8
BAYSWATER, LONDON: 7:02 A.M., FRIDAY
The telephone woke him. Like all phones in Office safe flats, it had a flashing light to indicate incoming calls. This one was luminous blue. It was as if a squad car had driven into his bedroom on silent approach.
“Are you awake?” asked Ari Shamron.
“I am now.”
“Sleeping in?”
Gabriel squinted at his wristwatch. “It’s seven in the morning.”
“It’s nine here.”
The vagaries of international time zones had always meant little to Shamron. He assumed every Office employee, no matter his location on the planet, rose and slept in harmony with him. Inside the Office the phenomenon was known as “Shamron Central Time.”
“How did your meeting with Graham Seymour go?”
“Remind me never to use my Heinrich Kiever passport to enter Britain again.”
“Did he act on the information you gave him?”
“He seems to have bigger headaches than a few boys from west Amsterdam.”
“He does.”
“We’re going to have to bring the Dutch into the picture at some point.”
“As soon as Eli is finished purging Rosner’s archives, we’ll summon the Dutch liaison officer in Tel Aviv and have a quiet word with him.”
“Just make sure we protect our source. He’s someone we need to slip in our back pocket for a rainy day.”
“Don’t worry—it will be a very quiet word.”
“My plane arrives in Amsterdam in the early afternoon. If Eli and I work through the night, we should be finished by morning.”
“I’m afraid Eli will have to finish the job without you. You’re not going back to Amsterdam.”
“Where am I going?”
“Home,” said Shamron. “A bodel will collect you in an hour and take you to Heathrow. And don’t get off the plane looking like something the cat dragged in, the way you usually do. We’re having dinner together tonight at Kaplan Street.”
Kaplan Street was the address of the Prime Minister’s Office.
“Why are we having dinner there?”
“If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not discuss our highest affairs of state and intelligence while the eavesdroppers of MI5 and GCHQ are trying to listen in.”
“It’s a secure phone.”
“There’s no such thing,” Shamron said. “Just make sure you’re on that plane. If you get stuck in traffic, call me from the car. I’ll have El Al hold the plane for you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The line went dead. Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle. We’re having dinner together tonight at Kaplan Street… He supposed he knew what the topic of conversation would be. Apparently Amos didn’t have long to live. He looked at the television screen. Three telegenic young people were engaged in a deeply serious discussion about the sexual antics of Britain’s most famous footballer. Gabriel groped for the remote control and instead found Samir’s legal pad. Then he remembered waking in the middle of the night and gazing at the image—not the pine trees and the sand dunes but the pattern of crisscrossing lines.
He looked at it again now. Gabriel had been blessed with near-perfect visual recall, a skill enhanced by his study of art history and his work as a restorer. He had hundreds of thousands of paintings stored in the file rooms of his memory and could authenticate a work simply by examining a few brushstrokes. He was convinced the lines were not random but part of a pattern—and he was certain he had seen the pattern somewhere before.
He went into the kitchen and made coffee, then carried his cup over to the window. It was beginning to get light, and the London morning rush was in full force. A woman who looked too much like his former wife was standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. When it did, she crossed the Bayswater Road and disappeared into Hyde Park.
Hyde Park…
He looked at the notepad, then looked out the window again.
Was it possible?
He walked over to the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside was a London A–Z street atlas. He took it out and opened it to map number 82. It showed the northeast corner of Hyde Park and the surrounding streets of Mayfair, Marylebone, Bayswater, and St. John’s Wood. The footpaths of the park were represented with dotted lines. Gabriel compared the pattern to Samir’s markings on the legal pad.
They matched perfectly.
Hyde Park…
But why would a terrorist want to attack a park?
He thought of the pictures he’d found in Samir’s flat: Samir in Trafalgar Square. Samir with a member of the Queen’s Life Guard outside Buckingham Palace. Samir riding the Millennium Wheel. Samir outside the Houses of Parliament. Samir with four friends posing in front of the American embassy in Grosvenor Square…
He looked at the map in the London A–Z again. Grosvenor Square was two blocks east of the park in Mayfair. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Graham Seymour.”
“I want you to warn the Americans about the Amsterdam cell.”
“What Amsterdam cell?”
“Come on, Graham—there isn’t time.”
“Immigration spent the night looking for them. So far they’ve come up with no evidence to suggest any of the men whose names you gave me are even in the country.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not here.”
“Why do you think they’re going to go after the Americans?”
Gabriel told him.
“You want me to sound the alarm at Grosvenor Square because of some lines on a legal pad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to do that. There’s not enough evidence to support making a call like that. Besides, have you been to Grosvenor Square lately? It’s an American fortress now. A terrorist can’t get close to that building.”
“Call them, Graham. If you don’t, I will.”
“Listen to me, Allon, and listen very carefully. If you make a mess of my town, so help me God, I’ll—”
Gabriel severed the connection and dialed another number.