The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  “The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia has directly and indirectly helped to turn this country into the world’s preeminent center for Salafist-jihadist ideology. This, too, must end.”

  Abdullah hesitated, then said, “Perhaps we should move on to the next item on the agenda.”

  “We just did.”

  Beyond the government zones of Whitehall and Westminster, London’s midday traffic was its typical tangled mess. In fact, it took Anna Yurasova nearly two hours to drive from Tower Hamlets to the Q-Park garage on Kinnerton Street in Belgravia, much longer than she had expected.

  The London rezidentura had clandestinely reserved a space at the garage. Anna concealed the Stechkin 9mm beneath the Renault’s passenger seat before surrendering the car to the attendant. Then she walked up the ramp, handbag dangling from one shoulder, and made her way to Motcomb Street, a narrow pedestrian lane lined with some of London’s most exclusive shops and restaurants. In her dark skirt and stockings and short leather coat, her heels clattering loudly over the paving stones, she drew admiring and envious glances. She was confident, however, that no one was following her.

  At Lowndes Street she turned left and headed toward Eaton Square. The northwestern section was closed to vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Anna approached a Metropolitan Police officer and explained that she was employed at one of the houses on the square.

  “Which one, please?”

  “Number Seventy.”

  “I need to have a look inside your bag.”

  Anna removed it from her shoulder and held it open. The officer examined it thoroughly before allowing her to pass. The terrace of houses along the western flank of the square were some of the grandest in London: three bay windows, five stories, a basement, and a handsome portico supported by two columns, each bearing the house’s address. Anna climbed the four steps of Number 70 and placed her index finger atop the bell push. The door opened and she went inside.

  Though Anna Yurasova did not know it, the team at Hatch End was monitoring her every move with the help of the CCTV cameras. Eli Lavon, who was following her on foot, was a mere insurance policy. After watching her enter the house at 70 Eaton Square, he walked west to Cadogan Place and lowered himself into the passenger seat of a Ford Fiesta. Mikhail Abramov was behind the wheel.

  “Looks like Gabriel was right about where the Russians plan to do it.”

  “You sound surprised,” replied Lavon.

  “Not at all. The question is, how are they going to get to him?”

  Mikhail drummed his fingers nervously on the center console. It was, thought Lavon, a wholly unbecoming habit for a man of the secret world.

  “Is there any way you can stop that?”

  “Stop what?”

  Lavon exhaled slowly and switched on the car radio. It was one p.m. At Downing Street, said the newsreader on the BBC’s Radio 4, the prime minister and the crown prince were just sitting down to lunch.

  62

  Eaton Square, Belgravia

  It was Konstantin Dragunov, friend and business associate of Russia’s president, who admitted Anna Yurasova into the grand house in Eaton Square. He wore an oligarch’s dark suit and a white dress shirt open to his breastbone. His sparse gray hair and beard were uniform in length. His prominent lower lip shone like the skin of a freshly polished apple. Anna recoiled at the thought of a traditional Russian kiss of greeting. Defensively, she offered her hand instead.

  “Mr. Dragunov,” she said in English.

  “Please call me Konstantin,” he replied in the same language. Then in Russian he said, “Don’t worry, a team from the rezidentura gave the house a thorough sweep late last night. It’s clean.”

  He helped Anna off with her coat. The look in his eye suggested he wanted to help her off with her dress and her undergarments as well. Konstantin Dragunov was regarded as one of the worst lechers in Russia, a noteworthy achievement given the stiff level of competition.

  Anna glanced around the graceful entrance hall. Before leaving Moscow she had familiarized herself with the interior of the house by studying photographs and floor plans. They had not done it justice. It was remarkably beautiful.

  She reclaimed her coat. “Perhaps you should show me around.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Dragunov led her down a hallway to a pair of double doors, each with a round window, like portholes on a ship. Beyond them lay a professional kitchen that was much larger than Anna’s flat in Moscow. It was obvious from Dragunov’s indifferent demeanor that he did not often venture into this room of his Belgravia mansion.

