The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  “What brought him to town?”

  “He had dinner last night with his beloved uncle Abdullah. He’s the current king’s younger brother.”

  “Half brother,” said Gabriel. “There’s a big difference.”

  “Which is why Abdullah spends most of his time here in London. In fact, we’re practically neighbors. Abdullah initially opposed Khalid’s rise, but he fell in line after Khalid threatened to bankrupt him and put him under house arrest. He’s now one of KBM’s closest advisers.” Seymour frowned. “One can only imagine the sort of things they talk about. Despite his fancy London address, Abdullah isn’t terribly fond of the West.”

  “Or Israel,” added Gabriel.

  “Quite. But he’s an influential figure inside the House of Saud, and Khalid needs his support.”

  “Is he an MI6 asset?”

  “Abdullah? Wherever would you get an idea like that?” Seymour sat down. “I’m afraid you’ve got yourself mixed up in a real game of thrones. If you had any sense, you’d walk away and let the Al Saud fight it out amongst themselves.”

  “The Middle East is too dangerous a place to allow instability in Saudi Arabia.”

  “We agree. Which is why we’ve been willing to overlook KBM’s obvious shortcomings, including his murder of Omar Nawwaf.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “One hears rumors,” said Seymour vaguely.

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “That Nawwaf knew something he wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend? He’s staying at the Dorchester under an assumed name.” Seymour shook his head reproachfully. “I must say, if my child had been kidnapped, the last place I’d be is a luxury suite at the Dorchester Hotel. I’d be looking for the people who took her.”

  “That’s why he came to me.” Gabriel removed a photograph from his attaché case. It showed a man sitting in a French café.

  “Who is he?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me.” Gabriel handed Seymour the photocopy of the passport. “He’s rather good. He dropped Mikhail in about five seconds flat in Geneva last night.”

  Seymour looked up. “Geneva?”

  “Could he be one of yours, Graham? A former MI6 officer who’s selling his services on the open market?”

  “I’ll check it out, but I doubt it. In fact, he doesn’t look British to me.” Seymour scrutinized the image. “You think he’s a professional?”

  “Definitely.”

  Seymour returned the photograph and the copy of the passport. “Perhaps you should show those to someone who’s familiar with the dark side of the trade.”

  “Know anyone like that?”

  “I might.”

  “Mind if I pay him a visit?”

  “Why not? He has a lot of free time on his hands at the moment.” Seymour looked around the half-furnished room. “We all do.”

  23

  Kensington, London

  There are some men who walk a straight path to redemption and others, like Christopher Keller, who take the long road. He lived in a luxury maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace in Kensington. Its many rooms were largely empty of furnishings or decoration, evidence that his affair with Olivia Watson, a former fashion model who owned a successful modern art gallery in St. James’s, had ended. Olivia’s past was almost as complicated as Keller’s. Gabriel was the one common denominator.

  “You didn’t do something foolish, did you?”

  “Let me count the ways.” Keller smiled in spite of himself. He had bright blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and a thick chin with a notch in the center. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in an ironic smile.

  “What happened?”

  “Olivia happened.”

  “Meaning?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s become quite the star of the London art world. Lots of glamorous photos in the papers. Lots of speculation about her mysterious love life. It got to the point where I couldn’t go out in public with her anymore.”

  “Which understandably caused tension in your relationship.”

  “Olivia isn’t exactly the stay-at-home type.”

  “Neither are you, Christopher.”

  A veteran of the elite Special Air Service, Keller had served under deep cover in Northern Ireland and fought in the first Gulf War. He had also performed services for a certain notable Corsican crime figure that might loosely be described as murder for hire. But all that was behind him. Thanks to Gabriel, Christopher Keller was a respectable officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. He was restored.

  He filled the electric teakettle with bottled water and flipped the power switch. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the old Georgian house. It looked like something from a design magazine. The granite counters were vast and tastefully lit, the gas stove was a Vulcan, the refrigerator was a stainless-steel Sub-Zero, and the island where Gabriel sat atop a tall stool had a sink and wine cooler. Through the windows he glimpsed the lower legs of pedestrians rushing along the pavement through the rain. It was only half past three but nearly dark. Gabriel had endured many English winters—he had once lived in a cottage by the sea in far West Cornwall—but rainy December afternoons in London always depressed him.

  Keller opened a cabinet and reached for a box of Twinings—with his left arm, noted Gabriel, not his right.

  “How is it?”

  Keller placed a hand on his right clavicle. “That bullet did more damage than I thought. It’s taken a long time to heal.”

  “That’s what happens when we get old.”

  “You obviously speak from experience. Frankly, it’s all rather embarrassing. It seems I’m the only officer in MI6 history to have been shot by a colleague.”

  “Rebecca wasn’t a colleague, she was a full colonel in the SVR. She told me she never thought of herself as an MI6 officer. She was a straight agent of penetration.”

