At nine o’clock, however, he once again went before the cameras outside Number 10, this time to brief the British public on the extraordinary events taking place in Greater London and in the Essex resort town of Frinton-on-Sea. Little of what he said was true, but he steered clear of outright falsehoods. Most were lies of omission. He said nothing, for example, of a dead security guard at a marina along the river Twizzle, a stolen Bavaria 27 motor yacht, or a captive American woman who had once worked for the CIA.

Nor did Lancaster find reason to mention that he had granted Gabriel Allon, the chief of Israeli intelligence, broad latitude to find the missing woman. At nine fifteen, he arrived at London City Airport, accompanied by two of his most trusted operatives and an MI6 officer named Christopher Keller. A Gulfstream G550 waited on the tarmac. As yet, it had no destination.

72

London City Airport

A Metropolitan Police officer was standing watch outside the entrance of the London Jet Centre. He tugged at the sleeve of his bulky hazmat suit as Gabriel approached.

“You sure you don’t want one of these?” he asked through the clear protective mask.

Gabriel shook his head. “It might ruin my image.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“How bad is he?”

“A little south of Hiroshima, but not much.”

“How long is it safe to be in his presence?”

“Ten minutes won’t kill you. Twenty might.”

Gabriel went inside. The staff had been evacuated. In the departure lounge a gray-haired man in a business suit was seated at one end of a rectangular table. He might have looked like a typical user of private aircraft were it not for the four heavily armed SCO19 officers in hazmat suits standing around him in a semicircle. Gabriel sat down at the opposite end of the table, as far away from the man as possible, and marked the time on his wristwatch. It was 9:22 p.m.

Ten minutes won’t kill you. Twenty might . . .

The man was pondering his hands, which were folded on the table before him. At length, he looked up. For an instant he appeared relieved that someone had dared to enter his presence in normal clothing. Then, suddenly, his expression changed. It was the same look Gabriel had seen on Hanifa Khoury’s face in the safe flat in Berlin.

“Hello, Konstantin. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

Gabriel glanced at the SCO19 officers and with a movement of his eyes instructed them to leave the room. A moment passed. Then all four filed out.

Konstantin Dragunov watched the display of Gabriel’s authority with evident dread. “I suppose you’re the reason I’m here.”

“You’re here because you’re a Roman candle of radiation.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so is the woman.”

“Where is she?”

“In a situation not unlike yours. You, however, are in much more serious trouble.”

“I did nothing.”

“Then why are you dripping with radiation? And why is your fancy house in Belgravia a nuclear disaster zone? The hazmat teams are working fifteen-minute shifts to avoid overexposure. One technician refused to go back in, it was so bad. Your drawing room is a nightmare, but the kitchen is even worse. The counter where she poured the champagne is like Fukushima, and the rubbish bin where she tossed the vial and the pipette dropper nearly broke their scanners. The same was true of Abdullah’s empty champagne glass, but yours was no picnic, either.” Gabriel adopted a confiding tone. “It does make one wonder.”

“About what?”

“Whether your good friend the Tsar was trying to kill you, too.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he entrusted you with several billion dollars to turn Abdullah into a puppet of the Kremlin. And all the Tsar got for his money was an MI6 asset.” Gabriel smiled. “Or so he thought.”

“He isn’t a British agent?”

“Abdullah?” Gabriel shook his head. “Don’t be silly.”

Dragunov’s face was aflame with rage. “You bastard.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Konnie.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“You told the Tsar that Khalid asked me to find his daughter, and the Tsar used the opportunity to try to kill me. If I hadn’t spotted the bomb beneath Reema’s coat that night, I’d be dead.”

“Perhaps you should have tried to save her. Your conscience might be clearer.”

Gabriel rose slowly, walked to the opposite end of the table, and with every ounce of strength he could summon drove his fist into Konstantin Dragunov’s face. The Russian toppled sideways and came to rest on the floor of the lounge. Gabriel was surprised to see his head still attached to his shoulders.

“Who planned it, Konstantin?”

For a moment, Dragunov was incapable of speech. Finally, he groaned, “Planned what?”

“Abdullah’s murder.”

The Russian gave no answer.

“Do I need to remind you of your current situation, Konstantin? You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a British prison. I think you’ll find it much less luxurious than Eaton Square.”

“The president will never allow it.”

“He won’t be in any position to help you. In fact, if I had to guess, the British government is going to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

“And if I give you the name of the SVR officer who ran the operation? How will that change anything?”

“Your cooperation will not be forgotten.”

“Since when do you speak for the British government?”

“I speak for Reema. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to hit you again.”

Gabriel gave his watch another check. 9:26 . . . According to the Essex Police, Sarah and the Russian assassin had set sail from the marina north of Frinton at 7:49. By now, they were several miles out to sea. Her Majesty’s Coastguard was searching for the vessel, as yet without success.

“You were saying, Konnie?”

Dragunov was still lying on the floor. “It was the Englishwoman.”

“Rebecca Manning?”

“She uses her father’s name now.”

“You saw her?”

“I had a couple of meetings with her.”

“Where?”

“A little dacha in Yasenevo. It had a sign outside. I can’t recall what it said.”

“The Inner-Baltic Research Committee?”

“Yes, that was it. How did you know?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. “Under normal circumstances, I’d help you to your feet. But you’ll understand if I don’t.”

The Russian hauled himself onto the chair. The left side of his face was already badly swollen, and his eye was beginning to close. All in all, thought Gabriel, it was a slight improvement.

“Keep talking, Konnie.”

“It wasn’t much of an operation, really. All we had to do was ask Abdullah to set aside a few minutes of time while he was in London.”

“That was your job?”

Dragunov nodded. “That’s the way these things work. It’s always a friend.”

“He came through the passageway in the basement?”