Over the cacophony of British parliamentary democracy, Gabriel told Graham Seymour everything that had transpired since the night of Reema’s murder in France. Khalid, he said, had given Gabriel financial records concerning the sudden wealth of his uncle Abdullah. Office analysts had used the documents to establish a clear link between Abdullah and one Konstantin Dragunov, a Russian oligarch and personal friend of the Tsar. In addition, Gabriel had obtained an unpublished article written by Omar Nawwaf, purporting that Russian intelligence was involved in a plot to remove Khalid and install Abdullah as the new crown prince. It was Abdullah who had advised Khalid to have the journalist killed—and Abdullah, from his mansion in Belgravia, who had seen to the messy details. Through a cutout, he lured Omar Nawwaf to the Saudi consulate in Istanbul with a promise that Khalid would be waiting inside. That evening, while Nawwaf’s dismembered body was being disposed of, Russian agents entered the journalist’s room at the InterContinental Hotel, and his apartment in Berlin, and took his computers, portable storage devices, and written notes.
“Says who?”
“Hanifa Khoury.”
“Nawwaf’s wife?”
“Widow,” said Gabriel.
“How does she know they were Russian agents?”
“She doesn’t. In fact, she assumes they were Saudi.”
“Whywouldn’tthey have been Saudi?”
“If Saudi agents had raided the hotel room and the apartment, Omar’s story would have ended up in Khalid’s hands. He never knew about it until I showed it to him.”
Seymour returned to the trolley and freshened his drink. “So what you’re telling me is that KBM’s defense in the murder of Omar Nawwaf is that Uncle Abdullah made him do it?”
Gabriel ignored Seymour’s sarcasm. “Do you know what the Middle East will look like if Russia, Iran, and the Chinese displace the Americans in the Persian Gulf?”
“It would be a disaster. Which is why no Saudi ruler in his right mind would ever break the bond between Riyadh and Washington.”
“Unless the Saudi ruler was beholden to the Kremlin.” Gabriel wandered over to the French doors overlooking the tiny garden. “Did you never notice Abdullah was keeping company with one of the Tsar’s closest friends?”
“We noticed, but frankly we didn’t much care. Abdullah was a nobody.”
“He’s not a nobody anymore, Graham. He’s next in line to the throne.”
“Yes,” said Seymour. “And when His Majesty dies, which is likely to happen soon, he will be king.”
Gabriel turned. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Seymour gave a half smile. “Do youreallythink you can choose the next ruler of Saudi Arabia?”
“Not necessarily. But I have no intention of allowing a Russian puppet to reach the throne.”
“How do you intend to prevent it?”
“I suppose I could just kill him.”
“You can’t kill the future king of Saudi Arabia.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be immoral and against international law.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I suppose we’ll have to find someone to kill him for us.”
49
Vauxhall Cross, London
One week later, as much of Westminster was engaged in a furious debate over how best to commit national suicide, Her Majesty’s Government somehow managed to extend an invitation to His Royal Highness Prince Abdullah to make an official visit to London. Five days passed without a response, long enough to send a chill wind of doubt blowing through the halls of the Foreign Office, and through the secret rooms of Vauxhall Cross and King Saul Boulevard as well. When the Saudi response finally arrived—it was delivered by court messenger to the British Embassy in Riyadh—official London was much relieved. A date was set for early April. BAE Systems and the other British defense contractors were thrilled, their counterparts in America less so. The rented television experts saw the Anglo-Saudi summit as a rebuke of the current American administration’s policy in the Middle East. Washington had placed all its chips on an untested young prince with a hair-trigger temper and a lust for shiny objects. Now the young prince was gone, and Britain, faded and divided though it was, had brilliantly seized the diplomatic initiative. “All is not lost,” declared theIndependent. “Perhaps there is hope for us yet.”
Charles Bennett, however, did not share the media’s enthusiasm over Abdullah’s pending visit, mainly because he had not been told a summit was in the works or even that Downing Street and the FO were considering one. It was a breach of normal protocols. If anyone in official London needed advance warning of a royal visit, it was MI6’s controller for Middle East stations. It was Bennett’s job to supply much of the intelligence the prime minister would review before sitting down with Abdullah. What kind of man was he? What were his core beliefs? Was he a Wahhabi hard-liner or was he merely playing to the base? Was he going to be a reliable partner in the fight against terrorism? What were his plans in Yemen and vis-à-vis the Qataris? Could he be trusted? Could he be manipulated?
Bennett would now have to scramble to prepare the necessary assessments and estimates. His personal opinion was that it was far too early to invite Abdullah to Downing Street. The dust had yet to settle after Khalid’s messy abdication, and Abdullah was rolling back Khalid’s reforms. Better to wait, Bennett would have advised, until the situation had stabilized. He knew full well why Jonathan Lancaster was so keen to meet with Abdullah. The PM needed a foreign policy success. And then, of course, there was commerce to consider. BAE and its ilk wanted a crack at Abdullah before the Americans got their hooks into him.
