by Daniel Silva
"Let’s hear it.”
“Woman with the sunhat, man with the plaid Bermuda shorts, the couple wearing matching ‘I Love New York’ shirts.”
“Very good. But you missed the two boys in the dark sedan on R Street.”
“I didn’t miss them. They might as well have just waved hello to me as I came inside.”
They sat down together, but even in the shade there was little relief from the heavy wet heat. Sarah pushed her sunglasses into her hair and brushed a trickle of perspiration from her cheek. Gabriel gazed at her in profile while her eyes flickered restlessly around the gardens. The daughter of a wealthy Citibank executive, Sarah Bancroft had spent much of her childhood in Europe, where she had acquired a Continental education along with a handful of Continental languages and impeccable Continental manners. She had returned to America to attend Dartmouth, and later, after spending a year studying at the prestigious Courtauld Institute of Art in London, became the youngest woman ever to earn a Ph.D. in art history at Harvard. While finishing her dissertation, she began dating a young lawyer named Ben Callahan, who had the misfortune of boarding United Airlines Flight 175 on the morning of September 11, 2001. He managed to make one telephone call before the plane plunged into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. That call was to Sarah. Gabriel had given her the chance that Langley had denied her: to fight back against the murderers. With Carter’s blessing, and with the help of a lost Van Gogh, he had inserted her into the entourage of a Saudi billionaire named Zizi al-Bakari and ordered her to find the terrorist mastermind lurking within it. She had been lucky to survive. Her life had never been the same since.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“Why ever would you think that? Because in the midst of a very tense operation, I committed the terribly unprofessional act of confessing my true feelings for you?”
“That was one reason.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Gabriel. I’m over you now.” She looked at him and smiled. “Is it my imagination or do you seem a little disappointed?”
“No, Sarah, I’m not disappointed.”
“Of course you are. The question is, do you really want me tagging along on another operation?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because your lovely new Italian bride might not approve.” She adjusted the thin straps of her sundress. It clung to her breasts in a way that could cause even the most faithful eye to wander. “You know, for a man of your many gifts, your knowledge of women is shockingly deficient.”
“I make up for it in other ways.”
“With your unfailingly pleasant demeanor?”
“For starters.”
She gazed at him for a moment as though he were a dull student. “The last person Chiara wants to see in the field again is me.”
“You were a guest at our wedding.”
“One of the worst days of my life. And that’s saying something, because I’ve had some pretty terrible days.”
“But you’re over me now?”
“Not even a flicker of interest.”
A pair of Japanese tourists approached and, in a combination of broken English and halting gestures, asked Sarah to take their photograph. She agreed, much to Gabriel’s displeasure.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“What have I done now?”
“What if there had been a bomb in that camera?”
“Who would put a bomb in a camera?”
“We would.”
“If it was so dangerous, then why did you let me do it?”
“Because they were obviously harmless Japanese tourists.”
“How did you know that?”
“I can tell.”
“Just by looking at them?”
“Yes, I can tell just by looking at them.”
She laughed. “You’d better be careful, Gabriel. Otherwise, you might make me fall in love with you again.”
“And we can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t.”
Gabriel gazed across the gardens and asked how much Carter had told her.
“Only that you’re going after Ivan Kharkov.”
“Know much about him?”
“He’s not formally under the purview of the CTC, but he probably should be. We went to war in Iraq, in part, because we feared that Sad-dam might be willing to supply the terrorists with sophisticated weaponry or even weapons of mass destruction. But the terrorists don’t have to go to a state like Iraq to get their weapons. They can go to a nonstate actor like Ivan instead. For the right amount of money, he’ll sell them whatever they want and route it to them through one of his customers in Africa or Latin America.”
“You’ve obviously learned your craft well.”
“I was well trained.” She crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the wrinkles from her sundress. “What do you need me to do this time?”
“Memorize the CIA’s files on Ivan and his network, and read everything you can about Mary Cassatt. Adrian will tell you the rest.”
“Kharkov and Cassatt? Only a Gabriel Allon operation could feature a combination like that.” She lowered her sunglasses. “Should I assume you’ll need me to go undercover again?”
“Yes, you should.” A silence fell between them, heavy as the midday heat. “If you don’t want to do it, Sarah, just tell me. God knows, you’ve done more than enough already.”
