supported by two columns, each bearing the house’s address. Anna climbed the four steps of Number 70 and placed her index finger atop the bell push. The door opened and she went inside.