“I rather doubt it.”

“You anticipated a warmer welcome?”

“I was told to expect one.”

“By whom?”

Abdullah felt as though he were being interrogated. “The usual channels, Konstantin. What difference does it make?”

A moment passed. Then Dragunov said quietly, “There would have been no lectures if you had come to Moscow instead of London.”

“If my first trip abroad as crown prince had been to Moscow, it would have sent a dangerous signal to the Americans and to my rivals inside the House of Saud. It’s better to wait until I’m king. That way, no one will be able to challenge me.”

“Be that as it may, our mutual friend in the Kremlin would like a clear signal of your intentions.”

And so it begins, thought Abdullah. The pressure to live up to his end of the deal. Cautiously, he asked, “What sort of signal?”

“One that makes it abundantly clear that you don’t plan to go your own way once you become the leader of a family worth more than a trillion dollars.” Dragunov’s smile was forced. “With wealth like that, you might be tempted to forget those who helped you when no one else would go near you. Remember, Abdullah, my president invested a great deal in you. He expects a handsome return.”

“And he’ll get one,” said Abdullah. “After I become king.”

“He’d like a gesture of goodwill in the meantime.”

“What did he have in mind?”

“An agreement to invest one hundred billion dollars from Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund in several Russian projects that are of paramount importance to the Kremlin.”

“And to you, too, I suspect.” Receiving no reply, Abdullah said, “This sounds like a shakedown to me.”

“Does it?”

Abdullah feigned deliberation. “Tell your president I’ll dispatch a delegation to Moscow next week.”

Dragunov brought his hands together in a show of unity. “Wonderful news.”

Abdullah suddenly craved alcohol. He glanced over his shoulder. Where the hell was that girl? When he turned around again, Dragunov was devouring a caviar treat. A single black egg had lodged itself like a tick on his prominent lower lip.

Abdullah averted his gaze and abruptly changed the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to try to kill him?”

“Who?”

“Allon.”

The Russian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, dislodging the speck of caviar. “The decision was made by the Kremlin and the SVR. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You should have killed Khalid and the child the way we agreed and left Allon out of it.”

“He needed to be dealt with.”

“But you didn’t deal with him, Konstantin. Allon survived that night.”

Dragunov waved his hand dismissively. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Gabriel Allon.”

“You have nothing to fear.”

“Really?”

“We were the ones who tried to kill him, not you.”

“I doubt he’ll see the distinction.”

“You’re the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, Abdullah. Soon you’ll be the king. No one, not even Gabriel Allon, can touch you now.”

Abdullah glanced over his shoulder. Where the hell was that girl?

The SVR had trained Anna Yurasova in all manner of weaponry—firearms, knives, explosives—but never once had she rehearsed opening a bottle of Louis Roederer champagne under conditions of operational stress.

When the cork finally shot from the bottle with a loud pop, several costly ounces of frothy liquid spilled onto the counter. Ignoring the mess, Anna reached into the pocket of her maid’s apron and removed a Pasteur pipette dropper and a slender glass vial. The clear liquid inside was one of the most dangerous substances on earth. Moscow Center had assured Anna it was harmless as long as it was in its container. Once she removed the cap, however, the liquid would instantly emit an invisible fountain of lethal alpha radiation. Anna was to work quickly but with extreme care. She was not to ingest the substance, inhale its fumes, or touch it.

On the counter was a serving tray with two crystal champagne flutes. Anna’s hands trembled as she unscrewed the metal cap from the vial. With the Pasteur pipette she drew a few milliliters of the liquid and squirted it into one of the glasses. There was no scent at all. Moscow Center had promised it was tasteless as well.

Anna screwed the cap onto the vial and shoved it into the pocket of her apron, along with the pipette. Then she filled the two glasses with the champagne and with her left hand picked up the tray. The contaminated glass was on the right. She could almost feel the radiation rising with the escaping effervescence.

She pushed open one of the swinging double doors and snared a few linen cocktail napkins from the bar. As she approached the drawing room she heard the Saudi speak a name that made her heart give a sideways lurch. She placed a cocktail napkin before him and atop the napkin the contaminated glass. Dragunov she served directly, from her right hand to his.

The oligarch raised the glass formally. “To the future,” he said, and drank.

The Saudi hesitated. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night I returned to Saudi Arabia to become crown prince.”

“She can get you something else if you prefer.”

“Are you mad?” The Saudi swallowed the entire glass of champagne in a single draught. “Is there more? I don’t think I can get through dinner at Downing Street without it.”

Anna reclaimed the contaminated glass and returned to the kitchen. The Saudi had just consumed enough of the radioactive toxin to kill everyone in Greater London. There was no medication, no emergency treatment, that could forestall the inevitable destruction of his cells and organs. He was already dying.

Nevertheless, Anna decided to give him another dose.

This time, she did not bother with the pipette. Instead, she poured the remaining liquid toxin directly into the glass and added the champagne. Bubbles danced above the rim. Anna pictured a Vesuvius of radiation.

In the drawing room she served the drink to the Saudi and with a smile went hastily out. Returning to the kitchen, she removed her apron and placed it in the rubbish bin, along with the empty vial and the pipette. The Englishwoman had ordered Anna to leave no contaminated items behind when making her escape. It was an order she had no intention of obeying.

Surrounded by an invisible fogbank of radiation, she checked the time on her phone. It was 4:42 p.m. Upstairs in the drawing room, His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was already dying. Anna, her hand shaking, lit a cigarette and waited for him to leave.

65

Eaton Square, Belgravia

Konstantin Dragunov departed his home at 5:22 p.m. Because the northwest corner of Eaton Square was closed, he was compelled to walk a short distance to Cliveden Place, where his Mercedes Maybach limousine was waiting. Clutching an attaché case, an overcoat draped over his arm, he lowered himself into the backseat. The limousine sped east, followed by an Office watcher on a BMW motorcycle.

The woman emerged seven minutes later. At the base of the steps she turned left and walked past the home where His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was said to be resting before an eight o’clock dinner at Downing Street. The six Protection Command officers standing outside the residence observed her carefully as she passed. So did Christopher Keller, who was still sheltering in the back of the van, though Keller’s interest in the woman was of a far different nature.