It took the same amount of time, five minutes, for Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster to separate himself from his aides and make his way upstairs to the White Room. Entering, he removed a slip of official Number 10 notepaper from his breast pocket. The pad from which it had been torn was lying on the coffee table in front of Graham Seymour, beneath the MI6 chief’s Parker pen.

“I suspect no British prime minister in history has ever been handed a note such as this in the middle of a state visit.” Lancaster dropped it on the coffee table. “I told Abdullah it concerned Brexit. I’m not sure he believed me.”

“I thought you should know her whereabouts.”

Jonathan Lancaster looked down at the note. “Do me a favor, Graham. Burn that damn thing. The rest of the notepad, too.”

“Prime Minister?”

“You left an impression on the pad when you wrote it.” Lancaster shook his head reproachfully. “Didn’t they teach you anything at spy school?”

63

Eaton Square, Belgravia

The recriminations began the instant the door closed. The meeting at Downing Street had been an unmitigated disaster. There was no other word for it. A disaster! How could they have not known that Lancaster intended to ambush His Royal Highness on the issue of human rights and the jailed women? Why were they not told he was going to raise the topic of Saudi financial support for Islamic institutions in Britain? Why were they blindsided? Obaid, the foreign minister, blamed it all on Qahtani, the ambassador to London, who saw conspiracies everywhere. Al-Omari, the chief of royal court, was so enraged he suggested canceling dinner and returning to Riyadh at once. It was Abdullah, suddenly the statesman, who overruled him. Backing out of the dinner, he said, would only offend the British and weaken him at home. Better to end the visit on a high note, even if it was a false one.

In the meantime, an aggressive media response was in order. Obaid hurried over to the BBC, Qahtani to CNN. In the sudden silence, Abdullah slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, a hand pressed to his forehead. The performance was for the benefit of al-Omari, the courtier. No task was too small, too demeaning, for al-Omari. He hovered over Abdullah night and day. Therefore, he would have to be handled carefully.

“Are you feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness?”

“Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you should go upstairs for a rest.”

“I think I’ll have a swim first.”

“Shall I switch on the steam room?”

“There are some things I can still do for myself.” Abdullah rose slowly. “Short of a palace coup or an Iranian attack on Saudi Arabia, I wish not to be disturbed until seven thirty. Can you manage that, Ahmed?”

Abdullah went downstairs to the pool room. A watery blue light played upon an arched ceiling painted with corpulent swirling nudes in the manner of Rubens and Michelangelo. How shocked the pious men of the ulema would be, he thought, if they could see him now. He had renewed the old covenant between the Wahhabis and the House of Saud to win clerical support for his coup against Khalid. Yet privately he loathed the bearded ones as much as the reformers did. Despite the unexpectedly contentious meeting at Downing Street, Abdullah had enjoyed his brief respite from religiously stifling Riyadh. He realized how much he had missed the sight of female flesh, even if it was only a bare lower leg, pale with winter, viewed through the tinted window of a speeding limousine.

He went into the changing room, switched on the steam bath, and shed his vestments. Disrobed, he contemplated his reflection in the full-length mirror. The sight depressed him. Whatever muscle he had acquired after puberty had long ago run to fat. His pectorals dangled like an old woman’s breasts over his colossal abdomen. His legs, spindly and hairless, seemed to strain under the burden. Only his hair saved him from incontestable hideousness. It was rich and thick and only slightly gray.

He eased into the pool and, manatee-like, swam several lengths. Afterward, standing before the mirror once more, he thought he detected a slight improvement in his muscle tone. In his wardrobe was a change of clothing: woolen trousers, a blazer, a striped dress shirt, undergarments, loafers, a belt. After deodorizing his armpits and running a comb through his hair, he dressed.

The heavy glass door of the steam bath was now opaque with condensation. No one, not even the cloying al-Omari, would dare look inside. Abdullah locked the outer door of the dressing room before opening what was once a storage closet for robes and pool towels. It was now a vestibule of sorts. Inside was another door. On the wall was a keypad. Abdullah entered the four-digit code. The lock snapped open with a gentle thud.

64

Eaton Square, Belgravia

The communicating door on the other side of the common wall was already open. In the half-light of the passageway stood Konstantin Dragunov. He regarded Abdullah at length. There was nothing deferential in his direct gaze. Abdullah supposed the Russian was entitled to his insolence. Were it not for Dragunov and his friend in the Kremlin, Khalid would still be next in line to the throne, and Abdullah would be just another middle-aged, bankrupt prince from the wrong branch of the family tree.

At last, Dragunov bowed his head slightly. There was nothing genuine in the gesture. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Konstantin. So good to see you again.”

Abdullah accepted the outstretched hand. It had been several months since their last meeting. On that occasion Abdullah had informed the Russian that his nephew Khalid had retained the services of one Gabriel Allon, the chief of Israeli intelligence, to find his kidnapped daughter.

The Russian released Abdullah’s hand. “I saw the joint news conference with Lancaster. I have to say, it looked rather tense.”

“It was. So was the meeting that preceded it.”

“I’m surprised.” Dragunov glanced at his big gold wristwatch. “How long can you stay?”

“A half hour. Not a minute more.”

“Shall we go upstairs?”

“What about the reporters and the photographers in the square?”

“The shades and drapes are drawn.”

“And your staff?”

“Just one girl.” Dragunov smiled wolfishly. “Wait until you see her.”

They climbed two flights of stairs to the large double drawing room. It was furnished like a Pall Mall gentlemen’s club and hung with paintings of equines, canines, and men with white wigs. A maid in a short black dress was placing trays of canapés on a low table. She was about thirty-five, quite pretty. Abdullah wondered where Dragunov found them.

“Something to drink?” asked the Russian. “Juice? Mineral water? Tea?”

“Juice,” answered Abdullah.

“What kind?”

“The kind that’s made from French grapes and emits bubbles when poured into a tall slender glass.”

“I believe I have a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in the cooler.”

Abdullah smiled. “I suppose it will have to do.”

The woman nodded and withdrew.

Abdullah sat down and waved away Dragunov’s offer of food. “They stuffed me like a goose at Downing Street. Round two begins at eight o’clock.”

“Perhaps it will be better than the first.”