The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  “The purpose of your visit?”

  “Tourism,” Anna answered in her mother’s German accent.

  “Any special plans?”

  “As much theater as possible.”

  The passport was returned. Anna made her way to the arrivals hall and then to the platform for the Heathrow Express. Upon arrival at Paddington she walked north along Warwick Avenue to Formosa Street and turned left. No one followed her.

  She made another left into Bristol Gardens. A Renault Clio, silver-blue, was parked outside an exercise studio. The doors were unlocked. She tossed her suitcase into the rear compartment and slid behind the wheel. The keys were in the center console. She started the engine and eased away from the curb.

  She had studied the route carefully so as not to be distracted by a navigation device. She headed north along the Finchley Road to the A1, then east on the M25 Orbital Motorway to the A12. Diligently, she scanned the road behind her for signs of surveillance, but when darkness fell her mind began to drift.

  She thought about the night she and her parents had fled East Berlin. They had made the journey aboard a stinking Soviet transport plane. One of the other passengers was a little man with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He worked with Anna’s father at the KGB’s Dresden bureau. He was a nobody who spent his days posing as a translator and clipping articles from German newspapers.

  Somehow the little nobody was now the most powerful man in the world. In the span of a few years he had wreaked havoc on the postwar global economic and political order. The European Union was in shambles, NATO was hanging by a thread. After meddling in the politics of Britain and America, he had meddled in Saudi Arabia’s. Anna and Nikolai had helped him alter the line of succession in the House of Saud. Now, for reasons that had not been made fully clear to them, they were about to alter it again.

  Anna never questioned orders from Moscow Center—especially when they concerned “active measures” near and dear to the president’s heart—but the assignment unnerved her. She did not like taking orders from someone like Rebecca Philby, a former MI6 officer who scarcely spoke Russian. She was also worried about a piece of unfinished business from her last assignment.

  Gabriel Allon . . .

  Anna should have killed the Israeli in the café in Carcassonne when she’d had the chance, but Moscow Center’s orders had been specific. They wanted him to die with the Saudi prince and the child. Anna was not ashamed to admit she feared Allon’s vengeance. He was not the sort of man to make empty threats.

  You’re dead! Dead, dead, dead . . .

  The Israeli receded from Anna’s thoughts as she approached the market town of Colchester. The only route into Frinton-on-Sea was the level crossing at Connaught Avenue. Nikolai was staying at a hotel on the Esplanade. Anna left the car with the valet but carried her suitcase into the lobby.

  A couple were sharing a bottle of Dom Perignon in the lounge bar—a good-looking man of perhaps fifty, blond and tanned, and a woman with black hair. They paid Anna no heed as she walked over to reception to collect the room key that had been left under her cover name. The door it opened was on the fourth floor, and the room Anna entered without knocking was in darkness. She stripped off her clothing and, watched by the cameras of MI6, moved slowly toward the bed.

  59

  10 Downing Street

  For the second consecutive evening, a Jaguar limousine passed through the security gate on Horse Guards Road at eight fifteen. The brown-and-white tabby cat beat a hasty retreat as Gabriel and Graham Seymour hurried along Downing Street through a pouring rain. Geoffrey Sloane wordlessly ushered them into the Cabinet Room, where the prime minister was seated in his usual chair at the center of the long table. Before him was a copy of the final schedule for Crown Prince Abdullah’s visit to London.

  When Sloane had gone and the doors were closed, Graham Seymour delivered the promised update. Earlier that evening a second Russian operative, a woman, had arrived by motorcar at the Bedford House Hotel in Frinton-on-Sea. After engaging in sexual activity with her colleague, she had taken possession of a Stechkin 9mm pistol, two magazines, a sound suppressor, and a small object that Tech-Ops was still attempting to identify.

  “Best guess?” asked Lancaster.

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Still in the room.”

  “Do we know how she got into the country?”

  “We’re still trying to determine that.”

  “Are there others?”

