Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

She said, “It’s beautiful.”

  “It sounds better in Arabic.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Do you speak any Arabic, Dominique?”

  “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  In the morning Yusef brought her coffee in bed. Jacqueline sat up and drank it very quickly. She needed the jolt of caffeine to help her think. She hadn’t slept. Several times she had considered slipping out of bed, but Yusef was a restless sleeper and she feared he might awaken. If he discovered her making imprints of his keys with a special device disguised as a mascara case, there would be no way to explain. He would assume she was an Israeli agent. He might very well kill her. It would be better to leave his flat without the imprints than to be caught. She wanted to do it right—for Gabriel’s sake and her own.

  She looked at her watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  “I’m sorry I let you sleep so long,” Yusef said.

  “That’s all right. I was tired.”

  “It was a good tired, yes?”

  She kissed him and said, “It was a very good tired.”

  “Call your boss and tell him you’re going to take the day off and make love to a Palestinian named Yusef al-Tawfiki.”

  “I don’t think he’ll see the humor in that.”

  “This man has never wanted to spend the day making love to a woman?”

  “I’m not sure, actually.”

  “I’m going to take a shower. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “I’ll never get to work that way.”

  “That was my intention.”

  “Get in the shower. Is there any more coffee?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Yusef stepped into the bathroom and closed the door halfway. Jacqueline lay in bed until she heard him step into the shower; then she slipped from beneath the blankets and padded into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and walked into the sitting room. She placed the coffee on the table next to Yusef’s keys and sat down. The shower was still running.

  She reached into her bag and withdrew her mascara case. She popped it open and glanced inside. It was filled with a soft ceramic material. All she had to do was place a key against the material and squeeze the lid closed. The ersatz case would produce a perfect imprint.

  Her hands were trembling. She picked up the keys carefully, to prevent them from making any sound, and singled out the first: the Yale model he had used for the street entrance. She placed it inside the case, closed the lid, and squeezed. She opened the case and removed the key. The imprint was flawless. She repeated the process two more times, once with the second Yale key, then with the skeleton. She had three perfect imprints.

  She closed the lid, placed the keys exactly where Yusef had left them, then returned the mascara case to her purse.

  “What are you doing there?”

  She looked up, startled, and quickly regained her composure. Yusef was standing in the center of the floor, his wet body wrapped in a beige bath towel. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen? Damn it, Jacqueline! Why weren’t you watching the door!

  She said, “I’m looking for my cigarettes. Have you seen them?”

  He pointed toward the bedroom. “You left them in there.”

  “Oh, yes. God, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “That’s all you were doing? Just looking for cigarettes?”

  “What else would I be doing?” She spread her arms to indicate the spartan squalor of his sitting room. “You think I’m trying to make off with your valuables?”

  She stood and picked up her handbag. “Are you finished in the bathroom?”

  “Yes, but why are you bringing your purse to the bathroom?”

  She thought: He suspects something. Suddenly she wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as possible. Then she thought: I should be offended by questions like that.

  “I think I may be getting my period,” she said icily. “I don’t think I like the way you’re acting. Is this the way all Arab men treat their lovers the morning after?”

  She brushed past him and entered the bedroom. She was surprised at how convincing she had managed to sound. Her hands were shaking as she collected her clothing and entered the bathroom. She ran water in the sink while she dressed. Then she opened the door and went out. Yusef was in the sitting room. He wore faded jeans, a sweater, loafers with no socks.

  He said, “I’ll call you a cab.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way home.”

  “Let me walk you down.”

  “I’ll see myself out, thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?”

  “Because I don’t like the way you were talking to me. I had a nice time, until now. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

  She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Yusef followed her. She walked quickly down the stairs, then across the lobby.

  At the front entrance he grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I’m just a little paranoid sometimes. You’d be paranoid too if you’d lived my life. I didn’t mean anything by it. How can I make it up to you?”

  She managed to smile, even though her heart was pounding against the inside of her ribs. She had no idea what to do. She had the imprints, but there was a chance that he had seen her making them—or at least that he suspected she had done something. If she were guilty, the natural impulse would be to reject his invitation. She decided to accept his offer. If Gabriel believed it was a mistake, she could make up an excuse to cancel it.

  She said, “You may take me out for a proper dinner.”

  “What time?”

  “Meet me at the gallery at six-thirty.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And don’t be late. I can’t stand men who are late.”

  Then she kissed him and went out.

  24

  MAIDA VALE, LONDON

  When Jacqueline arrived back at her flat, Gabriel was seated on the couch drinking coffee. “How did it go?”

  “It was lovely. Bring me some of that coffee, will you?”

  She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and began filling the tub. Then she stripped off her clothing and slipped beneath the warm water. A moment later Gabriel knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  He came into the room. He seemed surprised that she was already in the bath. He looked away, searching for a spot to place the coffee. “How do you feel?” he said, eyes averted.

