The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(89)
“Number two?”
“He’s waiting for the woman at the Bedford House Hotel in Frinton. We assume they’re planning to leave Britain tonight.”
“Harwich is just up the road.”
“And the last ferry,” added Seymour, “departs at eleven.”
“Frinton is in Essex, which means the Essex Police are responsible.”
“This is a national security matter, Stella. Assert your authority. And handle him with care. We think he’s even more dangerous than the woman.”
“It’s going to take us some time to get our assets into place. If you’re watching him—”
“We are.”
Stella McEwan asked about the third suspect.
“He’s about to board a private jet at London City Airport,” answered Seymour.
“Bound for Moscow?”
“That is our belief.”
“Do you know his name?”
Seymour recited it.
“The oligarch?”
“Konstantin Dragunov is no ordinary oligarch, if there even is such a thing.”
“I can’t detain a friend of the Russian president without a warrant.”
“Test him for chemical agents and radiation, Stella. I’m sure you’ll have more than enough evidence to hold him. But do it quickly. Konstantin Dragunov must not be allowed to board that plane.”
“I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything, Graham.”
“I’m the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service. Why on earth would you think otherwise?” Seymour severed the connection and looked at Jonathan Lancaster. “I’m afraid things are about to get even more interesting.”
“More?” There was a knock at the door. It was Geoffrey Sloane. He appeared more ashen than usual. “Something wrong, Geoffrey?”
“It seems the crown prince has taken ill.”
“Does he need to be admitted to hospital?”
“His Royal Highness wishes to return to Riyadh at once. He and his delegation are leaving the Eaton Place residence now.”
Lancaster placed a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “Have the Press Office draft a statement. Make sure the tone is light. Speedy recovery, look forward to seeing him at the next G20—that sort of thing.”
“I’ll see to it, Prime Minister.” Sloane went out.
Lancaster looked at Seymour. “His decision to leave immediately is a stroke of good fortune.”
“Fortune had nothing to do with it.”
“How did you arrange it?”
“Khalid advised his uncle to return home for treatment. He plans to accompany him.”
“Nice touch,” said Lancaster.
Seymour’s BlackBerry purred.
“What is it now?”
Seymour showed him the screen. The call was from Amanda Wallace, the director-general of MI5.
“Good luck,” said Jonathan Lancaster before slipping quietly from the room.
68
London City Airport
Konstantin Dragunov heard the first sirens while stuck in rush-hour traffic on East India Dock Road. He instructed Vadim, his driver, to turn on the radio. The newsreader on Radio 4 sounded bored.
Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia has taken ill and will not be attending dinner this evening at Downing Street as scheduled. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster has wished him a speedy recovery . . .
“That’s enough, Vadim.”
The driver switched off the radio and made a right turn into Lower Lea Crossing. It bore them past the old East India Dock Basin and the sparkling new office towers of the Leamouth Peninsula. London City Airport was three miles farther to the east, along North Woolrich Road. To enter the airport required navigating a pair of roundabouts. Traffic flowed normally through the first, but police had blocked the second.
An officer in a lime-green jacket approached the Maybach—cautiously, it seemed to Dragunov—and tapped on Vadim’s window. The driver lowered it.
“Sorry for the delay,” said the officer, “but I’m afraid we have a security situation.”
“What kind of situation?” asked Dragunov from the backseat.
“A bomb threat. It’s probably a hoax, but we’re not letting any passengers into the terminal at this time. Only those flying privately are allowed to enter.”
“Do I look like I’m traveling commercially to you?”
“Name, please?”
“Dragunov. Konstantin Dragunov.”
The officer directed Vadim into the second traffic circle. He immediately turned to the left, into the car park of the London Jet Centre, the airport’s fixed-base operator.
Dragunov swore softly.
The car park was jammed with vehicles and personnel from the Met, including several tactical officers from SCO19, the Specialist Firearms Command. Four officers immediately surrounded the Maybach, weapons drawn. A fifth banged his fist against Dragunov’s window and ordered him to get out.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Russian.
The SCO19 officer leveled his Heckler & Koch G36 directly at Dragunov’s head. “Now!”
Dragunov unlocked the door. The SCO19 officer instantly flung it open and dragged Dragunov from the backseat.