“How long have you got?”
“A few weeks, maybe less. Unless,” added Carter quietly, “I can do something to dramatically change the landscape.”
At once, Gabriel understood why Adrian Carter had brought him to Washington aboard a private Gulfstream owned by an intelligence contractor named Bill Blackburn.
“Does your director know I’m in town?”
“I might have forgotten to mention it,” said Carter.
They had reached the Thompson Boat Center. They crossed a footbridge spanning Rock Creek and made their way past the Swedish Embassy to Harbor Place. Perhaps not coincidentally, it was the same route three ISIS gunmen had taken that night after leaving the Kennedy Center. Here their deadly handiwork was still in evidence. Nick’s Riverside Grill, a popular tourist spot, was boarded up and closed for business until further notice. So were the more upscale Sequoia and Fiola Mare.
“How’s your back holding up?” asked Carter as they walked along K Street beneath the Whitehurst Freeway.
“That depends on how much farther you intend to make me walk.”
“Not far. There’s just one more thing I’d like you to see.”
They turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and climbed the slope of the hill to M Street. A block to the north was Prospect Street. They rounded the corner and after a few paces paused outside the entrance of Café Milano. Like the restaurants of Harbor Place, it was closed until further notice. Forty-nine people had died there. Still, the toll would have been far higher were it not for Mikhail Abramov, who had single-handedly killed four ISIS terrorists. The restaurant was noteworthy for another reason. It was the only target where Saladin had made a personal appearance.
“A rather tragic symbol of our enduring partnership,” said Carter. “Mikhail saved a great many lives that night. But it might never have happened if I’d heeded your warning about the man you bumped into in the lobby of the Four Seasons.”
“You know what they say about hindsight, Adrian.”
“I do. And I’ve always found it to be an excuse for failure.”
Carter turned without another word and led Gabriel into the heart of residential Georgetown. The neighborhood was beginning to awaken. Lights burned in kitchen windows; dogs led sleepy masters along redbrick sidewalks. At last, they arrived at the curved front steps of a large Federal-style townhouse on N Street, the Agency’s most exclusive safe property. Inside, the stately old house was like a walk-in refrigerator, more evidence that Gabriel’s visit to Washington was private in nature.
“Did someone forget to pay the power bill?” he asked.
“New regulations. The Agency is going green. I’d offer you some coffee but—”
“That’s all right, Adrian. I really have to be going.”
“Pressing matters at home?”
“A chief’s work is never done.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Carter wandered over to the thermostat and squinted at the dial, mystified.
“Please tell me you didn’t drag me all the way to Washington to take a stroll down nightmare lane, Adrian. I was here, remember? I had an agent inside Saladin’s operation.”
“A damn fine piece of work on your part,” said Carter. “But it was all for naught. Saladin beat you in the end. And I know how much you hate to lose, especially to a creature like him.”
“What’s your point?”
“Word on the street is you’ve got something cooking with the French other than a nice pot of coq au vin. Something involving Saladin. I want to remind you that it was my country he attacked last November, not yours. And if anyone’s going to get him, it’s me.”
“Any ops in the works?”
“Several.”
“Any of them about to bear fruit?”
“Not a one. Yours?”
Gabriel was silent.
“I’ve never been shy about crashing operational parties,” said Carter. “All it would take is a single phone call to the chief of the DGSI, and it would be mine.”
“He doesn’t know about it.”
“Must be a good one then.”
“Must be,” agreed Gabriel.
“Perhaps I can contribute.”
“And thus preserve your hold on the Directorate of Operations.”
“Absolutely.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Adrian. It’s refreshing in our line of work.”
“Desperate times,” said Carter.
“How much do you need to remain viable?”
“At this point, nothing short of Saladin can save me.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I might be able to help.”
They spoke in the drawing room, bundled in their overcoats, without the distraction of refreshment. Gabriel’s version of the operation thus far was abridged but honest enough so that nothing was lost in translation. Carter did not flinch at the mention of Jean-Luc Martel’s name; Carter was a man of the real world. He offered support where he could, mainly in the form of electronic and digital surveillance, America’s strong suit. In return, Gabriel allowed Carter to take the operation to the seventh floor of Langley and present it as a joint undertaking between the Agency and its friends in Tel Aviv. From Gabriel’s point of view, it was a high price to pay, and not without risk. But if it kept Carter in his job, it would be worth its weight in gold.
They left the safe house together shortly before eight o’clock and rode to Dulles Airport, where Bill Blackburn’s Gulfstream sat fueled and ready for departure. The crew had already filed a flight plan to Ben Gurion, but upon entering the aircraft Gabriel asked to be taken to London instead. Stretched out on the bed in the private stateroom, he fell into a dreamless sleep. His mind was at peace for the first time in many days. He was about to make an old friend quite wealthy. It was, he thought, the least he could do.
