She slipped through the police cordon and, followed by Eli Lavon, walked directly to the Q-Park garage in Kinnerton Street. There she endured a wait of nearly ten minutes for the Renault Clio. When it finally arrived she headed north, into the London evening rush. A few minutes after six p.m., she passed the entrance of the Swiss Cottage Underground station on the Finchley Road. Lavon and Mikhail Abramov were behind her in the Ford Fiesta. The Anglo-Israeli team at Hatch End was tracking her with the CCTV cameras.

The team’s two leaders remained in separate locations. Graham Seymour was at Downing Street; Gabriel, at the Notting Hill safe house. They were connected by an open secure phone line. The call had been initiated by Gabriel at 3:42 p.m., the moment Crown Prince Abdullah arrived at his home in Eaton Square. They had not seen him since. Nor had they seen any evidence to suggest Konstantin Dragunov or the female SVR operative had been in Abdullah’s presence.

“So why are they making a run for it?” asked Gabriel.

“It appears they’ve decided to abort.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Perhaps they noticed our surveillance,” suggested Seymour. “Or perhaps Abdullah stood them up.”

“Or perhaps Abdullah is already dead,” said Gabriel, “and the two people who killed him are running for the exits.”

There was silence on the line. Finally, Seymour said, “If Abdullah doesn’t walk out the door as scheduled at seven forty-five, I’ll ring the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and arrange for the arrest of Dragunov and the woman.”

“Seven forty-five is too late. We need to know whether Abdullah is still alive.”

“I can’t very well have the prime minister call him. I’ve involved him too much as it is.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to send someone else into the house to check on him.”

“Who?”

Gabriel hung up the phone.

66

Eaton Square, Belgravia

Nigel Whitcombe made the drive from Notting Hill to Belgravia in eight minutes flat. He and Gabriel remained in the car while Khalid approached the security cordon at Eaton Square. It was Christopher Keller who walked him to the front door of the house at Number 71.

The bell push summoned Marwan al-Omari, the chief courtier. He was clad in traditional Saudi dress. He fixed Khalid with a withering stare. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see my uncle.”

“I can assure you, your uncle has no wish to see you.”

Al-Omari tried to close the door, but Khalid stopped him. “Listen to me, Marwan. I am an Al Saud, and you are nothing more than a glorified butler. Now take me to my uncle before I—”

“Before you what?” Al-Omari managed a smile. “Still making threats, Khalid? One would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.”

“I’m still the son of a king. And you, Marwan, are camel dung. Now move out of my way.”

Al-Omari’s smile vanished. “Your uncle left strict instructions not to be disturbed until half past seven.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

Al-Omari stood his ground a moment longer before finally stepping to one side. Khalid rushed into the entrance hall, but the courtier seized Keller’s arm when he attempted to follow.

“Not him.”

Keller went wordlessly into the square while Khalid, pursued by al-Omari, hurried up the stairs to Abdullah’s bedroom suite. The outer door was locked. Al-Omari’s anemic knock was scarcely audible.

“Your Royal Highness?”

When there was no answer, Khalid pushed the courtier aside and hammered on the door with the palm of his hand. “Abdullah? Abdullah? Are you there?” Greeted by silence, Khalid grabbed the latch and gave it a shake. The heavy door was solid as a ship.

He looked at al-Omari. “Get out of the way.”

“What are you going to do?”

Khalid raised his right leg and drove the sole of his shoe against the door. There was the sound of splintering wood, but it held. The second blow loosened the latch from its fitting, and the third shattered the doorframe. It also broke several bones in Khalid’s foot, he was sure of it.

Limping painfully, he stumbled into the magnificent suite. The sitting room was unoccupied, as was the bedchamber. Khalid shouted Abdullah’s name, but there was still no answer.

“He must be bathing,” fretted al-Omari. “We can’t possibly disturb him.”

The door to the master bathroom suite was closed as well, but the latch yielded to Khalid’s touch. Abdullah was not in the bath or the shower. Nor was he grooming himself at the sink.

There was one final door. The door to the commode. Khalid didn’t bother knocking.

“Dear God,” whispered al-Omari.

67

10 Downing Street

Graham Seymour rang Stella McEwan, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service, at 6:24 p.m. Later, during the inevitable inquiry, much would be made of the short duration of the call, which was five minutes. At no point during the conversation did Seymour mention that he was in the White Room at 10 Downing Street, or that the prime minister was sitting anxiously next to him.

“An SVR hit team?” asked McEwan.

“Another one,” lamented Seymour.

“Who’s the target?”

“We can’t say for certain. We assume it’s someone who’s run afoul of the Kremlin—or perhaps a former Russian intelligence officer living under an assumed identity here in Britain. I’m afraid I can’t go into details.”

“What about the hit team?”

“We’ve identified three suspects. One is a woman in her mid-thirties. She’s currently headed east on the M25 in a Renault Clio.” Seymour recited the car’s registration number. “She should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Make sure you have firearms officers on hand.”

“Number two?”

“He’s waiting for the woman at the Bedford House Hotel in Frinton. We assume they’re planning to leave Britain tonight.”

“Harwich is just up the road.”

“And the last ferry,” added Seymour, “departs at eleven.”

“Frinton is in Essex, which means the Essex Police are responsible.”

“This is a national security matter, Stella. Assert your authority. And handle him with care. We think he’s even more dangerous than the woman.”

“It’s going to take us some time to get our assets into place. If you’re watching him—”

“We are.”

Stella McEwan asked about the third suspect.

“He’s about to board a private jet at London City Airport,” answered Seymour.

“Bound for Moscow?”

“That is our belief.”

“Do you know his name?”

Seymour recited it.

“The oligarch?”

“Konstantin Dragunov is no ordinary oligarch, if there even is such a thing.”

“I can’t detain a friend of the Russian president without a warrant.”

“Test him for chemical agents and radiation, Stella. I’m sure you’ll have more than enough evidence to hold him. But do it quickly. Konstantin Dragunov must not be allowed to board that plane.”