  “We don’t know what we don’t know, Prime Minister.”

  “Spare me the clichés, Graham. Just tell me what they’re going to do next.”

  “We can’t, Prime Minister. Not yet.”

  Lancaster swore softly. “What if her car contains a bomb like the one that went off on the Brompton Road a few years ago?” He looked at Gabriel. “You remember that one, don’t you, Director Allon?”

  “We’ve already had a look at her car. Her boyfriend’s, too. They’re clean. Besides,” said Gabriel, “there’s no way they’ll be able to get a bomb anywhere near Abdullah tomorrow. London will be locked down tight.”

  “What about his motorcade?”

  “Assassinating a head of state in a moving car is nearly impossible.”

  “Tell that to Archduke Ferdinand. Or President Kennedy.”

  “Abdullah won’t be in an open-top car, and the streets will be entirely cleared of traffic and parked cars.”

  “So where will they make their attempt?”

  Gabriel looked down at the schedule. “May I?”

  Lancaster pushed it across the tabletop. It was of the one-page variety, bullet points only. Arrival at Heathrow at nine a.m. Meeting between the British and Saudi delegations at Downing Street from ten thirty to one p.m., followed by a working lunch. The crown prince was scheduled to leave Number 10 at half past three and travel by motorcade to his private residence in Belgravia for several hours of rest. He was scheduled to return to Downing Street at eight p.m. for dinner. Departure for Heathrow was tentatively set for ten.

  “If I had to guess,” said Gabriel, pointing toward one of the entries, “it will happen here.”

  The prime minister pointed to an entry of his own. “What if it happens here?” His fingertip moved down the page. “Or here?” There was a silence. Then Lancaster said, “I’d rather not be a collateral casualty, if you understand my meaning.”

  “I do,” answered Gabriel.

  “Perhaps we should increase security at Downing Street even more than we’d planned.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re available.”

  “I’d be honored, Prime Minister. But I’m afraid the Saudi delegation would find my presence curious, to say the least.”

  “What about Keller?”

  “A much better choice.”

  Lancaster’s gaze moved slowly around the room. “Of all the momentous decisions that have been made within these walls . . .” He looked at Graham Seymour. “I reserve the right to order the arrest of those two Russians at any moment tomorrow.”

  “Of course, Prime Minister.”

  “If anything goes wrong, you will be blamed, not me. I did not order, condone, or play any role in this whatsoever. Is that clear?”

  Seymour nodded once.

  “Good.” Lancaster closed his eyes. “And may God have mercy on us all.”

  60

  Walton-on-the-Naze, Essex

  Christopher Keller remained at the Bedford House Hotel until three a.m., when he slipped from the rear service entrance and hiked north along the promenade to Walton-on-the-Naze. The car was waiting outside Terry’s Antiques & Secondhand in Station Street. Keller walked past it twice before dropping into the passenger seat. The driver was a field support agent who went by the name Tony. As he eased away from the curb, Keller reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He had spent the last two nights in a hotel room with a be
autiful American woman of whom he had grown quite fond. He needed a couple hours of sleep.

  He woke to a vision of robed men moving along a street in semidarkness. It was only the Edgware Road. Tony followed it to Marble Arch. He crossed the park on West Carriage Drive and then made his way through the still-slumbering streets of Kensington to Keller’s exclusive address in Queen’s Gate Terrace.

  “Nice,” remarked Tony enviously.

  “Nine o’clock okay?”

  “I’d feel better about half past eight. The traffic is going to be a nightmare.”

  Keller climbed out, crossed the pavement, and descended the steps to the lower entrance of his maisonette. Inside, he loaded the automatic with Volvic and Carte Noire and watched BBC Breakfast while the coffee brewed. Crown Prince Abdullah’s visit to Downing Street had managed to displace Brexit as the lead story. The analysts were expecting a warm meeting and many Saudi promises of future arms purchases. London’s Metropolitan Police Service, however, was braced for a difficult day, with thousands of demonstrators expected to gather in Trafalgar Square to protest Saudi Arabia’s imprisonment of pro-democracy activists and the murder of the dissident journalist Omar Nawwaf. All in all, said one senior MPS official, it was best to avoid the center of London if possible.