24
Mayfair, London
Julian Isherwood was a man of many faults, but parsimony was not among them. Indeed, in his business dealings, as in his private life, he had always been rather too free with his wallet. He had acquired a good many paintings when he should have passed—his personal and professional collection was said to rival that of the Queen herself—and invariably it was his credit card that ended up on the collection plate each evening in the bar at Wilton’s. Not surprisingly, his finances were in a state of perpetual disrepair. Of late, the situation had grown dire. His cheerless accountant, the appropriately named Blunt, had suggested a fire sale of available assets, coupled with a sharp reduction in outlays. Isherwood had balked. Most of his professional inventory was of little or no value. It was dead as a doornail, as they said in the trade. Burned to a crisp. Toast. And as for the idea of trimming his expenditures, well, that was simply out of the question. One had to live one’s life, especially at his age. Besides, his actions on the night of the attack had imbued him with a sense of personal optimism. If Juicy Julian Isherwood could risk his life to save others, anything was possible.
It was this belief that brighter days were just over the horizon that compelled Isherwood to admit Brady Boswell, the director of a small but respected museum in the American Midwest, into his gallery in Mason’s Yard late that afternoon. Boswell had a well-deserved reputation as a looker, not a buyer. He spent the better part of two hours pawing Isherwood’s inventory before finally confessing that his acquisition budget was in worse condition than Isherwood’s bank account, and that he was in no position to buy new carpeting for his museum, let alone a new painting to hang on its walls. Isherwood was tempted to tell Boswell that the next time he wanted to see Old Masters in London, he should try the National Gallery. Instead, he accepted the American’s invitation to dinner, if only because he couldn’t bear the thought of spending yet another evening listening to tubby Oliver Dimbleby describing his latest sexual conquest.
Boswell suggested Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, and Isherwood, having no alternative at the tip of his tongue, agreed. They dined on Dorset crab and Dover sole and between them drank two bott
les of Domaine Billaud-Simon Les Clos grand cru Chablis. Boswell spent much of the evening lamenting his country’s dreadful politics. Isherwood listened attentively. Inwardly, however, he wondered why it was that enlightened Americans always found it necessary to bash their country whenever they set foot in the mother ship.
“I’m thinking about leaving.” Boswell was sputtering with indignation. “Everyone is.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, not everyone. Only people like me.”
Only the crashing bores. America, thought Isherwood, would soon be a much more interesting place.
“Where would you go?”
“I’m eligible for Irish citizenship.”
“Ireland? Good grief.”
“Or I might get a little place here in England until things blow over.”
“We have problems of our own. You’re better off staying put.”
The notion that modern England might not be a cultural paradise appeared to come as a shock to Brady Boswell. He was one of those Americans who formed their impressions of life in the United Kingdom by watching reruns of Masterpiece Theater.
“A shame about the terrorist attacks,” said Boswell.
“Yes,” said Isherwood vaguely.
“I was hoping to see something in the West End while I was here, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“Nonsense.”
“Cognac?”
“Why not?”
Boswell ordered the most expensive on the list, and when the check arrived he adopted Oliver Dimbleby’s favorite pose, that of a bewildered survivor of a natural disaster.
“Whom are you seeing tomorrow?” asked Isherwood as he discreetly slipped his credit card into the little leather coffin, the card he hoped wouldn’t automatically self-destruct when inserted into the reader.
“I have Jeremy Crabbe in the morning and Roddy Hutchinson in the afternoon. I trust you won’t tell them about my little funding issues. I wouldn’t want them to think I’m not playing it straight.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
It wasn’t, actually. In fact, Isherwood planned to call Roddy first thing in the morning and advise him to come down with a sudden case of malaria. Otherwise, Roddy would be the one footing the bill for Brady Boswell’s next meal.
Outside, Isherwood thanked Boswell for what had been the least enjoyable night out since his heroics at the Ivy. Then he placed the American in a cab—he was staying at some fleabag in Russell Square—and sent him on his way. Another taxi was waiting. Isherwood gave the driver the address for his house in Kensington and ducked into the back. But as the cab turned into Park Lane he felt the pulse of his mobile phone against his heart. He assumed it was the obligatory thank-you from Boswell and for an instant considered ignoring it. Instead, he withdrew the phone and squinted at the screen. The message was terse, a command rather than a request, and appeared to have no point of origin. Therefore, it could have come from only one person. Isherwood smiled. His evening, he thought, was about to get much more interesting.
“Change in plan,” he informed the driver. “Take me to Mason’s Yard.”
Isherwood’s gallery occupied three floors of a sagging Victorian warehouse once owned by Fortnum & Mason. On one side were the offices of a minor Greek shipping company, on the other a pub that catered to pretty office girls who rode motor scooters. The door was fashioned of shatterproof glass and protected by three state-of-the-art locks. It yielded to Isherwood’s gentle touch.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
The limited space of the gallery had compelled Isherwood to arrange his empire vertically—storerooms on the ground floor, business offices on the second, and on the third a glorious formal exhibition room modeled on Paul Rosenberg’s famous gallery in Paris, where Isherwood had spent many happy hours as a child. Entering, he reached for the light switch.
