by Daniel Silva
“We believe it was Martin Landesmann.”
“Really?” Seymour brushed a bit of invisible lint from his trousers.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised, Graham.”
“I’m not.”
Gabriel looked at Adrian Carter and saw he was doodling on his MI5 notepad.
“And you, Adrian?”
Carter looked up briefly from his labors. “Let’s just say I’ve never been one to bow at the altar of Saint Martin. But do tell me the rest of it, Gabriel. I could use a good story after the day I’ve had.”
ADRIAN CARTER was easily underestimated, an attribute that had served him well throughout his career at the CIA. Little about Carter’s churchy appearance or clinical demeanor suggested he oversaw the most powerful covert intelligence apparatus in the world—or that before his ascension to the seventh floor at Langley he had operated on secret battlefields from Poland to Central America to Afghanistan. Strangers mistook him for a university professor or a therapist of some sort. When one thought of Adrian Carter, one pictured a man grading a senior thesis or listening to a patient confessing feelings of inadequacy.
But it was Carter’s ability to listen that set him apart from lesser rivals at Langley. He sat transfixed throughout Gabriel’s story, legs crossed, hands thoughtfully bunched beneath his chin. Only once did he move and that was to brandish his pipe. This gave Shamron license to draw his own weapon, despite Seymour’s halfhearted attempt to enforce MI5’s ban on smoking. Having heard Gabriel’s story already, Shamron occupied his time by contemptuously inspecting his imposing surroundings. He had begun his career in a building with few amenities other than electricity and running water. The grandness of Britain’s intelligence monuments always amused him. Money spent on pretty buildings and nice furniture, Shamron always said, was money that couldn’t be spent on stealing secrets.
“For the record,” Graham Seymour said at the conclusion of Gabriel’s presentation, “you’ve already managed to violate several provisions of our agreement. We allowed you to take up residence in the United Kingdom on the proviso that you were retired and that your only work would be art related. This affair stopped being art related when you stumbled back into the arms of your old service after the bombing in Buenos Aires. And it certainly stopped being art related when your prime minister signed off on a full-scale investigation of Martin Landesmann. Which, by the way, is long overdue.”
“What do you know about Martin that the rest of the world doesn’t?”
“A few years ago, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs began a major effort to crack down on British subjects who were concealing money in offshore tax havens. During the course of their investigation, they discovered an unusually large number of our citizens, many with questionable sources of income, had deposited money in something called Meissner Privatbank of Liechtenstein. After some digging, they concluded that Meissner wasn’t much of a bank at all but a portal to a massive money-laundering operation. And guess who owned it?”
“Global Vision Investments of Geneva?”
“Through various fronts and subsidiaries, of course. When the boys at Revenue and Customs were preparing to go public with their findings, they expected a big pat on the back. But much to their surprise, word came from on high to shut down the investigation, and the case was dropped.”
“Any reason given?”
“Not one that anyone dared to say aloud,” Seymour said. “But it was clear Downing Street didn’t want to jeopardize the flow of Swiss investment money into the United Kingdom by starting a public row with a man regarded as Switzerland’s patron saint of corporate responsibility.”
Carter tapped his pipe like a gavel against an ashtray and began slowly reloading the bowl.
“Is there something you wish to add, Adrian?” asked Gabriel.
“Zentrum Security.”
“What is it?”
“A corporate security firm based in Zurich. A couple of years ago, a number of American firms doing business in Switzerland became convinced they were the targets of corporate espionage. They approached the administration and asked for help. The administration quietly dropped it in my lap.”
“And?”
“We discovered that all the firms involved in the complaint had been targeted by Zentrum. It isn’t merely a ‘guns, guards, and gates’ kind of firm. Along with the usual range of protective services, it does a lucrative trade in what it refers to as overseas consulting.”
“Translation?”
“It arranges deals between clients and foreign entities, be they corporate or government.”
“What kind of deals?”
“The kind that can’t be handled in the traditional manner,” Carter said. “And you can guess who owns Zentrum Security.”
“Global Vision Investments.”
Carter nodded.
“Have they ever arranged any deals for a company called Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany?”