  “No chance of that,” murmured Keller.

  He drank a first cup of coffee while watching the coverage and a second while shaving. In the shower he found himself unexpectedly daydreaming about the beautiful American woman he had left behind in a hotel in Frinton. He took more care than usual with his grooming and his dress, choosing a dark gray suit of moderate cut and cloth, a white shirt, and a solid navy-blue necktie. Examining his appearance in the mirror, he concluded he had achieved the desired effect. He looked very much like an officer of the Royalty and Specialist Protection, or RaSP. A branch of the Met’s Protection Command, RaSP was responsible for safeguarding the royal family, the prime minister, and visiting foreign dignitaries. Keller and the rest of the RaSP had a long day ahead of them.

  He went downstairs to the kitchen and watched BBC Breakfast to its conclusion at eight thirty. Then he pulled on a respectable mackintosh coat and climbed the steps to the street, where Tony was waiting behind the wheel of the MI6 car. As they headed eastward across London, Keller’s thoughts once again drifted to the woman. This time, he removed his MI6 BlackBerry and dialed.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Just leaving the dining room.”

  “Anyone interesting at breakfast?”

  “A couple of birdwatchers and a Russian agent.”

  “Just one?”

  “His girlfriend left a few minutes ago.”

  “Do Gabriel and Graham know?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Where’s she headed?”

  “Your way.”

  “Who’s tailing her?”

  “Mikhail and Eli.”

  Keller heard the ping of the Bedford’s lift and the rattle of the doors. “Where are you going?”

  “I was planning to curl up with a book and a gun and wait for my husband to come back.”

  “Do you remember how to use it?”

  “Release the safety and pull the trigger.”

  Keller killed the connection and stared gloomily out the window. Tony was right, the traffic was a nightmare.

  The protesters had already descended on Trafalgar Square. They were stretched from the steps of the National Gallery to Nelson’s Column, a banner-waving, slogan-chanting multitude, some robed and veiled, some fleeced and flanneled, all outraged that the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia was about to be fêted by a British head of government.

  Whitehall was closed to vehicular traffic. Keller climbed out of the car and, after showing his MI6 identification card to a Met officer with a clipboard, was allowed to proceed on foot. Sarah Bancroft finally left his thoughts, only to be replaced by memories of the morning he and Gabriel had stopped ISIS’s attempt to set off a dirty bomb in the heart of London. It was Gabriel who had killed the terrorist with several shots to the back of his head. But Keller was the one who prevented the device’s dead-man detonator switch from automatically setting off the explosive charge and dispersing a cloud of deadly cesium chloride throughout the seat of British power. He had been forced to hold the bomber’s lifeless thumb to the trigger for three hours while an EOD team worked feverishly to disarm the device. They were, without question, the longest three hours of his life.

  Keller sidestepped the spot where he and the dead terrorist had lain together, and presented himself at the security gate of Downing Street. Once again, after displaying his MI6 identification, he was allowed to pass. Ken Ramsey, the leader of Downing Street operations, was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10.

  Ramsey handed Keller a radio set and a Glock 17. “Your boss is upstairs in the White Room. He’d like a word.”

  Keller hurried up the Grand Staircase, which was lined with portraits of prime ministers past. Geoffrey Sloane was waiting in the corridor outside the White Room. Opening the door, he nodded for Keller to enter. Graham Seymour was seated in one of the wing chairs. In the other was Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster. His expression was grave and tense.

  “Keller,” he said absently.

  “Prime Minister.” Keller looked at Seymour. “Where is she?”

  “The A12 bound for London.”

  “What about Abdullah?”

  “You tell me.”