She looked at him and smiled. It was a brave smile, thought Gabriel. The kind that didn’t quite extend to the rest of the face. “And miss all the fun?” She fanned herself dramatically with her book. “Besides, I’d do just about anything to get out of here for a few days. I can’t stand Washington in the summer.”
27
LONDON
Number 7 Mornington Terrace was a sooty postwar apartment block overlooking the rail tracks of Euston Station. When Gabriel rang the bell of Apartment 5C, the door opened a few inches and a pair of gray eyes regarded him coolly over the chain. They didn’t look pleased to see him. They rarely did.
Free of the chain, the door swung open a more hospitable distance. Gabriel stepped inside and took stock of his surroundings: a dreary little bed-sit, with a cracked linoleum floor and flea market furnishings. The man waiting inside looked as though he had wandered into the flat by mistake. He wore a pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, and cuff links the size of shillings. His hair had been blond once; now it had the cast of pewter. It gave him the appearance of a model in a magazine advertisement for fine cognac, or an actor in a soap opera, the older millionaire type who puts himself about with younger women.
Graham Seymour didn’t have time to pursue women. As deputy director of MI5, the British Security Service, he had more than enough work on his desk to keep him occupied. His country was now home to several thousand Islamic extremists with known terrorist connections. And just to keep things interesting, Russian espionage activities in London were now at levels not seen since the end of the Cold War. Those activities included the 2006 murder of Aleksandr Litvinenko, a former FSB agent and Kremlin critic who had been poisoned with a dose of highly radioactive polonium-210, an act of nuclear terrorism carried out by the FSB in the heart of the British capital.
Seymour must have arrived just before Gabriel because the shoulders of his coat were still beaded with raindrops. He tossed it wearily over the back of a chair and held out his hand. The palm was facing up.
“Let’s not do this again, Graham.”
“Hand it over.”
Gabriel exhaled heavily and surrendered his passport. Seymour opened the cover and frowned.
“Martin Stonehill. Place of birth: Hamburg, Germany.”
“I’m a naturalized American citizen.”
“So that explains the accent.” Seymour handed the passport back to Gabriel. “Is this a gift from your friend the president or the handiwork of your little band of forgers at King Saul Boulevard?”
“Adrian was kind enough to let me borrow
it. Traveling is hard enough these days without doing it on an Israeli passport bearing the name Gabriel Allon.” He slipped the passport back into his coat pocket and looked around the room. “Do you use this for all your high-level liaison meetings, Graham, or is this palace reserved for Israeli visitors?”
“Don’t get your nose bent out of shape, Gabriel. I’m afraid it was all we could find on short notice. Besides, you were the one who refused to come to Thames House.”
Thames House was MI5’s riverfront headquarters near Lambeth Bridge.
“I really like what you’ve done with the place, Graham.”
“It’s been in the family for years. We use it mainly as a crash pad and for debriefing sources and penetration agents.”
“What sort of penetration agents?”
“The sort that we slip into potential terrorist cells.”
“In that case, I’m surprised you were able to squeeze me in.”
“I’m afraid it does get its fair share of use.”
“Any of your sources picking up any whispers about Russian arms headed this way?”
“I put that question to the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre last night after talking to Adrian. The Americans aren’t the only ones who’ve been hearing chatter about the arrows of Allah. We’ve intercepted references to them as well.”
In the galley kitchen, an electric teakettle began to spew steam. Gabriel walked over to the window and peered out at a passing West Coast Main Line train while Seymour saw to the tea. He returned with two cups, plain for Gabriel, milk and sugar for himself. “I’m afraid the housekeepers neglected to stock the pantry with digestive biscuits,” he said morosely. “It’s bad enough they left shelf milk instead of fresh, but failure to leave a package of McVitie’s is a firing offense, in my humble opinion.”
“I can run down to the corner market if you’d like, Graham.”
“I’ll survive.” Seymour lowered himself hesitantly onto the couch and placed his mug on a scratched coffee table. “Adrian gave me the basics of what you picked up in Moscow. Why don’t you fill me in on the rest?”
Gabriel told Seymour everything, beginning with the murder of Boris Ostrovsky in Rome and ending with his interrogation and deportation from Russia. Seymour, who did nothing more dangerous these days than change his own ink cartridges, was suitably impressed.
