Page 99 of The New Girl

“I was planning to curl up with a book and a gun and wait for my husband to come back.”

“Do you remember how to use it?”

“Release the safety and pull the trigger.”

Keller killed the connection and stared gloomily out the window. Tony was right, the traffic was a nightmare.

The protesters had already descended on Trafalgar Square. They were stretched from the steps of the National Gallery to Nelson’s Column, a banner-waving, slogan-chanting multitude, some robed and veiled, some fleeced and flanneled, all outraged that the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia was about to be fêted by a British head of government.

Whitehall was closed to vehicular traffic. Keller climbed out of the car and, after showing his MI6 identification card to a Met officer with a clipboard, was allowed to proceed on foot. Sarah Bancroft finally left his thoughts, only to be replaced by memories of the morning he and Gabriel had stopped ISIS’s attempt to set off a dirty bomb in the heart of London. It was Gabriel who had killed the terrorist with several shots to the back of his head. But Keller was the one who prevented the device’s dead-man detonator switch from automatically setting off the explosive charge and dispersing a cloud of deadly cesium chloride throughout the seat of British power. He had been forced to hold the bomber’s lifeless thumb to the trigger for three hours while an EOD team worked feverishly to disarm the device. They were, without question, the longest three hours of his life.

Keller sidestepped the spot where he and the dead terrorist had lain together, and presented himself at the security gate of Downing Street. Once again, after displaying his MI6 identification, he was allowed to pass. Ken Ramsey, the leader of Downing Street operations, was waiting in the entrance hall of Number 10.

Ramsey handed Keller a radio set and a Glock 17. “Your boss is upstairs in the White Room. He’d like a word.”

Keller hurried up the Grand Staircase, which was lined with portraits of prime ministers past. Geoffrey Sloane was waiting in the corridor outside the White Room. Opening the door, he nodded for Keller to enter. Graham Seymour was seated in one of the wing chairs. In the other was Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster. His expression was grave and tense.

“Keller,” he said absently.

“Prime Minister.” Keller looked at Seymour. “Where is she?”

“The A12 bound for London.”

“What about Abdullah?”

“You tell me.”

Keller inserted his earpiece and listened to the chatter on the RaSP’s secure frequency. “Bang on target for a ten fifteen arrival.”

“Then perhaps,” said Lancaster, “you should be downstairs with your colleagues.”

“Does this mean—”

“That we’re proceeding with the summit meeting as planned?” Lancaster rose and buttoned his suit jacket. “Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we?”

61

Notting Hill, London

At 10:13 a.m., as a motorcade of Mercedes limousines flowed through Downing Street’s open gate, a single car, a dowdy Opel hatchback, drew up outside 7 St. Luke’s Mews in Notting Hill. The man in the backseat, Prince Khalid bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud, was in a foul mood. Like his uncle, he had arrived that morning at Heathrow Airport—not by private jet, his usual mode of travel, but on a commercial flight from Cairo, an experience he would not soon forget. The car was the final straw.

Khalid caught the driver’s eye in the rearview. “Aren’t you going to open my door?”

“Just pull the latch, luv. Works every time.”

Khalid stepped into the wet street. As he approached the door of Number 7, it remained tightly closed. He glanced over his shoulder. The driver, with a movement of his hand, indicated that Khalid should make his presence known by knocking on the door. Another calculated insult, he thought. Never in his life had he knocked on a door.

A boyish-looking man with a benevolent face admitted him. The house was very small and sparsely furnished. The sitting room contained a couple of cheap-looking chairs and a television tuned to the BBC. Before it stood Gabriel Allon, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Khalid joined him and watched his uncle, in traditional Saudi dress, emerge from the back of a limousine as cameras flashed like lightning. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster was standing just outside the door of Number 10, a smile frozen on his face.

“I should be the one arriving at Downing Street,” said Khalid. “Not him.”

“Be glad you’re not.”

Khalid surveyed the room with disapproval. “I don’t suppose there’s any refreshment.”

Gabriel pointed toward a doorway. “Help yourself.”