“Keppler has never popped up on our radar screens,” Carter said. “But as you know, thousands of international companies are currently doing business in Iran. Our friends in China are among the worst offenders. They’ll do business with anyone, but the Germans aren’t much better. Everyone wants their market share, and in times like these, they’re reluctant to give it up over something as trivial as Iran’s nuclear ambitions. At least seventeen hundred German firms are doing business in Iran, many of them makers of sophisticated industrial equipment. We’ve been pleading with the Germans for years to scale back their business ties to the Iranians, but they refuse. Some of our closest allies are in bed with Tehran for one reason and one reason only. Greed.”
“Isn’t it ironic,” said Shamron. “The country that brought us the last Holocaust is doing a brisk business with the country promising to bring us the next one.”
All four men lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It was Gabriel who broke it.
“The question is,” he said, “is Martin Landesmann shipping sensitive material to the Iranians through the back door? If that’s the case, we need to know two things. What exactly is he selling them? And how is it getting there?”
“And how do you propose we find out?” asked Seymour.
“By getting inside his operation.”
“Good luck. Martin runs a very tight ship.”
“Not as tight as you might think.” Gabriel laid a surveillance photograph on the table. “I assume you recognize her?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Seymour tapped the photo with his forefinger. “But where did you take this?”
“Outside Martin’s apartment in Paris. She spent the night with him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Would you like to see more photos?”
“God, no!” Seymour said. “I’ve never cared for operations involving matters of the heart. They can be extremely messy.”
“Life is messy, Graham. That’s what keeps people like you and me in business.”
“Perhaps. But if this recruitment of yours isn’t handled carefully, I won’t be in this business for long.” Seymour looked down at the photo and shook his head slowly. “Why couldn’t Martin fall for a waitress like every other cad?”
“He has excellent taste.”
“I’d withhold judgment on that until you meet her. She has something of a reputation. It’s quite possible she’ll turn you down.” Seymour paused, then added, “And, of course, there’s another possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“She could be in love with him.”
“She won’t be when I’m finished.”
“Don’t be so sure. Women have a way of looking past the faults of the men they love.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”
46
THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
Operation Masterpiece became a joint American-British-Israeli undertaking at 11:45 the following morning, when Graham Seymour emerged from No. 10 Downing Street with the last of the
required ministerial authorizations tucked safely inside his secure briefcase. The speed with which the agreement was concluded was a testament to Seymour’s current standing in Whitehall. It was also, Seymour would later admit, a rather astute display of good old-fashioned realpolitik. If Martin Landesmann were to go down, the mandarins reckoned, chances were good a great deal of British money would go down with him. In their calculation, it was better to be a party to Gabriel’s operation than a spectator. Otherwise, there might be nothing left of Martin’s financial carcass but bleached bones and a bit of loose change.
For the moment, the Americans were content to play the role of confidant and trusted adviser. Indeed, within hours of the interservice gathering at Thames House, Adrian Carter was Langley-bound aboard his Gulfstream V executive jet. Gabriel Allon had no airplane of his own, nor did he have any intention of leaving his operation solely in the hands of even a trusted friend like Graham Seymour. Gabriel had found the target and Gabriel intended to personally close the deal. This presented MI5’s lawyers with a bit of a problem. Yes, they declared after much deliberation, it was permissible for an officer of a foreign intelligence service to take part in such a discussion. But only after said officer had been told, in no uncertain terms, the legal facts of life.
And so shortly after two that afternoon, Gabriel was once more seated at the preposterous table in the ninth-floor conference room, this time confronted by what appeared to be the entire legal department of MI5. After a brief review of Gabriel’s past actions on British soil—their catalogue was remarkably complete—the lawyers laid down the rules of engagement for Masterpiece. Given the sensitive nature of the target’s work, the recruitment would have to be handled with extreme care. There would be no coercion of any kind, nor a whiff of anything that smelled remotely of blackmail. Any Israeli surveillance of the subject on British soil was to cease forthwith. And any future surveillance of the subject on British soil, if approved, would be carried out only by MI5. “Now sign this,” said one of the lawyers, thrusting an impressive-looking document into Gabriel’s hand, along with an impressive-looking gold pen. “And God help you if you violate a word of it.”
