Without another word, he rang King Saul Boulevard and ordered Travel to make the necessary arrangements for what would be his first foreign trip as chief of the Office. There was a flight leaving Ben Gurion at seven, arriving in London at half past ten. Space would be made in first class for Gabriel and his detail. The British would handle security at their end.
With his itinerary complete, he killed the connection and, looking up, saw that Chiara had gone. Alone, he placed a second call to Uzi Navot and told him of his travel plans. Then he switched on the television and finished his dinner. With a bit of luck, he thought, he might get an hour or two of sleep. He would leave his children in darkness, he thought, and in darkness he would return. He would keep them safe from harm. And for his reward they might someday remember the midnight touch of his hand.
14
Jerusalem—London
And so it was that Gabriel Allon, having slept fitfully if at all, slipped from his bed and into the womb of his armored SUV. He arrived at Ben Gurion Airport a few minutes before his flight’s departure and, accompanied by two bodyguards, boarded planeside on the tarmac. He had no ticket, his name appeared on no manifest. As a rule, the ramsad, the chief of the Office, never traveled internationally under his real name, even to a reasonably friendly destination like the United Kingdom. Hostile actors such as the Iranians and the Russians had access to airline records, too. So did the Americans.
He passed the five-hour flight reading the newspapers, a rather pointless exercise for a man who knew too much, and upon arrival at Heathrow placed himself in the care of an MI6 reception team. Riding into central London in the back of a Jaguar limousine, he briefly regretted he had not tossed a necktie into his attaché case. Mainly, he stared out the window and recalled the many times he had crept into this city under different names, flying different flags, fighting different wars. The geography of London was for Gabriel a battlefield. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey, Covent Garden, the Brompton Road . . . He had bled in London, grieved in London, and in an Office safe flat on the Bayswater Road he had once recited secret marriage vows to Chiara because he feared he would not survive the day to come. His debt to the British secret services was profound. Britain had granted him sanctuary at the darkest times of his life, and protected him when another country might have thrown him to the wolves. In return, he had dealt with his fair share of problems on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government. By Gabriel’s calculation, the balance sheet was now roughly even.
At last, the car turned onto Vauxhall Bridge and sped across the Thames, toward the temple of espionage on the opposite embankment. On the uppermost floor Gabriel crossed an English garden of an atrium and entered the finest office in all of spydom, where Graham Seymour, surrounded by several members of his executive staff, waited to receive him. A round of introductions followed, brief, perfunctory. Then the senior staff filed slowly out, and Seymour and Gabriel were alone. For a long moment they appraised one another in silence. They were as different as two men could be—in size and shape, in upbringing, in religious faith—but their bond was unbreakable. It had been forged during numerous joint operations, waged against a diverse cast of enemies and targets. Jihadist terrorists, the Iranian nuclear program, a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov. They distrusted one another only a little. In the espionage trade, that made them the best of friends.
“So,” said Seymour finally, “how does it feel to be a member of the club?”
“Our chapter of the club isn’t as grand as yours,” said Gabriel, glancing around the magnificent office. “Nor as old.”
“Wasn’t it Moses who dispatched a team of agents to spy out the land of Canaan?”
“History’s first intelligence failure,” said Gabriel. “Imagine how things might have turned out for the Jewish people if Moses had chosen another plot of land.”
“And now that plot of land is yours to protect.”
“Which explains why my hair is growing grayer by the day. When I was a boy growing up in the Valley of Jezreel, I used to have nightmares about the country being overrun by our enemies. Now I have those dreams every night. And in my dreams,” said Gabriel, “it’s always my fault.”
“I’ve been having those dreams lately myself.” Seymour gazed across the river toward the West End. “And to think it would have been worse if a prominent London art dealer hadn’t spotted the terrorists entering the theater.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Actually,” said Seymour, “you might. Owns an Old Master gallery in St. James’s. He’s seventy-five in the shade but still runs around with younger women. In fact, he was supposed to have dinner with a girl half his age at the Ivy the night of the attack, but the girl stood him up. Best thing that ever happened to him.” Seymour looked at Gabriel. “He hasn’t mentioned any of this to you?”
“We try to keep our contact to a minimum.”
“You must have rubbed off on him. He acted like a real hero.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Julian Isherwood?”
Seymour smiled in spite of himself. “I have to hand it to your friend Saladin,” he said after a moment. “He ran a very tight operation. Thus far, we’ve been able to identify only one other individual directly linked to the plot, an operative in France who supplied the automatic rifles. I dispatched one of our officers to locate this operative, but unfortunately there was a small mishap.”
“What kind of mishap?”
“A fatality. Three, actually.”
“I see,” said Gabriel. “And the name of the operative?”
“Peter Marlowe. Did time in Northern Ireland. Used to work in the olive oil business on Corsica.”
“In that case,” said Gabriel, “consider yourself lucky that only three people died.”
“I doubt the French will see it that way.” Seymour paused, then added, “Which is why I need you to have a word with them on my behalf.”
“Why me?”
“Despite your rather abysmal track record on French soil, you’ve managed to make some important friends inside the French security service.”
“They won’t be my friends for long if I get mixed up in your bungled operation.”
Seymour said nothing.
“And if I agree to help you?” asked Gabriel. “What’s in it for me?”
“The everlasting gratitude of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Come now, Graham, you can do better than that.”
Seymour smiled. “I can, indeed.”
It was approaching dusk by the time Gabriel finally departed Vauxhall Cross. He did so not in the back of the Jaguar limousine but in the passenger seat of a small Ford hatchback piloted by Nigel Whitcombe. The young Englishman drove very fast and with the languid ease of someone who raced rally cars at the weekend. Gabriel balanced his secure attaché case on his knees and clung tightly to the armrest.
“Where’s he living now?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” answered Whitcombe without a trace of irony.
“Maybe I should wear a blindfold then.”
“I beg your pardon.”