Keller took up a post midway between the two as Gabriel drew a Maglite from his pocket. He left the light switched off and descended blindly into the gloom, slowly, one step, two steps, three steps, four. Halfway down, he heard a sound from above, footfalls, muffled and quick. Then came two dull thumps, the sound of an HK45 with a suppressor firing two shots in rapid succession.
Someone had come down the stairs.
Someone had bumped into the man who scored the highest total ever recorded in the killing house at Hereford.
Someone had died.
Gabriel switched on the Maglite and raced down the steps two at a time.
At the bottom was a foyer with a tile floor and doors on each of the three walls. The owner’s storeroom was on the left. Caught by the beam of the Maglite, the padlock sparkled with a brightness that suggested it had not been there long. Gabriel swung the rucksack from his shoulders, removed the bolt cutters, and closed the jaws around the shackle. A few pounds of pressure were all it took to send the padlock clattering to the floor. Gabriel moved aside the latch and pushed open the door. The smell hit him instantly. Heavy and nauseatingly sweet. The smell of a human being in captivity. He played the beam of the Maglite around the interior. A cot. Handcuffs. A hood. A bucket for a toilet. Insulation to muffle the screaming.
But Madeline was gone.
Upstairs there were two more dull thuds from Keller’s muted HK.
Then two more.
The first body was in the entrance hall, at the base of the stairs leading to the second floor. It was one of the guards who hadn’t shown his face outside the villa. Now, thanks to two hollow-nosed .45-caliber rounds, there was little left of it. The same was true for René Brossard, who was sprawled next to him, a gun still in his lifeless hand. The woman was on the second-floor landing. Keller hadn’t wanted to shoot her, but he’d had no choice; she had pointed a gun at him and given every indication that she intended to fire. He had spared her face, though, shooting her twice in the upper torso. As a result, she was the only one of the three still alive. Gabriel knelt next to her and held her hand. It was already cold to his touch.
“Am I going to die?” she asked him.
“No,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “You’re not going to die.”
“Help me,” she said. “Please help me.”
“I will,” answered Gabriel. “But you have to help me, too. You have to tell me where I can find the girl.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
The woman’s mouth tried to form words but could not.
“Where is she?” Gabriel repeated.
“I swear I don’t know.” The woman shivered. Her eyes were losing focus. “Please,” she whispered, “you have to help me.”
“When was she here last?”
“Two days ago. No, three.”
“Which was it?”
“I can’t remember. Please, please, you have to—”
“Was it before or after you and Brossard went to Aix?”
“How do you know we went to Aix?”
“Answer me,” said Gabriel, squeezing her hand again. “Was it before or after?”
“It was that night.”
“Who took her?”
“Paul.”
“Only Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he take her?”
“To the other safe house.”
“Is that what he called it? A safe house?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me,” repeated Gabriel.
“Paul never told us where it was. He called it operational security.”
“Those were his exact words? Operational security?”
She nodded.
“How many safe houses are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Two? Three?”
“Paul never told us that.”
“How long was she here?”
“From the beginning,” the woman said.
And then she died.
They laid the four bodies on the floor of the storage room and covered them in clean white linen. There was nothing to be done about the blood inside the house, but outside Gabriel quickly hosed down the paving stones of the garden to superficially erase the evidence of what had occurred there. He reckoned they had at least forty-eight hours; then the woman from L’Immobiliere du Lubéron would come calling to collect the keys from the departing clients and supervise the cleanup. After discovering the blood, she would immediately phone the gendarmes, who would in turn discover the four bodies in the owner’s private storage room—a storage room that had been emptied of its contents and converted into a cell for a kidnap victim. Forty-eight hours, thought Gabriel. Perhaps a bit longer, but not much.
It was beginning to get light when they hiked out of the valley and returned to the spot where they had left the motorbike and Keller’s old Renault. Gabriel paused for one last look; a single figure, a laborer, was moving through the vineyards but otherwise there was no activity in the valley below. They loaded the rucksacks into the trunk of Keller’s car and drove separately to the town of Buoux, where they stopped for brioche and café crème in a café filled with ruddy-faced locals. The smell of freshly baked bread made Gabriel feel slightly ill. He rang Graham Seymour in London and in cryptic language reported that the mission had failed, that Madeline had been in the villa once but had been moved approximately seventy-two hours earlier. The trail had reached a dead end, he said before ringing off. All they could do now was wait for Paul to make his demands.
“But what if he decides it’s too risky to make demands?” asked Keller. “What if he just kills her instead?”
“Why are you always so negative?”
“I suppose you’re beginning to rub off on me.”
They left the Lubéron by the same route they had taken the night they had followed René Brossard and the woman from Aix: down the slopes of the massif, across the river Durance, past the shore of the reservoir at Saint-Christophe, and, eventually, back to Marseilles. There was a ferry leaving for Corsica at noon. They each bought a ticket and then sat next to one another at separate tables at a café adjacent to the terminal. Gabriel drank tea, Keller beer. His mood was noticeably gloomy. It was not often he returned to Corsica having failed to fulfill his mission.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Gabriel.
