20
MARSEILLES–LONDON
The next flight to Heathrow was at five that evening. Gabriel purchased a change of clothing from a department store near the Old Port and then checked into a sad transit hotel adjacent to the train station to bathe and dress. He stuffed his old clothing into an overflowing rubbish bin behind a restaurant, left the motorbike in a spot where he was confident it would be stolen by nightfall, and took a taxi to the airport. The main terminal looked as though it had been abandoned to an advancing army. Gabriel checked the French Internet news sites to make certain the police hadn’t found four bodies in a tranquil valley in the Lubéron; then he purchased a first-class ticket for London using the name Johannes Klemp. During the flight he refused all service and all attempts by his seatmate, a bald Swiss banker, to engage him in conversation, choosing instead to stare morosely out his window. There was not much to see that night; a thick layer of cloud blanketed the whole of northern Europe. Only when the plane was a few thousand feet from the ground again did the yellow sodium lamps of West London manage to prick the gloom. To Gabriel they looked like a sea of votive candles. He closed his eyes; and in his thoughts he saw a raincoated woman standing before the altar of a dark, ancient church, making the sign of the cross as though the very movement was unfamiliar to her.
Exiting the aircraft, Gabriel joined a line of travelers filing toward passport control. The customs officer, a bearded Sikh wearing a royal blue dastar, examined his passport with the skepticism it deserved, then, after stamping it violently, welcomed him to Great Britain. Gabriel returned the passport to his coat pocket and made his way to the arrivals hall, where an MI5 operative named Nigel Whitcombe stood alone amid the crowd clutching a wilted paper sign that read MR. BAKER. Whitcombe was Graham Seymour’s acolyte and primary runner of off-the-record errands. He was in his mid-thirties but looked like an adolescent who had been stretched and molded into manhood. His cheeks were pink and hairless, and the fleeting smile he offered when shaking Gabriel’s hand was as guiltless as a parson’s. His benevolent appearance had proven to be a useful asset at MI5. It concealed a mind that was as cunning and devious as that of any terrorist or career criminal.
Owing to the secretive nature of Gabriel’s visit, Whitcombe had come to Heathrow in his personal car, a Vauxhall Astra. He drove with the speed and ease of someone who spent his weekends racing rally cars. Indeed, it was not until they had reached West Cromwell Road that the speedometer dipped below eighty.
“It’s a good thing we’re close to a hospital,” said Gabriel.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t slow down, we’re going to need one.”
Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly.
“Any chance we can stop at Harrods for tea?”
“I was told to bring you in straight away.”
“I was joking, Nigel.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“No,” Whitcombe answered, “but it must be something urgent. I haven’t seen Graham like this since . . .”
His voice trailed off.
“Since when?” asked Gabriel.
“Since the day that al-Qaeda suicide bomber detonated himself in Covent Garden.”
“Good times,” said Gabriel darkly.
“That was one of our better ops, wouldn’t you agree?”
“All except for the ending.”
“Let’s hope this one doesn’t end that way, whatever it is.”
“Let’s,” agreed Gabriel.
After successfully negotiating the traffic maelstrom at Hyde Park Corner, Whitcombe wound his way past Buckingham Palace to Birdcage Walk. As they were passing the Wellington Barracks, he pressed a button on his mobile phone, muttered something about delivering a package, and abruptly rang off. Two minutes later, in Old Queen Street, he pulled up behind a parked Jaguar limousine. Seated in the back, looking as though he had just dined poorly at his club, was Graham Seymour.
“I don’t suppose you have anything approaching business attire?” he asked as Gabriel slid in next to him.
“I did,” replied Gabriel, “but British Airways lost my luggage.”
Seymour frowned. Then he glanced at his driver and said, “Number Ten.”