  “How do you feel after you kill someone?”

  “I always feel dirty.”

  Jacqueline scooped up a handful of water and let it run over her face.

  Gabriel said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “It can wait until you’re dressed.”

  “We’ve lived together as man and wife, Gabriel. We’ve even behaved like man and wife.”

  “That was different.”

  “Why was it different?”

  “Because it was a necessary part of the operation.”

  “Sleeping in the same bed, or making love to each other?”

  “Jacqueline, please.”

  “Maybe you won’t look at me because I just slept with Yusef.”

  Gabriel glared at her and went out. Jacqueline permitted herself a brief smile, then slipped below the water.

  “The phone is made by British Telecom.”

  She was sitting in the cracked club chair, her body covered in a thick white robe. She rattled off the name and model number as she worked a towel through her damp hair.

  “There’s no telephone in the bedroom, but he does have a clock radio.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Sony.” She gave him the model number.

  “Let’s go back to the telephone for a moment,” Gabriel said. “Any distinguishing marks? Any price tags or stickers with telephone numbers on them? Anything that would give us a problem?”


  “He fancies himself a poet and a historian. He writes all the time. It looks as though he dials the telephone with the tip of a pen. The keypad is covered with marks.”

  “What color ink?”

  “Blue and red.”

  “What kind of pen?”

  “What do you mean? The kind of pen you write with.”

  Gabriel sighed and looked wearily at the ceiling. “Is it a ballpoint pen? Is it a fountain pen? Perhaps a felt-tipped pen?”

  “Felt-tipped, I believe.”

  “You believe?”

  “Felt-tipped. I’m sure of it.”

  “Very good,” he said as though he were speaking to a child. “Now, is it fine point, medium, or bold?”

  She slowly raised the long, slender middle finger of her right hand and waved it at Gabriel.

  “I’ll take that to mean bold point. What about the keys?”

  She hunted through her handbag, tossed him the silver mascara case. Gabriel thumbed the release, lifted the lid, looked at the imprints.

  She said, “We may have a problem.”

  Gabriel closed the lid and looked up.

  Jacqueline said, “I think he may have seen me with his keys.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She recounted the entire chain of events for him, then added cautiously, “He wants to see me again.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight at six-thirty. He’s meeting me at the gallery.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “Yes, but I can—”

  “No,” Gabriel said, interrupting her. “That’s perfect. I want you to meet him and keep him entertained long enough for me to get inside his flat and plant the bugs.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it will be done.”

  Gabriel left the building through a back service door. He slipped across the courtyard, scaled a cinder-block wall, and leaped into an alleyway strewn with beer cans and bits of broken glass. Then he walked to the Maida Vale Underground station. He felt unsettled. He didn’t like the fact that Yusef had asked to see Jacqueline a second time.

  He rode the Underground to Covent Garden. The bodel was waiting in line for coffee at the market. It was the same boy who had taken Gabriel’s field report at Waterloo Station. A black, soft-sided leather briefcase hung on his back from a shoulder strap, a side pocket facing out. Gabriel had placed the silver case containing the imprints of Yusef’s keys in a brown envelope—standard size, plain, no markings. He sat at a table drinking tea, eyes working methodically over the crowd.

  The bodel bought coffee, started to walk away. Gabriel got up and followed him, slicing through the crowded market, until he was directly behind him. Gabriel bumped the bodel as he was taking the first sip of coffee, spilling some of it down the front of his jacket. He apologized and walked away, the plain brown envelope now residing safely in the outside pocket of the bodel’s briefcase.

  Gabriel wound his way through St. Giles, across New Oxford Street, then up Tottenham Court Road, where there were several shops specializing in electronic goods. Ten minutes later, after visiting two of the shops, he was back in a taxi heading across London to the listening post in Sussex Gardens. On the seat next to him was a bag containing four items: a Sony clock radio, a British Telecom phone, and two felt-tipped pens, one red, one blue, both bold.

  Karp sat at the dining room table, studying the exposed internal components of the clock radio and telephone through a lighted magnifying glass. As Gabriel watched Karp work, he thought about his studio in Cornwall and imagined he was peering through his Wild microscope at the surface of the Vecellio.

  Karp said, “We call it a hot mike. Your outfit calls it a glass if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re correct as usual.”

  “It’s a wonderful little piece of equipment, coverage of his flat and his telephone with the same device. Two for the price of one, you might say. And you never have to worry about replacing the battery because the transmitter draws its power from the telephone.”

  Karp paused for a moment to concentrate on his work. “Once these go in, the monitoring operation is basically on autopilot. The tape decks are voice-activated. They’ll roll only if there’s something coming from the source. If you need to leave the flat for any reason, you can check the tapes when you come back. My work is basically finished.”

