“You were the chief when you were in Morocco, too.” She tested a strand of the fettuccini. Then she looked around the little kitchen and smiled. “You know, I’ve always loved this apartment. We’ve had good times here, Gabriel.”
“And bad ones, too.”
“We were married here. Do you remember?”
“It wasn’t a real wedding.”
“I thought it was.” Her expression darkened. “I remember it all so clearly. It was the night before . . .”
Her voice trailed off. To the sauté pan she added wine and cream. Then she poured the mixture over the fettuccini and tossed in grated cheese. She prepared only a single portion and placed it before Gabriel. He plunged a fork into it and twirled.
“None for you?” he asked.
“Oh, no.” Chiara glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s much too late to eat.”
Gabriel had used the safe flat so often that his clothing hung in the closet and his toiletries filled the bathroom cabinet. After finishing a second portion of the pasta, he showered and shaved and fell, exhausted, into bed next to Chiara. He had hoped his sleep would be dreamless, but that was not to be the case. He climbed an endless flight of steps that were drenched in blood and littered with the remains of a woman. And when he found the head and moved aside the veil, it was Chiara’s face he saw.
Inshallah, it will be done . . .
Shortly before five o’clock, he awoke suddenly, as if startled by the sound of a bomb. It was only his mobile phone, which was shimmying across the surface of the bedside table. He brought it swiftly to his ear and listened in silence. Rising, he dressed in darkness. And to the darkness he returned.
68
Thames House, London
The Jaguar limousine was waiting downstairs on the Bayswater Road. It delivered Gabriel not to Vauxhall Cross but to Thames House, the headquarters of MI5. Miles Kent, the deputy director, escorted him quickly upstairs to Amanda Wallace’s suite. She looked worn and tired, and was obviously under a great deal of stress. Graham Seymour was there, too, still dressed in the same suit he’d been wearing the night before, absent the club tie. Junior officers were rushing in and out of the room, and there was a secure videoconference up and running to Scotland Yard and Downing Street. The fact that they were gathered here instead of across the river could mean only one thing. Someone had found proof on Saladin’s phones and computers that an attack was imminent. And London was once again the target.
“How long have you known?” asked Gabriel.
“We unearthed the first nugget around two o’clock this morning,” said Seymour.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“We thought you could use a bit of sleep. Besides, it’s our problem, not yours.”
“Where?”
“Westminster.”
“When?”
“Later this morning,” said Seymour. “We think around nine.”
“What’s the method of attack?”
“Suicide bomber.”
“Do you know his identity?”
“We’re still working on that.”
“Just one? You’re sure?”
“So it would seem.”
“Why only one?”
Seymour handed Gabriel a stack of printouts. “Because one is all they need.”
The text message had been dispatched at three fifteen the previous morning Morocco time, when the likely sender had been under emotional distress and in physical pain. As a result, it had lacked the network’s normal secondary and tertiary encryption protocols, thus allowing an MI5 computer technician to unearth it from one of the phones taken from the Zaida compound. The language was coded but unmistakable. It was an order to carry out a martyrdom operation. There was no mention of a target, but the apparent haste with which the message was sent allowed the technician to find related communications and documents that made the objective of the attack, and the time it was to be carried out, abundantly clear. Numerous casing photos had been found, and even a document discussing prevailing winds and the likely dispersal pattern of the radiological material. The planners hoped, God willing, for an area of nuclear contamination stretching from Trafalgar Square to Thames House itself. MI5’s own experts, who had studied similar scenarios, predicted that such an attack would render the seat of British power uninhabitable for months, if not years. The economic cost, not to mention the psychological toll, would be catastrophic.
The recipient of the message had been more cautious than the sender. Still, the sender’s early mistake had effectively nullified the recipient’s care. As a result, the MI5 technician had been able to locate the entire exchange of messages, along with a martyrdom video. The subject addressed the camera in a London accent, with his face concealed. MI5’s linguistics experts reckoned he was from North London, that he was native born, and likely of Egyptian ancestry. With the help of GCHQ, Britain’s signals intelligence service, MI5 was frantically comparing the man’s voice to known Islamic radicals. What’s more, MI5 and SO13, the Counter Terrorism Command of the Metropolitan Police, were monitoring known extremists and suspected members of ISIS. In short, the entire national security apparatus of the United Kingdom was in quiet but efficient panic mode.
By six o’clock, as the skies beyond Amanda’s windows were beginning to brighten, all efforts to identify and locate the suspected suicide bomber had proven fruitless. Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster, in the Cabinet Room at Number 10, convened a videoconference at half past. He opened it with a question no counterterrorism professional ever wanted to hear. “Should we cordon off Westminster and order an evacuation of the surrounding districts?” One by one, his senior ministers, civil servants, intelligence chiefs, and police commissioners gave their answers. Their recommendation was unanimous. Close Westminster. Shut down all rail, bus, and commuter traffic into central London. Begin an orderly and thorough evacuation.
“And what if it’s a hoax? Or a bluff? Or what if it’s based on bad intelligence? We’ll look like Chicken Little. And the next time we say the sky is falling, no one will believe us.”
The intelligence, everyone agreed, was as good and timely as it gets. And they were rapidly running out of other options to prevent a monumental disaster.
The prime minister’s eyes narrowed. “Is that you I see, Mr. Allon?”
“It is, Prime Minister.”
“And what say you?”
“It’s not my place, sir.”
“Please don’t stand on ceremony. You and I know each other too well for that. Besides, there isn’t time.”
“In my opinion,” said Gabriel carefully, “it would be a mistake to order closures and evacuations.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll lose your one and only chance to stop the attack.”
“Which is?”
“You know the time and place it will occur. And if you try to cordon off the center of London, you’ll incite mass panic, and the suicide bomber will simply choose a secondary target.”
“Go on,” instructed the prime minister.
“Keep the entrances to Westminster wide open. Place CBRN teams and undercover SCO19 firearms officers at strategic points around Parliament and Whitehall.”