Anna screwed the cap onto the vial and shoved it into the pocket of her apron, along with the pipette. Then she filled the two glasses with the champagne and with her left hand picked up the tray. The contaminated glass was on the right. She could almost feel the radiation rising with the escaping effervescence.
She pushed open one of the swinging double doors and snared a few linen cocktail napkins from the bar. As she approached the drawing room she heard the Saudi speak a name that made her heart give a sideways lurch. She placed a cocktail napkin before him and atop the napkin the contaminated glass. Dragunov she served directly, from her right hand to his.
The oligarch raised the glass formally. “To the future,” he said, and drank.
The Saudi hesitated. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night I returned to Saudi Arabia to become crown prince.”
“She can get you something else if you prefer.”
“Are you mad?” The Saudi swallowed the entire glass of champagne in a single draught. “Is there more? I don’t think I can get through dinner at Downing Street without it.”
Anna reclaimed the contaminated glass and returned to the kitchen. The Saudi had just consumed enough of the radioactive toxin to kill everyone in Greater London. There was no medication, no emergency treatment, that could forestall the inevitable destruction of his cells and organs. He was already dying.
Nevertheless, Anna decided to give him another dose.
This time, she did not bother with the pipette. Instead, she poured the remaining liquid toxin directly into the glass and added the champagne. Bubbles danced above the rim. Anna pictured a Vesuvius of radiation.
In the drawing room she served the drink to the Saudi and with a smile went hastily out. Returning to the kitchen, she removed her apron and placed it in the rubbish bin, along with the empty vial and the pipette. The Englishwoman had ordered Anna to leave no contaminated items behind when making her escape. It was an order she had no intention of obeying.
Surrounded by an invisible fogbank of radiation, she checked the time on her phone. It was 4:42 p.m. Upstairs in the drawing room, His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was already dying. Anna, her hand shaking, lit a cigarette and waited for him to leave.
65
Eaton Square, Belgravia
Konstantin Dragunov departed his home at 5:22 p.m. Because the northwest corner of Eaton Square was closed, he was compelled to walk a short distance to Cliveden Place, where his Mercedes Maybach limousine was waiting. Clutching an attaché case, an overcoat draped over his arm, he lowered himself into the backseat. The limousine sped east, followed by an Office watcher on a BMW motorcycle.
The woman emerged seven minutes later. At the base of the steps she turned left and walked past the home where His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was said to be resting before an eight o’clock dinner at Downing Street. The six Protection Command officers standing outside the residence observed her carefully as she passed. So did Christopher Keller, who was still sheltering in the back of the van, though Keller’s interest in the woman was of a far different nature.
She slipped through the police cordon and, followed by Eli Lavon, walked directly to the Q-Park garage in Kinnerton Street. There she endured a wait of nearly ten minutes for the Renault Clio. When it finally arrived she headed north, into the London evening rush. A few minutes after six p.m., she passed the entrance of the Swiss Cottage Underground station on the Finchley Road. Lavon and Mikhail Abramov were behind her in the Ford Fiesta. The Anglo-Israeli team at Hatch End was tracking her with the CCTV cameras.
The team’s two leaders remained in separate locations. Graham Seymour was at Downing Street; Gabriel, at the Notting Hill safe house. They were connected by an open secure phone line. The call had been initiated by Gabriel at 3:42 p.m., the moment Crown Prince Abdullah arrived at his home in Eaton Square. They had not seen him since. Nor had they seen any evidence to suggest Konstantin Dragunov or the female SVR operative had been in Abdullah’s presence.
“So why are they making a run for it?” asked Gabriel.
“It appears they’ve decided to abort.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Perhaps they noticed our surveillance,” suggested Seymour. “Or perhaps Abdullah stood them up.”
“Or perhaps Abdullah is already dead,” said Gabriel, “and the two people who killed him are running for the exits.”
There was silence on the line. Finally, Seymour said, “If Abdullah doesn’t walk out the door as scheduled at seven forty-five, I’ll ring the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and arrange for the arrest of Dragunov and the woman.”
“Seven forty-five is too late. We need to know whether Abdullah is still alive.”
“I can’t very well have the prime minister call him. I’ve involved him too much as it is.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to send someone else into the house to check on him.”
“Who?”
Gabriel hung up the phone.
66
Eaton Square, Belgravia
