“We did everything we could to stop the attacks, Adrian.”
“My new director doesn’t see it that way. He’s a real hard-ass, a true believer. Personally, I’ve always thought it was dangerous to mix ideology and intelligence,” said Carter. “It clouds one’s thinking and makes one see exactly what one wants to see. My new director begs to differ. So do the earnest young men he’s brought with him to the Agency. They think of me as a loser, which in their world is the worst thing a man can be. When I urge operational caution, they accuse me of weakness. And when I offer an assessment that’s at variance with their worldview, they accuse me of disloyalty.”
“Elections have consequences,” said Gabriel.
“So do successful terrorist attacks on American soil. Apparently, it’s all my fault despite the fact that I told anyone who would listen that ISIS was plotting to hit us with something big. According to the rumor mill, I’m yesterday’s man.”
“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