The article had been written by Samantha Cooke, the Telegraph’s chief Whitehall correspondent and one of Britain’s most highly regarded journalists. She had been covering Jonathan Lancaster from the time he was a lowly backbencher and had chronicled his rise in a biography called The Path to Power. Despite the book’s somewhat pretentious title, it had been well received, even by her competitors who were jealous of the advance paid by her London publisher. Samantha Cooke was the kind of reporter who knew much more than she could ever put into print, which is why Gabriel wanted to talk to her.
He rang the Telegraph’s switchboard and asked to be connected to her extension. The operator put him through without delay, and after a few seconds Samantha Cooke picked up. Gabriel suspected she was on a mobile phone because he could hear footsteps and the echo of baritone voices in a high-ceilinged room—perhaps the lobby of Parliament, which was just across the street from the café where Gabriel was sitting. He said he needed a few minutes of her time. He promised he would make it well worth her while. He never mentioned a name.
“Do you know how many calls I get like this every day?” she asked wearily.
“I can assure you, Ms. Cooke, you’ve never received a call like this before.”
There was silence on the line. Clearly, she was intrigued.
“What’s this about?”
“I’d rather not talk about it over the telephone.”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“You’re obviously skeptical.”
“Obviously.”
“Does your phone have an Internet connection?”
“Of course.”
“A couple of years ago, a rather well-known Israeli intelligence officer was captured by Islamic terrorists and interrogated on camera. Their plan was to kill him, but it didn’t work out that way. The video of the interrogation is still floating around on the Internet. Watch it and then call me.”
He gave her a number and rang off. Two minutes later she called him back.
“I’d like to see you.”
“Surely you can do better than that, Ms. Cooke.”
“Please, Mr. Allon, would you consider granting me an audience?”
“Only if you apologize for treating me so rudely a moment ago.”
“I offer my most profound and humble apology, and I hope you will find some way in your heart to forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Where are you?”
“Café Nero on Bridge Street.”
“Unfortunately, I know it well.”
“How soon can you be here?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Don’t be late,” said Gabriel, and he severed the connection.
As it turned out, she was late—six minutes late, which explained why she came whirling through the door in a rush, a phone to her ear, her umbrella flapping in the wind that blew in with her. Most of the patrons in the café were tourists, but three gray-suited junior MPs were sipping lattes in the back. Samantha Cooke stopped to have a word with them before making her way to Gabriel’s table. Her hair was ash blond and shoulder length. Her eyes were blue and probing. For several seconds they didn’t move from Gabriel’s face.
“My God,” she said finally. “It really is you.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Horns, I suppose.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“It’s one of my worst faults.”
“Any others?”
“Curiosity,” she said.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Actually,” she said, looking around the room, “it might be better if we walked.”
Gabriel rose and pulled on his coat.
They headed toward the Tower Bridge and then made a quick left onto the Victoria Embankment. The afternoon traffic moved slowly along the road, but the crowds that usually surged along the river walk had been chased away by the rain. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder to make certain they hadn’t been followed from the café. Turning again, he noticed Samantha Cooke peering at him from beneath her umbrella as though he were on the endangered species list.
“You look much better than you did in that video,” she said after a moment.
“It was all done with makeup.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Does it help?” she asked.
“To make jokes after something like that?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “It helps.”
“I met her once, you know.”
“Who?”
“Nadia al-Bakari. It was when she was a nobody, a Saudi party girl, the spoiled daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, financier of Islamic terror.” She looked at Gabriel’s face for a reaction and seemed disappointed when there was none. “Is it true that you were the one who killed him?”
“Zizi al-Bakari was killed as the result of an operation initiated by the Americans and their allies in the global war on terror.”
“But you were the one who actually pulled the trigger, weren’t you? You killed him in Cannes, in front of Nadia. And then you recruited Nadia to take down Rashid al-Husseini’s terror network. Brilliant,” she said. “Truly brilliant.”
“If I was so brilliant, Nadia would still be alive.”
“But her death changed the world. It helped to bring democracy to the Arab world.”
“And look how well that worked out,” Gabriel said glumly.
They passed beneath the Hungerford Bridge as a train rumbled into Charing Cross. The rain eased. Samantha Cooke lowered her umbrella, wound it tightly, and inserted it into her handbag.
“I’m honored you came to me,” she said, “but the Middle East isn’t exactly my beat.”