Nigel Whitcombe made the drive from Notting Hill to Belgravia in eight minutes flat. He and Gabriel remained in the car while Khalid approached the security cordon at Eaton Square. It was Christopher Keller who walked him to the front door of the house at Number 71.
The bell push summoned Marwan al-Omari, the chief courtier. He was clad in traditional Saudi dress. He fixed Khalid with a withering stare. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see my uncle.”
“I can assure you, your uncle has no wish to see you.”
Al-Omari tried to close the door, but Khalid stopped him. “Listen to me, Marwan. I am an Al Saud, and you are nothing more than a glorified butler. Now take me to my uncle before I—”
“Before you what?” Al-Omari managed a smile. “Still making threats, Khalid? One would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.”
“I’m still the son of a king. And you, Marwan, are camel dung. Now move out of my way.”
Al-Omari’s smile vanished. “Your uncle left strict instructions not to be disturbed until half past seven.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”
Al-Omari stood his ground a moment longer before finally stepping to one side. Khalid rushed into the entrance hall, but the courtier seized Keller’s arm when he attempted to follow.
“Not him.”
Keller went wordlessly into the square while Khalid, pursued by al-Omari, hurried up the stairs to Abdullah’s bedroom suite. The outer door was locked. Al-Omari’s anemic knock was scarcely audible.
“Your Royal Highness?”
When there was no answer, Khalid pushed the courtier aside and hammered on the door with the palm of his hand. “Abdullah? Abdullah? Are you there?” Greeted by silence, Khalid grabbed the latch and gave it a shake. The heavy door was solid as a ship.
He looked at al-Omari. “Get out of the way.”
“What are you going to do?”
Khalid raised his right leg and drove the sole of his shoe against the door. There was the sound of splintering wood, but it held. The second blow loosened the latch from its fitting, and the third shattered the doorframe. It also broke several bones in Khalid’s foot, he was sure of it.
Limping painfully, he stumbled into the magnificent suite. The sitting room was unoccupied, as was the bedchamber. Khalid shouted Abdullah’s name, but there was still no answer.
“He must be bathing,” fretted al-Omari. “We can’t possibly disturb him.”
The door to the master bathroom suite was closed as well, but the latch yielded to Khalid’s touch. Abdullah was not in the bath or the shower. Nor was he grooming himself at the sink.
There was one final door. The door to the commode. Khalid didn’t bother knocking.
“Dear God,” whispered al-Omari.
67
10 Downing Street
Graham Seymour rang Stella McEwan, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service, at 6:24 p.m. Later, during the inevitable inquiry, much would be made of the short duration of the call, which was five minutes. At no point during the conversation did Seymour mention that he was in the White Room at 10 Downing Street, or that the prime minister was sitting anxiously next to him.
“An SVR hit team?” asked McEwan.
“Another one,” lamented Seymour.
“Who’s the target?”
“We can’t say for certain. We assume it’s someone who’s run afoul of the Kremlin—or perhaps a former Russian intelligence officer living under an assumed identity here in Britain. I’m afraid I can’t go into details.”
“What about the hit team?”
