10 Downing Street
For the second consecutive evening, a Jaguar limousine passed through the security gate on Horse Guards Road at eight fifteen. The brown-and-white tabby cat beat a hasty retreat as Gabriel and Graham Seymour hurried along Downing Street through a pouring rain. Geoffrey Sloane wordlessly ushered them into the Cabinet Room, where the prime minister was seated in his usual chair at the center of the long table. Before him was a copy of the final schedule for Crown Prince Abdullah’s visit to London.
When Sloane had gone and the doors were closed, Graham Seymour delivered the promised update. Earlier that evening a second Russian operative, a woman, had arrived by motorcar at the Bedford House Hotel in Frinton-on-Sea. After engaging in sexual activity with her colleague, she had taken possession of a Stechkin 9mm pistol, two magazines, a sound suppressor, and a small object that Tech-Ops was still attempting to identify.
“Best guess?” asked Lancaster.
“I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still in the room.”
“Do we know how she got into the country?”
“We’re still trying to determine that.”
“Are there others?”
“We don’t know what we don’t know, Prime Minister.”
“Spare me the clichés, Graham. Just tell me what they’re going to do next.”
“We can’t, Prime Minister. Not yet.”
Lancaster swore softly. “What if her car contains a bomb like the one that went off on the Brompton Road a few years ago?” He looked at Gabriel. “You remember that one, don’t you, Director Allon?”
“We’ve already had a look at her car. Her boyfriend’s, too. They’re clean. Besides,” said Gabriel, “there’s no way they’ll be able to get a bomb anywhere near Abdullah tomorrow. London will be locked down tight.”
“What about his motorcade?”
“Assassinating a head of state in a moving car is nearly impossible.”
“Tell that to Archduke Ferdinand. Or President Kennedy.”
“Abdullah won’t be in an open-top car, and the streets will be entirely cleared of traffic and parked cars.”
“So where will they make their attempt?”
Gabriel looked down at the schedule. “May I?”
Lancaster pushed it across the tabletop. It was of the one-page variety, bullet points only. Arrival at Heathrow at nine a.m. Meeting between the British and Saudi delegations at Downing Street from ten thirty to one p.m., followed by a working lunch. The crown prince was scheduled to leave Number 10 at half past three and travel by motorcade to his private residence in Belgravia for several hours of rest. He was scheduled to return to Downing Street at eight p.m. for dinner. Departure for Heathrow was tentatively set for ten.
“If I had to guess,” said Gabriel, pointing toward one of the entries, “it will happen here.”
The prime minister pointed to an entry of his own. “What if it happens here?” His fingertip moved down the page. “Or here?” There was a silence. Then Lancaster said, “I’d rather not be a collateral casualty, if you understand my meaning.”
“I do,” answered Gabriel.
“Perhaps we should increase security at Downing Street even more than we’d planned.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“I don’t suppose you’re available.”
“I’d be honored, Prime Minister. But I’m afraid the Saudi delegation would find my presence curious, to say the least.”
“What about Keller?”
