The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(67)

“Really?”

“I showed him those Iranian nuclear documents you gave me. And then he promptly closed the file and changed the subject to Abdullah.”

“What about Abdullah?”

“How far does he intend to go to placate the religious hard-liners? Is he going to play the same old double game when it comes to the jihadists and terrorists? Is he going to be a force for regional stability or regional chaos? Mainly, my minister wanted to know whether Abdullah, given his close ties to London, might be inclined to tilt our way rather than toward the Americans.”

“By that, you mean you’d like to sell Abdullah as many advanced fighter aircraft as he’s willing to buy, regardless of what it means for the security of my country.”

“More or less. We’re thinking about beating the Americans to the punch by inviting Abdullah to come to London for an official visit.”

“I think a visit to London is a wonderful idea. But I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to win over Abdullah.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already spoken for.”

“Bloody Americans,” murmured Seymour.

“We should be so lucky.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gabriel picked up the remote and raised the volume on the television to full.



Over the cacophony of British parliamentary democracy, Gabriel told Graham Seymour everything that had transpired since the night of Reema’s murder in France. Khalid, he said, had given Gabriel financial records concerning the sudden wealth of his uncle Abdullah. Office analysts had used the documents to establish a clear link between Abdullah and one Konstantin Dragunov, a Russian oligarch and personal friend of the Tsar. In addition, Gabriel had obtained an unpublished article written by Omar Nawwaf, purporting that Russian intelligence was involved in a plot to remove Khalid and install Abdullah as the new crown prince. It was Abdullah who had advised Khalid to have the journalist killed—and Abdullah, from his mansion in Belgravia, who had seen to the messy details. Through a cutout, he lured Omar Nawwaf to the Saudi consulate in Istanbul with a promise that Khalid would be waiting inside. That evening, while Nawwaf’s dismembered body was being disposed of, Russian agents entered the journalist’s room at the InterContinental Hotel, and his apartment in Berlin, and took his computers, portable storage devices, and written notes.

“Says who?”

“Hanifa Khoury.”

“Nawwaf’s wife?”

“Widow,” said Gabriel.

“How does she know they were Russian agents?”

“She doesn’t. In fact, she assumes they were Saudi.”

“Why wouldn’t they have been Saudi?”

“If Saudi agents had raided the hotel room and the apartment, Omar’s story would have ended up in Khalid’s hands. He never knew about it until I showed it to him.”

Seymour returned to the trolley and freshened his drink. “So what you’re telling me is that KBM’s defense in the murder of Omar Nawwaf is that Uncle Abdullah made him do it?”

Gabriel ignored Seymour’s sarcasm. “Do you know what the Middle East will look like if Russia, Iran, and the Chinese displace the Americans in the Persian Gulf?”

“It would be a disaster. Which is why no Saudi ruler in his right mind would ever break the bond between Riyadh and Washington.”

“Unless the Saudi ruler was beholden to the Kremlin.” Gabriel wandered over to the French doors overlooking the tiny garden. “Did you never notice Abdullah was keeping company with one of the Tsar’s closest friends?”

“We noticed, but frankly we didn’t much care. Abdullah was a nobody.”

“He’s not a nobody anymore, Graham. He’s next in line to the throne.”

“Yes,” said Seymour. “And when His Majesty dies, which is likely to happen soon, he will be king.”

Gabriel turned. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Seymour gave a half smile. “Do you really think you can choose the next ruler of Saudi Arabia?”

“Not necessarily. But I have no intention of allowing a Russian puppet to reach the throne.”

“How do you intend to prevent it?”

“I suppose I could just kill him.”

“You can’t kill the future king of Saudi Arabia.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be immoral and against international law.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I suppose we’ll have to find someone to kill him for us.”





49

Vauxhall Cross, London


One week later, as much of Westminster was engaged in a furious debate over how best to commit national suicide, Her Majesty’s Government somehow managed to extend an invitation to His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah to make an official visit to London. Five days passed without a response, long enough to send a chill wind of doubt blowing through the halls of the Foreign Office, and through the secret rooms of Vauxhall Cross and King Saul Boulevard as well. When the Saudi response finally arrived—it was delivered by court messenger to the British Embassy in Riyadh—official London was much relieved. A date was set for early April. BAE Systems and the other British defense contractors were thrilled, their counterparts in America less so. The rented television experts saw the Anglo-Saudi summit as a rebuke of the current American administration’s policy in the Middle East. Washington had placed all its chips on an untested young prince with a hair-trigger temper and a lust for shiny objects. Now the young prince was gone, and Britain, faded and divided though it was, had brilliantly seized the diplomatic initiative. “All is not lost,” declared the Independent. “Perhaps there is hope for us yet.”