  “I’ll miss you, Randy.”

  “Gabe, I’m touched.”

  “I know.”

  “That was a nice piece of work, sending in the girl like that. Break-ins can get messy. Always better to get the keys and phone before you go in for the plant.”

  Karp placed the cover back on the telephone, handed it to Gabriel. “Your turn.”

  Gabriel the restorer picked up his pens and began making marks on the keypad.

  Kemel Azouri had been at Schloss headquarters in Zürich earlier that morning, meeting with his sales staff, when he received a text message over his pager: Mr. Taylor wished to speak to him about a problem with last Thursday’s shipment. Kemel cut short his meeting, took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and boarded the next Eurostar train to London. The timing of the message intrigued him. Mr. Taylor was the code name for an agent in London. “A problem with the shipment” was a code phrase for urgent. Use of the word Thursday meant the agent wished to meet on Cheyne Walk at four-fifteen. Kemel strode through the arrival hall at Waterloo and climbed into a taxi at the stand. A moment later he was speeding across Westminster Bridge.

  He told the driver to drop him at Royal Hospital Chelsea. He walked along the river through the gathering darkness and waited at the foot of Battersea Bridge.

  He checked his watch: four-twelve.

  He lit a cigarette and waited.

  Three minutes later, at precisely four-fifteen, a handsome young man in a black leather jacket appeared at his side.

  “Mr. Taylor, I presume.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you all the way to London, Kemel, but you wanted to know about every potential approach.”

  “What was her name?”

  “She called herself Dominique Bonard.”

  “French?”

  “Claims to be.”

  “You suspect she’s lying.”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t be certain, but it’s possible she was going through my things this morning.”

  “Have you been followed recently?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “She says she’s from Paris.”

  “What’s she doing in London?”

  “She works at an art gallery.”

  “Which one?”

  “A place called Isherwood Fine Arts in St. James’s.”

  “Where do you stand with this woman?”

  “I’m supposed to see her again in two hours.”

  “By all means, keep your date with her. In fact I’d like the two of you to develop a very close relationship. Do you think you’re up to the job?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  25

  ST. JAMES’S, LONDON

  The security buzzer groaned early that evening while Julian Isherwood was working his way through a stack of bills and sipping a good whiskey. He remained at his desk—after all, it was the girl’s job to answer the door—but when the buzzer howled a second time he looked up. “Dominique, there’s someone at the door. Would you mind? Dominique?”

  Then he remembered he had sent her down to the storeroom to return a batch of paintings. He stood, walked wearily into the anteroom, peered into the security monitor. Standing outside was a young man. Mediterranean of some sort, good-looking. He pressed the button on the intercom. “Sorry, closed. As you can see we show by appointment only. Why don’t you ring in the morning? My secretary will be happy to set aside some time for you.”

  “Actually, I’m here to see your secretary. My name is Yusef.”
/>   Jacqueline stepped out of the lift and came into the anteroom.

  Isherwood said, “There’s a fellow named Yusef downstairs. Says he’s here to see you.”

  Jacqueline looked into the monitor.

  Isherwood said, “Do you know him?”

  She pressed the buzzer that released the door lock. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend. A good friend.”

  Isherwood’s jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide.

  Jacqueline said, “If you’re going to be uncomfortable, perhaps you should leave.”

  “Yes, I think that’s wise.” He walked back into his office and put on his jacket. When he returned to the anteroom, the Arab was kissing Jacqueline on the cheek. She said, “Yusef, I’d like you to meet Mr. Isherwood. He’s the owner of the gallery.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Yusef. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I’m running late for an appointment. So if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be going.”

  “Do you mind if I show Yusef around the gallery?”

  “Of course not. Delighted. Be sure to lock up, Dominique, darling. Thank you. See you in the morning. Pleasure meeting you, Yusef. Cheers.”

  Isherwood clambered down the stairs and hurried across Mason’s Yard to the sanctuary of the bar at Green’s. He ordered a whiskey and drank it very fast, all the while wondering whether it was truly possible that Gabriel’s girl had just brought a terrorist into his gallery.

  Gabriel sat on a bench on Victoria Embankment, watching the gray river moving sluggishly beneath Blackfriars Bridge, holding a copy of the Daily Telegraph. On page thirteen, hidden behind an advertisement, was a coded field report for Shamron. The bodel appeared ten minutes later. He walked past Gabriel and headed up the steps toward the Temple Underground station. He wore a hat, which meant he was not being followed and it was safe to proceed. Gabriel followed him into the station, then down the escalator to the platform. When the train arrived, the two men entered the same crowded carriage. They were forced to stand side by side, which made the exchange—Yusef’s keys for the newspaper containing Gabriel’s field report—quite impossible to detect. Gabriel got off at Paddington Station and headed back to the listening post.