“Pounds?”
Seymour nodded. “Jonathan Lancaster made millions in the City, inherited millions from his family, and married millions in the form of Diana Baldwin. He’s a perfect target, a man with more money than he needs and a great deal to lose. Diana and the children live within the security bubble of Number Ten, which means it would be almost impossible for a kidnapper to get them. But Lancaster’s mistress . . .” Seymour’s voice trailed off. Then he added, “A mistress is an altogether different matter.”
“I don’t suppose Lancaster has mentioned any of this to his wife?”
Seymour made a gesture with his hands to indicate he wasn’t privy to the inner workings of the Lancaster marriage.
“Have you ever worked a kidnapping case, Graham?”
“Not since Northern Ireland. And those were all IRA-related.”
“Political kidnappings are different from criminal kidnappings,” Gabriel said. “Your average political kidnapper is a rational fellow. He wants comrades released from prison or a policy changed, so he grabs an important politician or a busload of schoolchildren and holds them hostage until his demands are met. But a criminal wants only money. And if you pay him, it makes him want more money. So he keeps asking for money until he thinks there’s none left.”
“Then I suppose that leaves us only one option.”
“What’s that?”
“Find the girl.”
Gabriel walked to the window and stared across the valley toward the Temple Mount; and for an instant he was back in a secret cavern 167 feet beneath the surface, holding Eli Lavon as his blood pumped into the heart of the holy mountain. During the long nights Gabriel had spent next to Lavon’s hospital bed, he had vowed to never again set foot on the secret battlefield. But now an old friend had risen from the depths of his tangled past to request a favor. And once more Gabriel was struggling to find the words to send him away empty-handed. As the only child of Holocaust survivors, it was not in his nature to disappoint others. He made accommodations for them, but he rarely told them no.
“Even if I’m able to find her,” he said after a moment, “the kidnappers will still have the video of her confessing an affair with the prime minister.”
“But that video will have a rather different impact if the English rose is safely back on English soil.”
“Unless the English rose decides to tell the truth.”
“She’s a Party loyalist. She wouldn’t dare.”
“You have no idea what they’ve done to her,” Gabriel responded. “She could be an entirely different person by now.”
“True,” said Seymour. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. This conversation is meaningless unless you and your service undertake an operation to find Madeline Hart on my behalf.”
“I don’t have the authority to place my service at your disposal, Graham. It’s Uzi’s decision to make, not mine.”
“Uzi’s already given his approval,” Seymour said flatly. “So has Shamron.”
Gabriel glared at Seymour in disapproval but said nothing.
“Do you really think Ari Shamron would have let me within a mile of you without knowing why I was in town?” Seymour asked. “He’s very protective of you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it. But I’m afraid there’s one person in Israel who’s more powerful than Shamron, at least when it comes to me.”
“Your wife?”
Gabriel nodded.
“We have seven days, or the girl dies.”
“Six days,” said Gabriel. “The girl could be anywhere in the world, and we don’t have a single clue.”
“That’s not entirely true.”
Seymour reached into his briefcase and produced two Interpol photographs of the man with whom Madeline Hart had lunched on the afternoon of her disappearance. The man whose shoes left no marks. The forgotten man.
“Who is he?” asked Gabriel.
“Good question,” said Seymour. “But if you can find him, I suspect you’ll find Madeline Hart.”
6
ISRAEL MUSEUM, JERUSALEM