“I told you she was there,” he answered. “She wasn’t.”
“But it looked like she was.”
“Why?” Keller asked. “Why were the guards pulling night shifts when Madeline was already gone?”
Just then, Gabriel’s mobile phone vibrated. He raised it to his ear slowly, listened in silence, then returned it to the tabletop.
“Graham?” asked Keller.
Gabriel nodded. “Someone left a phone taped to the underside of a bench in Hyde Park last night.”
“Where’s the phone now?”
“Downing Street.”
“When is he supposed to call?”
“Five minutes.”
Keller finished his beer and immediately ordered another. Five minutes passed, then five more. From outside came an announcement that the ferry for Corsica was beginning to board. It nearly drowned out the sound of Gabriel’s phone buzzing against the tabletop. Again he raised it to his ear and listened in silence.
“Well?” asked Keller as Gabriel slipped the phone into his pocket.
“Paul made his demand.”
“How much does he want?”
“Ten million euros.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “The prime minister would like a word.”
Outside a line of cars was snaking into the belly of
the ferry. Keller rose. Gabriel watched him go.
20
MARSEILLES–LONDON
The next flight to Heathrow was at five that evening. Gabriel purchased a change of clothing from a department store near the Old Port and then checked into a sad transit hotel adjacent to the train station to bathe and dress. He stuffed his old clothing into an overflowing rubbish bin behind a restaurant, left the motorbike in a spot where he was confident it would be stolen by nightfall, and took a taxi to the airport. The main terminal looked as though it had been abandoned to an advancing army. Gabriel checked the French Internet news sites to make certain the police hadn’t found four bodies in a tranquil valley in the Lubéron; then he purchased a first-class ticket for London using the name Johannes Klemp. During the flight he refused all service and all attempts by his seatmate, a bald Swiss banker, to engage him in conversation, choosing instead to stare morosely out his window. There was not much to see that night; a thick layer of cloud blanketed the whole of northern Europe. Only when the plane was a few thousand feet from the ground again did the yellow sodium lamps of West London manage to prick the gloom. To Gabriel they looked like a sea of votive candles. He closed his eyes; and in his thoughts he saw a raincoated woman standing before the altar of a dark, ancient church, making the sign of the cross as though the very movement was unfamiliar to her.
Exiting the aircraft, Gabriel joined a line of travelers filing toward passport control. The customs officer, a bearded Sikh wearing a royal blue dastar, examined his passport with the skepticism it deserved, then, after stamping it violently, welcomed him to Great Britain. Gabriel returned the passport to his coat pocket and made his way to the arrivals hall, where an MI5 operative named Nigel Whitcombe stood alone amid the crowd clutching a wilted paper sign that read MR. BAKER. Whitcombe was Graham Seymour’s acolyte and primary runner of off-the-record errands. He was in his mid-thirties but looked like an adolescent who had been stretched and molded into manhood. His cheeks were pink and hairless, and the fleeting smile he offered when shaking Gabriel’s hand was as guiltless as a parson’s. His benevolent appearance had proven to be a useful asset at MI5. It concealed a mind that was as cunning and devious as that of any terrorist or career criminal.
Owing to the secretive nature of Gabriel’s visit, Whitcombe had come to Heathrow in his personal car, a Vauxhall Astra. He drove with the speed and ease of someone who spent his weekends racing rally cars. Indeed, it was not until they had reached West Cromwell Road that the speedometer dipped below eighty.
“It’s a good thing we’re close to a hospital,” said Gabriel.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t slow down, we’re going to need one.”
Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly.
“Any chance we can stop at Harrods for tea?”
“I was told to bring you in straight away.”
“I was joking, Nigel.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“No,” Whitcombe answered, “but it must be something urgent. I haven’t seen Graham like this since . . .”
His voice trailed off.
“Since when?” asked Gabriel.
“Since the day that al-Qaeda suicide bomber detonated himself in Covent Garden.”
“Good times,” said Gabriel darkly.
“That was one of our better ops, wouldn’t you agree?”
“All except for the ending.”
“Let’s hope this one doesn’t end that way, whatever it is.”
“Let’s,” agreed Gabriel.
After successfully negotiating the traffic maelstrom at Hyde Park Corner, Whitcombe wound his way past Buckingham Palace to Birdcage Walk. As they were passing the Wellington Barracks, he pressed a button on his mobile phone, muttered something about delivering a package, and abruptly rang off. Two minutes later, in Old Queen Street, he pulled up behind a parked Jaguar limousine. Seated in the back, looking as though he had just dined poorly at his club, was Graham Seymour.