  “Just like her father.” Keller took down the box of tea and closed the cabinet without a sound. “I was beginning to think I was never going to see you again, not after the way things ended in Washington. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised when Graham gave me permission to renew our friendship.”

  “How much did he tell you?”

  “Only that you’ve got yourself mixed up with Prince Chop Chop.”

  “He’s a valuable asset in a troubled region.”

  “Spoken like a true espiocrat. Once upon a time, you wouldn’t have soiled your hands with someone like him.”

  “Did Graham tell you there was a child involved?”

  Keller nodded. “He said you had a photo you wanted me to take a look at.”

  Gabriel laid it on the countertop. A man sitting in a café, a woman at the next table.

  “Where was it taken?”

  Gabriel answered.

  “Annecy? I remember it fondly.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “How about this one?”

  Gabriel handed Keller the passport photo. “We Englishmen come in all shapes and sizes, but I doubt he’s one of us.”

  Just then, Gabriel’s BlackBerry pulsed with an incoming message.

  “Judging from the expression on your face,” said Keller, “it isn’t good news.”

  “The kidnappers just gave Khalid until midnight tomorrow to abdicate.”

  The BlackBerry shivered with another text. This time, Gabriel smiled.

  “What is it?”

  “A way out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Gabriel rose abruptly. “The Dorchester Hotel.”

  24

  Mayfair, London

  Gabriel reflexively gripped the leather armrest of Keller’s flashy Bentley Continental as they shot past Harrods in a blur. They plunged into the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner and emer
ged a moment later in Piccadilly. Keller navigated the labyrinthine streets of Mayfair with the adroitness of a London cabbie and stopped with a lurch outside the Dorchester’s entrance. It was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Wait here,” said Keller.

  “Where else would I go?”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Only with a quick wit and abundant charm.”

  Keller dug an old Walther PPK from the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to Gabriel.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bond.”

  “It’s easy to conceal and packs quite a punch.”

  “A brick through a plate-glass window.” Gabriel slipped the gun into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. “He’s registered under the name al-Jubeir.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Mr. Allenby.”

  “Like the bridge?”

  “Yes, Christopher, like the bridge.”

  “What happens if he refuses to come without a security detail?”

  “Tell him it’s the only way to get his daughter back. That should get his attention.”

  Keller went into the hotel. A couple of well-fed Saudi toughs were eating pistachios in the lobby, but there were no reporters present. Somehow the British press were unaware of the fact that the most reviled man in the world was staying in London’s grandest hotel.

  The two Saudis eyed Keller warily as he walked over to reception. The face of the pretty woman behind the counter brightened automatically, like a lamp switched on by a motion detector.

  “I’m here to see Mr. al-Jubeir. He’s expecting me.”

  “Name, please?”

  Keller told her.

  The woman lifted a phone to her ear and purred something agreeable down the line. Then she replaced the receiver and gestured toward the elevator foyer. “One of Mr. al-Jubeir’s aides will escort you up to his suite.”

  Keller walked over to the elevators, watched by the two Saudi goons. Five minutes elapsed before the aide materialized, a sleepy-eyed little man in an immaculate suit and tie.

  “I was expecting Allon.”

  “And I was expecting the crown prince.”

  “His Royal Highness doesn’t meet with underlings.”

  “If I were you, habibi, I’d take me upstairs. Otherwise, I’m going to walk out of here, and you’ll have to explain to Prince Bone Saw that you let me get away.”

  The little Saudi allowed a few seconds to pass before pressing the call button. Khalid was staying in the Terrace Penthouse. He was pacing before the tall windows overlooking Hyde Park, a phone to his ear, as Keller and the little Saudi factotum entered. One of the security men ordered Keller to raise his arms so he could be searched for a weapon. Keller, in rapid Arabic, told the guard to perform an unspeakable sexual act on a camel.

  Khalid stopped pacing and lowered the phone. “Who is this man?”

  The little aide, to the best of his ability, explained.

  “Where is Allon?”

  This time it was Keller who answered. The chief of Israeli intelligence, he said, was waiting downstairs in an automobile. He neglected to mention the Walther pistol.

  “It’s urgent I speak to him at once,” said Khalid. “Please ask him to come upstairs.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is probably the least secure room in all of London.”

  Khalid spoke a few words in rapid Arabic to the factotum.

  “No,” said Keller in the same language. “No limousine or bodyguards. You’re coming with me. Alone.”

  “I can’t possibly leave here without a security detail.”

  “You don’t need one. Now get your coat, Khalid. We haven’t got all night.”

  “Your Royal Highness,” said the crown prince imperiously.

  “That’s rather a mouthful, isn’t it?” Keller smiled. “Why don’t you just call me Ned instead.”

  Khalid never traveled in the West without a fedora and a pair of false dark-rimmed eyeglasses. The crude disguise rendered him almost unrecognizable. Indeed, even the two Saudi toughs in the lobby scarcely looked up from their pistachios as their future king strode across the gleaming marble floor with Keller at his side. Gabriel had moved to the backseat of the Bentley. Keller dropped behind the wheel while Khalid lowered himself into the front passenger seat. A moment later they were racing along Park Lane through the rush-hour traffic.

