Page 82 of The New Girl

“Since it’s the summer of 2016,” said Gabriel, “why don’t we begin with America.”

The Tsar, said Khalid, had high hopes for the American presidential election that fall. He was also confident Washington’s days as the hegemon in the Middle East were nearing an end. The Americans had blundered into Iraq and paid a high price in blood and treasure. They were eager to put the entire region, with its intractable problems, in their rearview mirror. In contrast, the Tsar had prevailed in the fight for Syria. He had ridden to the rescue of an old friend and in the process sent a signal to the rest of the region that Moscow, not Washington, could be counted on in times of trouble.

“He wanted you to jettison the Americans and become a Russian ally?”

“You’re thinking too small,” answered Khalid. “The Tsar wanted to form a partnership. He said the West was dying, in part because he was doing his best to sow social division and political chaos wherever he could. He said the future lay in Eurasia, with its massive supplies of energy and water and people. Russia, China, India, Turkey, Iran...”

“And Saudi Arabia?”

Khalid nodded. “We were going to rule the world together. And the best part was that he would never lecture me about democracy or human rights.”

“How could you refuse an offer like that?”

“Quite easily. I wanted American technology and expertise to power my economy, not Russian.” He was suddenly animated, like the KBM of old. “Tell me something, what was the last Russian product you purchased? What do they export other than vodka and oil and gas?”

“Wood.”

“Really? Perhaps we should begin exporting sand. That would solve all our problems.”

“Did you tell the Tsar how you felt?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How did he take it?”

“He gave me that dead-fish stare and told me I had made a mistake.”

“You and your father went to Moscow a few months later. You announced a deal to increase the price of oil. You also purchased a Russian air defense system.”

“We were hedging our bets, that’s all.”

“What about that ridiculous handshake in Buenos Aires? You and the Tsar looked as though you’d just scored the winning goal in the World Cup.”

“And do you know what he whispered into my ear after we sat down? He asked whether I’d had a chance to reconsider his offer.”

“What was your answer?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember. Whatever it was, it was obviously wrong. Reema was kidnapped two weeks later.” Khalid surveyed the mammoth vessel that was not really his. He was rubbing his hands together again, as though trying to remove a stain. “I suppose this means I’ll never be able to avenge her death.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The Tsar is the most powerful man in the world, never forget that. And that woman who led us to that field in France is almost certainly a Russian intelligence officer.”

“The man who detonated the bomb, too. But what’s your point?”

“They’re back in Moscow. You’ll never find them.”

“You’d be surprised. Besides,” said Gabriel, “vengeance comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“Is that another Jewish proverb?”

Gabriel smiled. “Close enough.”

48

Notting Hill, London

At half past fiveon a sodden London afternoon, Gabriel Allon, director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service, swung the heavy steel knocker against the door of the safe house in St. Luke’s Mews in Notting Hill and was admitted by a boyish-looking man of forty who insisted on referring to him as “Mr. Mudd.” In the cramped sitting room he found Graham Seymour staring despondently at the television. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster’s plan to withdraw the United Kingdom from the European Union in accordance with the wishes of the British electorate had just gone down to a humiliating defeat in the House of Commons.