“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.
“I am a citizen of the Russian Federation and a personal friend of the Russian president.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You have no right to arrest me.”
“I’m not.”
A strange-looking tent had been erected outside the Jet Centre. The SCO19 officer relieved Dragunov of his phone before shoving him through the entrance. Inside were four technicians clad in bulky hazmat suits. One examined Dragunov with a small scanner, running it over his torso and up and down his limbs. When the technician passed the instrument over Dragunov’s right hand, he took a step back in alarm.