  Khalid glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel. “Does he always drive like this?”

  “Only when a life is at stake.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “The last place on earth you should be.”

  Khalid looked approvingly around the interior of the Bentley. “At least you hired a decent car for the ride.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Good,” said Gabriel. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”

  Keller spent the next half hour tearing around the West End of London—through Knightsbridge and Belgravia and Chelsea and Earl’s Court—until Gabriel was certain no one was following them. Only then did he instruct Keller to make his way to Kensington Palace Gardens. A diplomatic enclave, the street was blocked to normal traffic. Keller’s Bentley flowed through the checkpoint without scrutiny and turned into the forecourt of a redbrick Victorian building, above which flew the blue-and-white flag of the State of Israel.

  Khalid stared out the window in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  With his silence, Gabriel made it clear he was.

  “Do you know what will happen if I so much as set foot in there?”

  “You’ll be murdered by a fifteen-member hit team and chopped into little pieces.”

  Khalid stared at Gabriel with a look of genuine alarm.

  “Just kidding, Khalid. Now get out of the car.”

  25

  Kensington, London

  Khalid’s simple disguise did not fool the embassy security staff or the ambassador, who happened to be leaving for a diplomatic reception as Israel’s legendary spy chief came bursting into the chancellery with the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia at his side. “I’ll explain later,” said Gabriel quietly in Hebrew, and the ambassador was heard to mutter, “You’re damn right you will.”

  Downstairs, Gabriel placed Khalid’s new mobile phone in a signal-blocking box known as a beehive before opening the station’s vaultlike door. Moshe Cohen, the new chief, was waiting on the other side. His eyes settled first on his director-general, then, in astonishment, on the crown prince of Saudi Arabia.

  “What in God’s name is—”

  “His phone is in the beehive,” interjected Gabriel in terse Hebrew.

  Cohen did not require additional instructions. “How long can you give us?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Ten would be better.”

  Khalid did not understand the exchange but was visibly impressed by its tenor. He trailed Gabriel along the station’s central corridor to another secure door. The room behind it was small, about eight feet by ten. There were two telephones, a computer, and a wall-mounted video screen. The air was several degrees colder than in the rest of the station. Khalid kept his overcoat on.

  “A safe-speech room?”

  “We have another name for it.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gabriel hesitated. “The Holy of Holies.”

  It was clear that Khalid, despite his Oxford education, did not understand the reference.

  “The Holy of Holies was the inner sanctuary of the Temple of Jerusalem. It was a perfect cube, twenty cubits by twenty cubits by twenty cubits. It contained the Ark of the Covenant, and inside the Ark were the original Ten Commandments that God gave Moses on Sinai.”

  “Stone tablets?” asked Khalid incredulously.

  “God didn’t print them on an HP LaserJet.”

  “And you believe this nonsense?”

  “I’m willing to debat
e the authenticity of the tablets,” said Gabriel. “But not the rest of it.”

  “The so-called Temple of Solomon never existed. It is a lie used by Zionists to justify the Jewish conquest of Arab Palestine.”

  “The Temple was described in great detail in the Torah long before the advent of Zionism.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that it is untrue.” Khalid was clearly enjoying the debate. “I remember a few years ago when your government claimed to have found the pillars of the so-called Temple.”

  “I remember it, too,” said Gabriel.

  “They were placed in the Israel Museum, were they not?” Khalid shook his head disdainfully. “That exhibit is a piece of crude propaganda designed to justify your existence on Muslim lands.”

  “My wife designed that exhibit.”

  “Did she?”

  “And I was the one who discovered the pillars.”

  This time, Khalid offered no objection.

  “The Waqf had hidden them in a chamber one hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface of the Temple Mount.” The Waqf was the Islamic religious authority that administered the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They assumed no one would ever find them. They were mistaken.”

  “Another lie,” said Khalid.

  “Come to Israel,” suggested Gabriel. “I’ll take you to the chamber.”

  “Me? Visit Israel?”

  “Why not?”

  “Can you imagine the reaction?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “I must admit, it would be a great privilege to pray in the Noble Sanctuary.” The Noble Sanctuary was how Muslims referred to the Temple Mount.

  “We can do that, too.”

  Khalid sat down along one side of the small conference table and glanced around the interior of the room. “How fortunate we were both in London at the same time.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “I’m searching desperately for your daughter, and you’re having dinner with Uncle Abdullah and staying in the most expensive suite at the Dorchester.”

  “How did you know I saw my uncle?”

  Ignoring the question, Gabriel held out a hand and asked to see the demand letter. Khalid placed it on the table. It was a photocopy. The original, he said, had been delivered to the Saudi Embassy in Paris. The typeface and margins were identical to those of the first letter. So was the flat, matter-of-fact wording. Khalid had until midnight the following evening to abdicate. If he refused, he would never see his daughter again.