  Keller inserted his earpiece and listened to the chatter on the RaSP’s secure frequency. “Bang on target for a ten fifteen arrival.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Lancaster, “you should be downstairs with your colleagues.”

  “Does this mean—”

  “That we’re proceeding with the summit meeting as planned?” Lancaster rose and buttoned his suit jacket. “Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we?”

  61

  Notting Hill, London

  At 10:13 a.m., as a motorcade of Mercedes limousines flowed through Downing Street’s open gate, a single car, a dowdy Opel hatchback, drew up outside 7 St. Luke’s Mews in Notting Hill. The man in the backseat, Prince Khalid bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud, was in a foul mood. Like his uncle, he had arrived that morning at Heathrow Airport—not by private jet, his usual mode of travel, but on a commercial flight from Cairo, an experience he would not soon forget. The car was the final straw.

  Khalid caught the driver’s eye in the rearview. “Aren’t you going to open my door?”

  “Just pull the latch, luv. Works every time.”

  Khalid stepped into the wet street. As he approached the door of Number 7, it remained tightly closed. He glanced over his shoulder. The driver, with a movement of his hand, indicated that Khalid should make his presence known by knocking on the door. Another calculated insult, he thought. Never in his life had he knocked on a door.

  A boyish-looking man with a benevolent face admitted him. The house was very small and sparsely furnished. The sitting room contained a couple of cheap-looking chairs and a television tuned to the BBC. Before it stood Gabriel Allon, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.

  Khalid joined him and watched his uncle, in traditional Saudi dress, emerge from the back of a limousine as cameras flashed like lightning. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was standing just outside the door of Number 10, a smile frozen on his face.

  “I should be the one arriving at Downing Street,” said Khalid. “Not him.”

  “Be glad you’re not.”

  Khalid surveyed the room with disapproval. “I don’t suppose there’s any refreshment.”

  Gabriel pointed toward a doorway. “Help yourself.”

  Khalid went into the kitchen, another first. Bewildered, he called out, “How does the teakettle work?”

  “Add water and push the power button,” answered Gabriel. “That should do the trick.”

  Like his tempestuous young nephew, Crown Prince Abdullah was not impressed by th
e house he entered that morning. Though he had lived in London for many years and moved in lofty social circles, it was his first visit to Downing Street. He had been assured that beyond the rather staid entrance hall lay a house of extraordinary elegance and unexpected size. At first glance, however, it seemed hard to imagine. Abdullah much preferred his new billion-dollar palace in Riyadh—or the Grand Presidential Palace at the Kremlin, where he had met secretly on several occasions with the man to whom he now owed an enormous debt. Today he would make his first payment.

  The prime minister insisted on showing Abdullah a scuffed, modular-looking leather chair beloved by Winston Churchill. Abdullah made appropriate noises of admiration. Inwardly, however, he was thinking that the chair, like Jonathan Lancaster, needed to be put out of its misery.

  At last, Abdullah and his aides were shown into the Cabinet Room. Cabinet was definitely the right word for it. He took his assigned seat, and Lancaster sat down opposite. Before each of them was the agreed-upon agenda for the first session of the summit. Lancaster, however, after much throat clearing and shuffling of papers, suggested they get “some unpleasantness” out of the way first.

  “Unpleasantness?”

  “It has come to our attention that a dozen or more female activists are being held without charge in a Saudi prison and subjected to various forms of torture, including electric shock, waterboarding, and threats of rape. It is imperative these women be released at once. Otherwise, we cannot proceed with our relationship as normal.”

  Abdullah managed to conceal his astonishment. He had been assured by his foreign minister and his ambassador to London that the meeting would be amicable.

  “Those women,” he said calmly, “were arrested by my nephew.”

  “Be that as it may,” Lancaster shot back, “you are responsible for their current confinement. They must be released at once.”

  Abdullah’s gaze was level and cool. “The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia does not interfere in the internal matters of Great Britain. We expect to be shown the same courtesy.”