“Don’t,” said a voice from the opposite end of the room. “Leave them off.”
Isherwood crept forward, sidestepping a museum-style ottoman, and joined the man who appeared to be contemplating a large landscape by Claude. The man, like the painting, was shrouded in darkness. But his green eyes, when fixed on Isherwood, seemed to glow as if from an inner source of heat.
“I was beginning to wonder,” said Gabriel, “if your dinner would ever end.”
“So was I,” answered Isherwood glumly. “Mind telling me how you got in here?”
“You’ll recall that we were the ones who installed your security system.”
Isherwood did indeed. He also recalled that the system received a serious upgrade after an operation involving a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov.
“Congratulations, Julian. My friends in British intelligence tell me you were quite the hero the other night.”
“Oh, that.” Isherwood gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Don’t be so modest. Bravery is in rather short supply these days. And to think it wouldn’t have happened if that pretty young girlfriend of yours hadn’t stood you up.”
“Fiona? How on earth do you know about her?”
“The British gave me a copy of the text message she sent while you were sitting at the restaurant.”
“Is nothing sacred?”
“They also showed me a few minutes of CCTV video,” said Gabriel. “I’m proud of you, Julian. You saved a good many lives that night.”
“I can only imagine how I must have looked. An aging Don Quixote tilting at windmills.”
Overhead, night rain pattered on the skylight.
“So what brings you to town?” asked Isherwood. “Business or pleasure?”
“I don’t do pleasure, Julian. Not anymore at least.”
“That makes two of us.”
“That bad?”
“I’m in a bit of a dry patch, to say the least.”
“How dry?”
“Saharan,” said Isherwood.
“Perhaps I can provide a bit of rain.”
“Nothing too dangerous, I hope. I’m not sure I can take any more excitement.”
“No, Julian, it’s not like that at all. I just need you to advise a friend of mine who’s interested in building a collection.”
“Israeli, this chap?”
“Russian, actually.”
“Oh, dear. How does he make his money?”
“In ways he doesn’t like to talk about.”
“I see,” said Isherwood. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with all the bombs that have been exploding lately.”
“It might.”
“And if I agree to serve as this chap’s adviser?”
“The standard rules for such relationships will apply.”
“By that, you mean I’ll be able to charge him a commission for each painting I help him acquire.”
“Actually,” said Gabriel, “you can gouge the hell out of him. He won’t be paying much attention.”
“He likes Old Masters, your man?”
“Adores them. But he appreciates contemporary works, too.”
“I won’t hold that against him. How much is he willing to spend?”
“Two hundred,” said Gabriel. “Maybe three.”
Isherwood frowned. “He won’t get far with that.”
“Million, Julian. Two hundred million.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Gabriel’s expression said that he was. “He’ll be arriving in London in a few days. Run him round to the auction houses and the galleries. Buy carefully but in a hurry. And make a bit of noise, Julian. I want people to notice.”
“I can’t do it on charm and good looks,” said Isherwood. “I’ll need actual money.”
“Don’t worry, Julian. The check is in the mail.”
“Two hundred million?” asked Isherwood.
“Maybe three.”
“Three is definitely better than two.”
Gabriel shrugged. “So we’ll do three.”
25
London—Geneva
&n
bsp; Saladin struck again at half past eight the following morning. The target was Antwerp’s Centraal train station, two suicide bombers, two gunmen, sixty-nine dead. Gabriel was in London’s St. Pancras at the time, waiting to board a Eurostar to Paris. His train departed forty minutes late, though no reason was given for the delay. It seemed Saladin had succeeded in creating a new normal in Western Europe.
“If he keeps this up,” said Christian Bouchard, “he’s going to run out of targets.”
Bouchard had been waiting for Gabriel in the arrivals hall of the Gare du Nord. Now he was behind the wheel of an Alpha Group Citroën, racing eastward on the boulevard de la Chapelle. He bore no visible traces of the injuries he had suffered in the attack on the rue de Grenelle. If anything, the handsome Frenchman looked better than ever.
“By the way,” he said, “I owe you an apology for the way I acted before the bombing. I’m only glad it wasn’t your last impression of me.”
“To be honest, Christian, I don’t remember even seeing you that day.”
Bouchard smiled in spite of himself.
“Where are you taking me?”
“A safe house out in the twentieth.”
“Any luck finding a new headquarters?”
“Not yet. We’re a bit like the ancient Israelites,” said Bouchard. “Scattered to the four winds.”
The safe flat was located in a modern apartment block not far from a kosher supermarket. Paul Rousseau, seated at a cheap linoleum table in the kitchen, smoked his pipe incessantly throughout Gabriel’s briefing. Rousseau had reason to be uneasy. He had let loose a foreign intelligence service on a prominent French businessman and was now feasting on the fruit of a poisonous tree. In short, he was on very thin ice indeed.
“I’m not happy about the Americans. These days their priority seems to be mergers and acquisitions.”
“I did it for one reason and one reason only.”