  “I gave the rest of the staff the day off, just like the Englishwoman instructed. I doubt Abdullah will eat anything, but before the police cordon went up I took delivery of a couple trays of canapés from his favorite caterer. They’re in the refrigerator.”

  There were two, actually, side by side. Both were Sub-Zeros.

  “What will he drink?”

  “That depends on his mood. Champagne, white wine, a whisky if he’s had a hard day. The wines are in the cooler under the counter. The distilled drinks are kept in the bar.” Dragunov pushed through the double doors like a headwaiter in a hurry. The bar was in an alcove to the right. “Abdullah prefers Johnnie Walker Black Label. I keep a bottle just for him.”

  “How does he drink it?”

  “Lots of ice. There’s an automatic maker under the sink.”

  “What time are you expecting him?”

  “Between four thirty and five. For obvious reasons he can’t stay long.”

  “Where will you entertain him?”

  “The drawing room.”

  It was up a flight of stairs, on the first floor of the mansion. Like the rest of the house, there was nothing Russian about it. Anna imagined the scene that would take place there in a few hours’ time.

  “It is essential you behave normally,” she said. “Just ask him what he wants to drink, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you manage that, Konstantin?”

  “I think so.” He took her by the arm. “There’s one other thing you should see.”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  He guided Anna into a small wood-paneled lift and pressed the call button for the uppermost floor. Dragunov’s enormous bedroom—the chamber of horrors—overlooked Eaton Square.

  “Don’t worry, I brought you here only for the view.”

  “Of what?”

  He nudged her toward one of the three bay windows and pointed toward the southern side of the square. “Do you know who lives right over there at Number Fifty-Six?”

  “Mick Jagger?”

  “The chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. And you’re going to kill his prized asset right under his nose.”

  “That’s great, Konstantin. But if you don’t take your hand off my ass, I’m going to kill you, too.”

  The topic they reserved for the working lunch at Downing Street was Saudi Arabia’s war against the Iranian-backed Houthi rebels in Yemen. Jonathan Lancaster demanded Abdullah end indiscriminate air strikes on innocent civilians, especially air strikes carried out with British combat aircraft. Abdullah countered that it was his nephew’s war, not his, though he made it clear he shared KBM’s view that the Iranians could not be allowed to spread their malign influence throughout the Middle East.

  “We’re also concerned,” said Lancaster, “about the growing regional influence of the Russians.”

  “Moscow’s influence is on the rise because the Russian president did not allow his ally in Syria to be swept away by the madness of the Arab Spring. The rest of the Arab world, including Saudi Arabia, couldn’t help but notice.”

  “May I offer you a piece of advice, Prince Abdullah? Don’t fall for Russian promises. It won’t end well.”

  It was three fifteen when the two leaders emerged from the doorway of Number 10. The trade and investment deal the prime minister outlined for the assembled press corps was substantial but fell a few billion short of pr
esummit expectations. So, too, did Abdullah’s commitment to purchase British arms in the future. Yes, said Lancaster, they had discussed thorny issues involving human rights. No, he was not satisfied with all of the crown prince’s answers, including those regarding the brutal murder of the dissident Saudi journalist Omar Nawwaf. “It was,” said Lancaster in conclusion, “an honest and fruitful exchange between two old friends.”

  With that, he shook Abdullah’s hand and gestured toward the waiting Mercedes limousine. As the motorcade departed Downing Street, Christopher Keller ducked into the back of a black Protection Command van. Under normal circumstances, the drive to Abdullah’s private residence at 71 Eaton Square might have taken twenty minutes or more. But on empty streets with a Metropolitan Police escort, they arrived in less than five.

  The square’s CCTV cameras recorded that Crown Prince Abdullah entered his home at 3:42 p.m., accompanied by a dozen robed aides and several Saudi security men in dark business suits. Six RaSP officers immediately took up positions outside the house along the pavement. One member of the detail, however, remained in the back of the Protection Command van, invisible to the woman standing in the third-floor window of the house next door.

