Though Anna Yurasova did not know it, the team at Hatch End was monitoring her every move with the help of the CCTV cameras. Eli Lavon, who was following her on foot, was a mere insurance policy. After watching her enter the house at 70 Eaton Square, he walked west to Cadogan Place and lowered himself into the passenger seat of a Ford Fiesta. Mikhail Abramov was behind the wheel.

“Looks like Gabriel was right about where the Russians plan to do it.”

“You sound surprised,” replied Lavon.

“Not at all. The question is, how are they going to get to him?”

Mikhail drummed his fingers nervously on the center console. It was, thought Lavon, a wholly unbecoming habit for a man of the secret world.

“Is there any way you can stop that?”

“Stop what?”

Lavon exhaled slowly and switched on the car radio. It was one p.m. At Downing Street, said the newsreader on the BBC’s Radio 4, the prime minister and the crown prince were just sitting down to lunch.

62

Eaton Square, Belgravia

It was Konstantin Dragunov, friend and business associate of Russia’s president, who admitted Anna Yurasova into the grand house in Eaton Square. He wore an oligarch’s dark suit and a white dress shirt open to his breastbone. His sparse gray hair and beard were uniform in length. His prominent lower lip shone like the skin of a freshly polished apple. Anna recoiled at the thought of a traditional Russian kiss of greeting. Defensively, she offered her hand instead.

“Mr. Dragunov,” she said in English.

“Please call me Konstantin,” he replied in the same language. Then in Russian he said, “Don’t worry, a team from the rezidentura gave the house a thorough sweep late last night. It’s clean.”

He helped Anna off with her coat. The look in his eye suggested he wanted to help her off with her dress and her undergarments as well. Konstantin Dragunov was regarded as one of the worst lechers in Russia, a noteworthy achievement given the stiff level of competition.

Anna glanced around the graceful entrance hall. Before leaving Moscow she had familiarized herself with the interior of the house by studying photographs and floor plans. They had not done it justice. It was remarkably beautiful.

She reclaimed her coat. “Perhaps you should show me around.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Dragunov led her down a hallway to a pair of double doors, each with a round window, like portholes on a ship. Beyond them lay a professional kitchen that was much larger than Anna’s flat in Moscow. It was obvious from Dragunov’s indifferent demeanor that he did not often venture into this room of his Belgravia mansion.

“I gave the rest of the staff the day off, just like the Englishwoman instructed. I doubt Abdullah will eat anything, but before the police cordon went up I took delivery of a couple trays of canapés from his favorite caterer. They’re in the refrigerator.”

There were two, actually, side by side. Both were Sub-Zeros.

“What will he drink?”

“That depends on his mood. Champagne, white wine, a whisky if he’s had a hard day. The wines are in the cooler under the counter. The distilled drinks are kept in the bar.” Dragunov pushed through the double doors like a headwaiter in a hurry. The bar was in an alcove to the right. “Abdullah prefers Johnnie Walker Black Label. I keep a bottle just for him.”

“How does he drink it?”

“Lots of ice. There’s an automatic maker under the sink.”

“What time are you expecting him?”

“Between four thirty and five. For obvious reasons he can’t stay long.”

“Where will you entertain him?”

“The drawing room.”

It was up a flight of stairs, on the first floor of the mansion. Like the rest of the house, there was nothing Russian about it. Anna imagined the scene that would take place there in a few hours’ time.

“It is essential you behave normally,” she said. “Just ask him what he wants to drink, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you manage that, Konstantin?”

“I think so.” He took her by the arm. “There’s one other thing you should see.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

He guided Anna into a small wood-paneled lift and pressed the call button for the uppermost floor. Dragunov’s enormous bedroom—the chamber of horrors—overlooked Eaton Square.

“Don’t worry, I brought you here only for the view.”

“Of what?”

He nudged her toward one of the three bay windows and pointed toward the southern side of the square. “Do you know who lives right over there at Number Fifty-Six?”

“Mick Jagger?”

“The chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. And you’re going to kill his prized asset right under his nose.”

“That’s great, Konstantin. But if you don’t take your hand off my ass, I’m going to kill you, too.”

The topic they reserved for the working lunch at Downing Street was Saudi Arabia’s war against the Iranian-backed Houthi rebels in Yemen. Jonathan Lancaster demanded Abdullah end indiscriminate air strikes on innocent civilians, especially air strikes carried out with British combat aircraft. Abdullah countered that it was his nephew’s war, not his, though he made it clear he shared KBM’s view that the Iranians could not be allowed to spread their malign influence throughout the Middle East.

“We’re also concerned,” said Lancaster, “about the growing regional influence of the Russians.”

“Moscow’s influence is on the rise because the Russian president did not allow his ally in Syria to be swept away by the madness of the Arab Spring. The rest of the Arab world, including Saudi Arabia, couldn’t help but notice.”

“May I offer you a piece of advice, Prince Abdullah? Don’t fall for Russian promises. It won’t end well.”

It was three fifteen when the two leaders emerged from the doorway of Number 10. The trade and investment deal the prime minister outlined for the assembled press corps was substantial but fell a few billion short of presummit expectations. So, too, did Abdullah’s commitment to purchase British arms in the future. Yes, said Lancaster, they had discussed thorny issues involving human rights. No, he was not satisfied with all of the crown prince’s answers, including those regarding the brutal murder of the dissident Saudi journalist Omar Nawwaf. “It was,” said Lancaster in conclusion, “an honest and fruitful exchange between two old friends.”

With that, he shook Abdullah’s hand and gestured toward the waiting Mercedes limousine. As the motorcade departed Downing Street, Christopher Keller ducked into the back of a black Protection Command van. Under normal circumstances, the drive to Abdullah’s private residence at 71 Eaton Square might have taken twenty minutes or more. But on empty streets with a Metropolitan Police escort, they arrived in less than five.

The square’s CCTV cameras recorded that Crown Prince Abdullah entered his home at 3:42 p.m., accompanied by a dozen robed aides and several Saudi security men in dark business suits. Six RaSP officers immediately took up positions outside the house along the pavement. One member of the detail, however, remained in the back of the Protection Command van, invisible to the woman standing in the third-floor window of the house next door.