“It happened in a bank in Zurich.”
Keller racked the Walther’s slide, chambering the first round. Then he thumbed the safety into place and handed the gun to Sarah. “It’s now fully loaded. Seven rounds only. When you want to fire it, just disengage the safety and pull the trigger.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll manage.”
Sarah practiced disengaging and engaging the safety. “The perfect wedding gift for the woman who has everything.”
Keller raised his champagne glass. “Your first wedding, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Mine, too.” He walked to the window and stared at the granite sea. “Let’s hope we defy the odds.”
“Yes,” agreed Sarah as she slipped the Walther into her purse. “Let’s.”
56
10 Downing Street
At eight fifteenthat evening, as Keller and Sarah were dining well in the Bedford’s grill room not twenty feet from their Russian quarry, a Jaguar limousine bearing Gabriel Allon and Graham Seymour passed through a heavily guarded gate off Horse Guards Road and parked outside the five-story redbrick building that stood at 12 Downing Street. Formerly the official residence of the chief whip, it now housed the prime minister’s press and communications staff. The chancellor of the Exchequer resided next door at Number 11, and the prime minister himself, of course, at Number 10. The famous black door opened automatically as Gabriel and Seymour approached. Watched by a fierce-looking brown-and-white tabby cat, they went quickly inside.
Geoffrey Sloane, the prime minister’s chief of staff and the most powerful unelected official in Britain, was waiting in the entrance hall. He thrust a hand in Gabriel’s direction. “I was here the morning you killed that ISIS dirty bomber at the security gate. In fact, I could hear the gunshots from my office.” Sloane released Gabriel’s hand and looked at Seymour. “I’m afraid the PM hasn’t much time.”
“This won’t take long.”
“I’d like to sit in.”
“Sorry, Geoffrey, but that’s not possible.”
Jonathan Lancaster was waiting upstairs in the Terracotta Room. Earlier that afternoon he had narrowly survived a vote of no confidence in the House of Commons. Even so, the Westminster press corps were at that very moment writing his political obituary. Thanks to the folly of Brexit, which Lancaster had opposed, his career was effectively over. Were it not for Gabriel and Graham Seymour, whom he greeted warmly, it might have ended much sooner.
The prime minister glanced at his wristwatch. “I have dinner guests.”
“I’m sorry,” said Seymour, “but I’m afraid we have a rather serious situation regarding the Russians.”
“Not again.”
Seymour nodded gravely.
“And the nature of this situation?”
“A known SVR assassin has entered the country.”
“Where is he now?”
“A small hotel in Essex. The Bedford House.”
“I remember it fondly from my youth,” said Lancaster. “I take it the Russian is under surveillance.”
“Total,” answered Seymour. “Four MI6 watchers have checked into the hotel next door, the East Anglia Inn, along with two highly experienced Israeli field officers. Tech-Ops have planted transmitters in the Russian’s room, audio and video. They’ve also hacked into the Bedford’s internal network of security cameras. We’re watching his every move.”
“Do we have anyone inside the Bedford?”
“Christopher Keller. He’s the one who—”
“I know who he is,” interjected Lancaster. Then he asked, “Do we know the Russian’s target?”
