“I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything, Graham.”

“I’m the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service. Why on earth would you think otherwise?” Seymour severed the connection and looked at Jonathan Lancaster. “I’m afraid things are about to get even more interesting.”

“More?” There was a knock at the door. It was Geoffrey Sloane. He appeared more ashen than usual. “Something wrong, Geoffrey?”

“It seems the crown prince has taken ill.”

“Does he need to be admitted to hospital?”

“His Royal Highness wishes to return to Riyadh at once. He and his delegation are leaving the Eaton Place residence now.”

Lancaster placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “Have the Press Office draft a statement. Make sure the tone is light. Speedy recovery, look forward to seeing him at the next G20—that sort of thing.”

“I’ll see to it, Prime Minister.” Sloane went out.

Lancaster looked at Seymour. “His decision to leave immediately is a stroke of good fortune.”

“Fortune had nothing to do with it.”

“How did you arrange it?”

“Khalid advised his uncle to return home for treatment. He plans to accompany him.”

“Nice touch,” said Lancaster.

Seymour’s BlackBerry purred.

“What is it now?”

Seymour showed him the screen. The call was from Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5.

“Good luck,” said Jonathan Lancaster before slipping quietly from the room.

68

London City Airport

Konstantin Dragunov heard the first sirens while stuck in rush-hour traffic on East India Dock Road. He instructed Vadim, his driver, to turn on the radio. The newsreader on Radio 4 sounded bored.

Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia has taken ill and will not be attending dinner this evening at Downing Street as scheduled. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster has wished him a speedy recovery . . .

“That’s enough, Vadim.”

The driver switched off the radio and made a right turn into Lower Lea Crossing. It bore them past the old East India Dock Basin and the sparkling new office towers of the Leamouth Peninsula. London City Airport was three miles farther to the east, along North Woolrich Road. To enter the airport required navigating a pair of roundabouts. Traffic flowed normally through the first, but police had blocked the second.

An officer in a lime-green jacket approached the Maybach—cautiously, it seemed to Dragunov—and tapped on Vadim’s window. The driver lowered it.

“Sorry for the delay,” said the officer, “but I’m afraid we have a security situation.”

“What kind of situation?” asked Dragunov from the backseat.

“A bomb threat. It’s probably a hoax, but we’re not letting any passengers into the terminal at this time. Only those flying privately are allowed to enter.”

“Do I look like I’m traveling commercially to you?”

“Name, please?”

“Dragunov. Konstantin Dragunov.”

The officer directed Vadim into the second traffic circle. He immediately turned to the left, into the car park of the London Jet Centre, the airport’s fixed-base operator.

Dragunov swore softly.

The car park was jammed with vehicles and personnel from the Met, including several tactical officers from SCO19, the Specialist Firearms Command. Four officers immediately surrounded the Maybach, weapons drawn. A fifth banged his fist against Dragunov’s window and ordered him to get out.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Russian.

The SCO19 officer leveled his Heckler & Koch G36 directly at Dragunov’s head. “Now!”

Dragunov unlocked the door. The SCO19 officer instantly flung it open and dragged Dragunov from the backseat.

“I am a citizen of the Russian Federation and a personal friend of the Russian president.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You have no right to arrest me.”

“I’m not.”

A strange-looking tent had been erected outside the Jet Centre. The SCO19 officer relieved Dragunov of his phone before shoving him through the entrance. Inside were four technicians clad in bulky hazmat suits. One examined Dragunov with a small scanner, running it over his torso and up and down his limbs. When the technician passed the instrument over Dragunov’s right hand, he took a step back in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” asked the SCO19 officer.

“Full-scale deflection.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’s off-the-charts radioactive.” The technician ran the scanner over the officer. “And so are you.”

At that same moment, Anna Yurasova was already beginning to feel the effect of the titanic amount of radiation to which she had been exposed inside Konstantin Dragunov’s home in Belgravia. Her head ached, she was shivering, she was intensely nauseated. Twice she had nearly pulled to the side of the M25 to vomit, but the urge to empty the contents of her stomach had subsided. Now, as she approached the exit for a town called Potters Bar, it was rising again. For that reason alone, she was relieved to see what appeared to be a traffic accident ahead of her.

The three right lanes were blocked, and an officer with a red-tipped torch was directing all traffic into the left. As Anna passed him, their eyes met in the darkness.

The traffic halted. Another wave of nausea washed over her. She touched her forehead. It was dripping with sweat.

Again, the wave receded. Anna was suddenly freezing cold. She switched on the heater and then reached into her handbag, which was lying on the passenger seat. It took her a moment of fumbling to find her phone and another moment to dial Nikolai’s number.

He picked up instantly. “Where are you?”

She told him.

“Have you been listening to the news?”

She hadn’t. She’d been too busy trying not to be sick.

“Abdullah’s canceled dinner. Apparently, he’s a bit under the weather.”

“So am I.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I must have exposed myself.”

“Did you drink any?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then it will pass,” said Nikolai. “Like the flu.”

Another wave crested. This time, Anna flung open the door and was violently ill. The convulsion was so powerful it blurred her vision. When it finally cleared, she saw several men in tactical gear surrounding the car, weapons drawn.

She laid the phone on her thigh and put the call on speaker.

“Nikolai?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Nikolai.”

She reached beneath the passenger seat and wrapped her hand around the butt of the Stechkin. She managed to fire only a single shot before the car’s windows exploded in a hurricane of incoming rounds.

You’re dead, she thought. Dead, dead, dead . . .

The gunfire lasted two or three seconds at most. When it was over, Mikhail Abramov threw open the door of the Ford Fiesta and sprinted along the verge of the motorway toward the shattered Renault. The woman was hanging out the open driver’s-side door, suspended by the safety belt, a gun in her hand. Police radios were crackling, passengers in the surrounding cars were screaming in terror. And somewhere, thought Mikhail, a man was shouting in Russian.