  It took the same amount of time, five minutes, for Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster to separate himself from his aides and make his way upstairs to the White Room. Entering, he removed a slip of official Number 10 notepaper from his breast pocket. The pad from which it had been torn was lying on the coffee table in front of Graham Seymour, beneath the MI6 chief’s Parker pen.

  “I suspect no British prime minister in history has ever been handed a note such as this in the middle of a state visit.” Lancaster dropped it on the coffee table. “I told Abdullah it concerned Brexit. I’m not sure he believed me.”

  “I thought you should know her whereabouts.”

  Jonathan Lancaster looked down at the note. “Do me a favor, Graham. Burn that damn thing. The rest of the notepad, too.”

  “Prime Minister?”

  “You left an impression on the pad when you wrote it.” Lancaster shook his head reproachfully. “Didn’t they teach you anything at spy school?”

  63

  Eaton Square, Belgravia

  The recriminations began the instant the door closed. The meeting at Downing Street had been an unmitigated disaster. There was no other word for it. A disaster! How could they have not known that Lancaster intended to ambush His Royal Highness on the issue of human rights and the jailed women? Why were they not told he was going to raise the topic of Saudi financial support for Islamic institutions in Britain? Why were they blindsided? Obaid, the foreign minister, blamed it all on Qahtani, the ambassador to London, who saw conspiracies everywhere. Al-Omari, the chief of royal court, was so enraged he suggested canceling dinner and returning to Riyadh at once. It was Abdullah, suddenly the statesman, who overruled him. Backing out of the dinner, he said, would only offend the British and weaken him at home. Better to end the visit on a high note, even if it was a false one.

  In the meantime, an aggressive media response was in order. Obaid hurried over to the BBC, Qahtani to CNN. In the sudden silence, Abdullah slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, a hand pressed to his forehead. The performance was for the benefit of al-Omari, the courtier. No task was too small, too demeaning, for al-Omari. He hovered over Abdullah night and day. Therefore, he would have to be handled carefully.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps you should go upstairs for a rest.”

  “I think I’ll have a swim first.”

  “Shall I switch on the steam room?”

  “There are some things I can still do for myself.” Abdullah rose slowly. “Short of a palace coup or an Iranian attack on Saudi Arabia, I wish not to be disturbed until seven thirty. Can you manage that, Ahmed?”

  Abdullah went downstairs to the pool room. A watery blue light played upon an arched ceiling painted with corpulent swirling nudes in the manner of Rubens and Michelangelo. How shocked the pious men of the ulema would be, he thought, if they could see him now. He had renewed the old covenant between the Wahhabis and the House of Saud to win clerical support for his coup against Khalid. Yet privately he loathed the bearded ones as much as the reformers did. Despite the unexpectedly contentious meeting at Downing Street, Abdullah had enjoyed his brief respite from religiously stifling Riyadh. He realized how much he had missed the sight of female flesh, even if it was only a bare lower leg, pale with winter, viewed through the tinted window of a speeding limousine.

  He went into the changing room, switched on the steam bath, and shed his vestments. Disrobed, he contemplated his reflection in the full-length mirror. The sight depressed him. Whatever muscle he had acquired after puberty had long ago run to fat. His pectorals dangled like an old woman’s breasts over his colossal abdomen. His legs, spindly and hairless, seemed to strain under the burden. Only his hair saved him from incontestable hideousness. It was rich and thick and only slightly gray.

  He eased into the pool and, manatee-like, swam several lengths. Afterward, standing before the mirror once more, he thought he detected a slight improvement in his muscle tone. In his wardrobe was a change of clothing: woolen trousers, a blazer, a striped dress shirt, undergarments, loafers, a belt. After deodorizing his armpits and running a comb through his hair, he dressed.