“My, my, but you do manage to get around. And to think you accomplishedall that with only three dead bodies. That’s something of an accomplishment for you.” Seymour blew thoughtfully into his tea. “So what are you proposing? You want to pull Elena Kharkov aside for a private chat about her husband’s operations? Easier said than done, I’m afraid. Elena doesn’t put a toe outside her Knightsbridge mansion without a full complement of very nasty bodyguards. No one talks to Elena without talking to Ivan first.”
“Actually, that’s not exactly true. There’s someone in London she talks to on a regular basis—someone who might be willing to help, considering the gravity of the situation.”
“He’s a British citizen, I take it?”
“Quite.”
“Is he honestly employed?”
“I suppose that depends on your point of view. He’s an art dealer.”
“Where does he work?”
Gabriel told him.
“Oh, dear. This could be a bit ticklish.”
“That’s why I’m here, Graham. I wouldn’t dream of operating in London without consulting you first.”
“Spare me.”
“I think we should have a little look under his fingernails before we make any approach. The art world is filled with a lot of shady characters. One can never be too careful.”
“We? No, Gabriel, we won’t go anywhere near him. The Security Service will handle this matter with the utmost discretion and a proper Home Office warrant.”
“How soon can you start?”
“Seventy-two hours should suffice.”
“I’ll have a man on him by lunch,” Seymour said.“ I propose we meet once a day to review the watch reports.”
“Agreed.”
“We can do it here if you like.”
“Surely you jest.”
“Your choice, then.”
“St. James’s Park. Six o’clock. The benches on the north side of Duck Island.”
Graham Seymour frowned. “I’ll bring the bread crumbs.”
28
LONDON
In the aftermath, when the archivists and analysts of a dozen different services and agencies were picking over the scorched bones of the affair, all would be puzzled by the fact that Gabriel’s primary target during those first tenuous days of the operation was not Ivan Kharkov or his beautiful wife, Elena, but Alistair Leach, director of Impressionist and Modern Art at the august Christie’s auction house, Number 8 King Street, St. James’s, London. They took no joy in it; he was a good and decent man who became ensnared in the affair through no fault of his own, other than his serendipitous proximity to evil. Adrian Carter would later refer to him as “our own little cautionary tale.” Few lives are lived without a trace of sin, and fewer still can stand up to the scrutiny of an MI5 telephone tap and a full-time complement of MI5 watchers. There, by the grace of God, Carter would say, went us all.
Any intelligence officer with a modicum of conscience knows it can be a disquieting experience to rifle through the drawers of a man’s life, but Seymour, who had more scruples than most, made certain it was done with the gentlest hand possible. His listeners eavesdropped on Leach’s telephone conversations with a forgiving ear, his watchers stalked their quarry from a respectable distance, and his burrowers dug through Leach’s phone records, bank statements, and credit card bills with the utmost sensitivity. Only the room transmitters caused them to squirm—the transmitters that, at Gabriel’s insistence, had been hidden in Leach’s Kentish Town residence. It did not take long for the bugs to reveal why Leach spent so little time there. The listeners began referring to his wife, Abigail, only as “the Beast.”
Unbeknownst to Graham Seymour and MI5, Gabriel had taken up quiet residence during this phase of the affair in an Office safe flat in Bayswater Road. He used the lull in the operation to catch up on his rest and to heal his bruised body. He slept late, usually until nine or ten, and then spent the remainder of his mornings dawdling over coffee and the newspapers. After lunch, he would leave the flat and take long walks around central London. Though he was careful to alter his routes, he visited the same three destinations each day: the Israeli Embassy in Old Court Road, the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, and Duck Island in St. James’s Park. Graham Seymour appeared promptly at six o’clock the first two evenings, but on the third he arrived forty-five minutes later, muttering something about his director-general being in a snit. He immediately opened his stainless steel attaché and handed Gabriel a photograph. It showed Alistair Leach strolling the pavements of Piccadilly with a spinsterish woman at his side.
“Who is she?”
“Rosemary Gibbons. She’s an administrator in the Old Master Paintings department at Sotheby’s. For obvious reasons, both personal and professional, they keep their relationship highly secret. As far as we can tell, it’s strictly platonic. To tell you the truth, my watchers are actually rooting for poor Alistair to take it to the next step. Abigail is an absolute fiend, and his two children can’t bear the sight of him.”
