Page 83 of The New Girl

“It’s the worst drubbing for any British leader in modern times.” Seymour’s eyes were still fastened to the screen. “Jonathan will no doubt have to face a vote of no confidence.”

“Will he survive?”

“Probably. But there’s no guarantee, not after this. If his government falls, there’s a good chance Labour will win the next election. Which means you will have to contend with the most anti-Israel prime minister in British history.”

Seymour went to the drinks trolley, a new addition to the safe house, and thrust a handful of ice into a cut-glass tumbler. He waved a bottle of Beefeater in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel held up a hand.

“Nigel put a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.”

“It’s a bit early in the day for me, Graham.”

Seymour frowned at his wristwatch. “It’s gone five o’clock, for heaven’s sake.” He poured a generous measure of gin over the ice and topped it with a dash of tonic and a wedge of lime. “Cheers.”

“What are we drinking to?”

“The demise of a once-great nation. The end of Western civilization as we know it.” Seymour gazed at the television and slowly shook his head. “The bloody Russians must be loving this.”

“So must Rebecca.”

Seymour nodded slowly. “I see that woman in my sleep. God forgive me for saying this, but sometimes I wish you’d let her drown that morning in the Potomac.”

“Lether drown? I was the one holding her head beneath the water, remember?”

“It must have been awful.” Seymour studied Gabriel carefully for a moment. “Almost as awful as what happened in France. Even Christopher seemed shell-shocked when he got home. I gather you’re lucky to be alive.”

“So is Khalid.”

“We haven’t heard a peep from him since he abdicated.”

“He’s aboard his yacht off Sharm el-Sheikh.”

“Poor lamb.” On the floor of the Commons, Jonathan Lancaster had risen to his feet to acknowledge the magnitude of the defeat he had just suffered, only to be heckled mercilessly by the back benches of the opposition. Seymour aimed the remote at the screen and pressedmute. “If only it were that easy.” Drink in hand, he reclaimed his seat. “It’s not all gloom and doom, though. Thanks to you, I had a rather pleasant meeting with my minister this morning.”

“Really?”

“I showed him those Iranian nuclear documents you gave me. And then he promptly closed the file and changed the subject to Abdullah.”

“What about Abdullah?”

“How far does he intend to go to placate the religious hard-liners? Is he going to play the same old double game when it comes to the jihadists and terrorists? Is he going to be a force for regional stability or regional chaos? Mainly, my minister wanted to know whether Abdullah, given his close ties to London, might be inclined to tilt our way rather than toward the Americans.”

“By that, you mean you’d like to sell Abdullah as many advanced fighter aircraft as he’s willing to buy, regardless of what it means for the security of my country.”

“More or less. We’re thinking about beating the Americans to the punch by inviting Abdullah to come to London for an official visit.”

“I think a visit to London is a wonderful idea. But I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to win over Abdullah.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already spoken for.”

“Bloody Americans,” murmured Seymour.

“We should be so lucky.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gabriel picked up the remote and raised the volume on the television to full.