  The heavy glass door of the steam bath was now opaque with condensation. No one, not even the cloying al-Omari, would dare look inside. Abdullah locked the outer door of the dressing room before opening what was once a storage closet for robes and pool towels. It was now a vestibule of sorts. Inside was another door. On the wall was a keypad. Abdullah entered the four-digit code. The lock snapped open with a gentle thud.

  64

  Eaton Square, Belgravia

  The communicating door on the other side of the common wall was already open. In the half-light of the passageway stood Konstantin Dragunov. He regarded Abdullah at length. There was nothing deferential in his direct gaze. Abdullah supposed the Russian was entitled to his insolence. Were it not for Dragunov and his friend in the Kremlin, Khalid would still be next in line to the throne, and Abdullah would be just another middle-aged, bankrupt prince from the wrong branch of the family tree.

  At last, Dragunov bowed his head slightly. There was nothing genuine in the gesture. “Your Royal Highness.”

  “Konstantin. So good to see you again.”

  Abdullah accepted the outstretched hand. It had been several months since their last meeting. On that occasion Abdullah had informed the Russian that his nephew Khalid had retained the services of one Gabriel Allon, the chief of Israeli intelligence, to find his kidnapped daughter.

  The Russian released Abdullah’s hand. “I saw the joint news conference with Lancaster. I have to say, it looked rather tense.”

  “It was. So was the meeting that preceded it.”

  “I’m surprised.” Dragunov glanced at his big gold wristwatch. “How long can you stay?”

  “A half hour. Not a minute more.”

  “Shall we go upstairs?”

  “What about the reporters and the photographers in the square?”

  “The shades and drapes are drawn.”

  “And your staff?”

  “Just one girl.” Dragunov smiled wolfishly. “Wait until you see her.”

  They climbed two flights of stairs to the large double drawing room. It was furnished like a Pall Mall gentlemen’s club and hung with paintings of equines, canines, and men with white wigs. A maid in a short black dress was placing trays of canapés on a low table. She was about thirty-five, quite pretty. Abdullah wondered where Dragunov found them.

  “Something to drink?” asked the Russian. “Juice? Mineral water? Tea?”

  “Juice,” answered Abdullah.

  “What kind?”

  “The kind that’s made from French grapes and emits bubbles when poured into
a tall slender glass.”

  “I believe I have a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in the cooler.”

  Abdullah smiled. “I suppose it will have to do.”

  The woman nodded and withdrew.

  Abdullah sat down and waved away Dragunov’s offer of food. “They stuffed me like a goose at Downing Street. Round two begins at eight o’clock.”

  “Perhaps it will be better than the first.”

  “I rather doubt it.”

  “You anticipated a warmer welcome?”

  “I was told to expect one.”

  “By whom?”

  Abdullah felt as though he were being interrogated. “The usual channels, Konstantin. What difference does it make?”

  A moment passed. Then Dragunov said quietly, “There would have been no lectures if you had come to Moscow instead of London.”

  “If my first trip abroad as crown prince had been to Moscow, it would have sent a dangerous signal to the Americans and to my rivals inside the House of Saud. It’s better to wait until I’m king. That way, no one will be able to challenge me.”

  “Be that as it may, our mutual friend in the Kremlin would like a clear signal of your intentions.”

  And so it begins, thought Abdullah. The pressure to live up to his end of the deal. Cautiously, he asked, “What sort of signal?”

  “One that makes it abundantly clear that you don’t plan to go your own way once you become the leader of a family worth more than a trillion dollars.” Dragunov’s smile was forced. “With wealth like that, you might be tempted to forget those who helped you when no one else would go near you. Remember, Abdullah, my president invested a great deal in you. He expects a handsome return.”

  “And he’ll get one,” said Abdullah. “After I become king.”

  “He’d like a gesture of goodwill in the meantime.”

  “What did he have in mind?”

  “An agreement to invest one hundred billion dollars from Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund in several Russian projects that are of paramount importance to the Kremlin.”