The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(86)

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.”

“And to you, too, I suspect.” Receiving no reply, Abdullah said, “This sounds like a shakedown to me.”

“Does it?”

Abdullah feigned deliberation. “Tell your president I’ll dispatch a delegation to Moscow next week.”

Dragunov brought his hands together in a show of unity. “Wonderful news.”

Abdullah suddenly craved alcohol. He glanced over his shoulder. Where the hell was that girl? When he turned around again, Dragunov was devouring a caviar treat. A single black egg had lodged itself like a tick on his prominent lower lip.

Abdullah averted his gaze and abruptly changed the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to try to kill him?”

“Who?”

“Allon.”

The Russian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, dislodging the speck of caviar. “The decision was made by the Kremlin and the SVR. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You should have killed Khalid and the child the way we agreed and left Allon out of it.”