“I don’t suppose you have anything approaching business attire?” he asked as Gabriel slid in next to him.
“I did,” replied Gabriel, “but British Airways lost my luggage.”
Seymour frowned. Then he glanced at his driver and said, “Number Ten.”
Number 10 Downing Street, arguably the world’s most famous address, had once been guarded by two ordinary London policemen, one who stood watch outside the rather drab black door, and another who sat in the entrance hall, in a comfortable leather chair. All that changed after the Provisional IRA attacked Downing Street with mortars in February 1991. Security barriers arose at the Whitehall entrance of the street, and heavily armed members of Scotland Yard’s Diplomatic Protection Group took the place of the two ordinary London policemen. Downing Street, like the White House, was now a fortified encampment, visible only through the bars of a fence.
Originally, Number Ten was not one house but three: a town house, a cottage, and a sprawling sixteenth-century mansion called “the House at the Back” that served as a residence for members of the royal family. In 1732 King George II offered the property to Sir Robert Walpole, the first British prime minister in everything but title, who decided to join the three houses into one. The result was what William Pitt described as a “vast, awkward house,” prone to sinking and cracking, where few British prime ministers chose to live. By the end of the eighteenth century, the house had fallen into such disrepair the Treasury recommended razing it; and after World War II, it grew so structurally unsound that limits were placed on the number of people who could be on the upper floors at any one time for fear the building would collapse beneath their weight. Finally, in the late 1950s, the government undertook a painstakingly exact reconstruction. Delayed by labor strikes and the discovery of medieval artifacts beneath the foundation, the project took three years to complete and cost three times more than projected. Harold Macmillan, the prime minister of the day, lived in the Admiralty House during the renovations.
Most visitors to Downing Street come through the security gate at Whitehall and enter Number Ten through the iconic black door. But on that evening Graham Seymour and Gabriel slipped onto the grounds through the gate along the Horse Guards Road and entered the residence through a French door overlooking the walled garden. Waiting in the foyer was a secretary from Lancaster’s private office, a prim librarian of a woman who was holding a leather folio against her body as though it were a shield. She nodded to Seymour in greeting but avoided eye contact with Gabriel. Then, turning on her heel, she led them along a wide, elegant corridor to a closed door, against which she rapped her knuckles lightly. “Come,” said the second-most-famous voice in Great Britain, and the prim woman led them inside.
21
10 DOWNING STREET
After a lifetime of service in the secret world, Gabriel had lost count of the number of times he had entered a room in crisis. The nature and setting didn’t seem to matter; it was always the same. One man pacing the carpet, another staring numbly out a window, and still another trying desperately to appear calm and in control, even when there was no control to be had. In this case, the room was the White Drawing Room at Number Ten. The man pacing the carpet was Simon Hewitt, the man staring out the window was Jeremy Fallon, and the man trying to appear calm was Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster. He was seated on one of two opposing couches before the fireplace. On the low rectangular table before him was a mobile phone—the phone that had been left in Hyde Park the previous evening. Lancaster was glaring at it as though the device, and not Madeline Hart, were somehow the source of his predicament.
Rising, he approached Gabriel and Seymour with the care of a man crossing the deck of a sailboat in rough seas. The television cameras had not done Lancaster justice. He was taller than Gabriel had imagined and, despite the strain of the moment, better looking. “I’m Jon
athan Lancaster,” he said somewhat absurdly as his large hand closed around Gabriel’s. “It’s about time we met. I only wish the circumstances could be different.”
“So do I, Prime Minister.”
Gabriel had intended the remark to be empathetic, but it was clear from Lancaster’s narrowed eyes that he regarded it as a condemnation of his conduct. He released Gabriel’s hand quickly, then gestured toward the two other figures in the room. “I assume you know who these gentlemen are,” he said after regaining his composure. “The one wearing a hole in my carpet is Simon, my press spokesman. And that one over there is Jeremy Fallon. Jeremy’s my brain, if you believe what you read in the newspapers.”
Simon Hewitt stopped pacing long enough to nod vaguely in Gabriel’s direction. Jacketless, with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his necktie loosened, he looked like a reporter on deadline who hadn’t two facts to rub together. Jeremy Fallon, still at his post in the window, remained tightly buttoned and knotted. It had been written of Fallon that he saw himself as a prime minister until the instant he looked into a mirror. With his receding chin, lank hair, and sallow skin, he was best suited to the netherworld of politics.
Which left only the mobile phone. Without a word, Gabriel lifted it from the coffee table and checked the dialing directory. It showed the device had received a single call—the call that had been placed while Gabriel and Keller were at the ferry terminal in Marseilles.
“Who spoke to him?”
“I did,” answered Fallon.
“What was his voice like?”
“It wasn’t real.”
“Computer generated?”
Fallon nodded.
“What time is he supposed to call back?”
The English Girl: A Novel (Gabriel Allon) Page 13