Gabriel had no such intentions—at least none at the time—so he scribbled something illegible on the line indicated and retreated to the anteroom. Waiting there was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 field officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against Ivan Kharkov. Whitcombe’s pious appearance concealed a mind as devious as any career criminal’s.
“I’m surprised you’re still in one piece,” he said.
“They managed to do it without leaving any cuts or bruises.”
“They’re good at that.” Whitcombe tossed aside a two-week-old copy of The Economist and stood. “Let’s head downstairs. Wouldn’t want to miss the opening act.”
They rode a lift to the lowest level of the building and followed a harshly lit corridor to a secure door marked OPS CENTER. Whitcombe punched the code into the keypad and led Gabriel inside. At the front of the room was a wall of large video monitors, watched over by a select group of senior operations officers. The chair marked SEYMOUR was empty—hardly surprising, since the man who usually occupied it was at that moment preparing to make his much-anticipated return to the field. Whitcombe tapped Gabriel’s arm and pointed to a CCTV image at the center of the video wall.
“Here comes your girl.”
Gabriel glanced up in time to see a rain-spattered sedan passing through a security gate outside a grim-looking modern office building. At the bottom left of the image was the location of the camera that had captured it: Wood Lane, Hammersmith. Ten minutes later, Nigel Whitcombe pointed to a new image on the video wall, a direct feed of the British Broadcasting Corporation. One of the technicians turned up the audio in time to hear the news presenter read the introduction.
“There were new allegations today…”
Whitcombe looked at Gabriel and smiled. “Something tells me this is going to be an interesting evening.”
IT WAS fitting commentary on the deplorable state of print journalism that Zoe Reed, regarded as one of the brightest stars of the British press, spent the final hours before her recruitment bathed in the flattering glow of television lights. Ironically, her appearances that evening would prove to be a major embarrassment to Downing Street, for they involved allegations that yet another Labor MP had been caught up in the Empire Aerospace bribery scandal. The BBC got first crack at her, followed by Sky News, CNBC, and finally CNN International.
It was upon Zoe’s departure from CNN’s studios, located at 16 Great Marlborough Street, that she had the first inkling her evening might not go as planned. It was brought about by the sudden disappearance of the car and driver retained by the Financial Journal to ferry her from appearance to appearance. As she was reaching for her mobile, a middle-aged man in a mackintosh coat approached and informed her that, due to a scheduling problem, she had been assigned a new car, a gleaming Jaguar limousine parked on the opposite side of the street. Anxious to return home after a long day, she hurried across through the rain and climbed into the back without hesitation. At which point she realized she was not alone. Seated next to her, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was a well-dressed man with even features and a full head of pewter-colored hair. He lowered the phone and looked at Zoe as if he had been expecting her.
“Good evening, Ms. Reed. My name is Graham Seymour. I work for the Security Service, and through no fault of my own I’ve been promoted to a senior position, which you can verify by speaking to the person at the other end of this call.” He handed her the mobile. “It’s my director-general. I trust you’ll remember her voice, since you interviewed her just last month. You were a bit hard on her in my opinion, but your article made for good reading.”
“Is that why I’m here?”
“Of course not, Ms. Reed. You’re here because we have a serious problem—a problem involving the security of the country and the entire civilized world—and we need your help.”
Zoe lifted the phone cautiously to her ear. “Good evening, Zoe, my dear,” she heard a familiar matronly voice say. “Rest assured you are in very good hands with Graham. And do accept my apology for disturbing your evening, but I’m afraid there was no other way.”
IN THE operations room at Thames House, there was a communal sigh of relief as they watched the Jaguar slip away from the curb. “Now the fun begins,” said Nigel Whitcombe. “We’d better get moving or we’ll be late for the second act.”
47
HIGHGATE, LONDON
The safe house stood at the end of a hushed cul-de-sac in Highgate, three stories of sturdy Victorian red brick with chimneys at each end of its roof. Gabriel and Nigel Whitcombe arrived first and were seated before a panel of video monitors in the upstairs study when Zoe Reed came through the front entrance. A pair of docile-looking female officers immediately took possession of her raincoat, briefcase, and mobile phone; then Graham Seymour ushered her into the drawing room. It had the comfortable, musty air of a private London club. There was even a dreadful print of a country hunt scene above the fireplace. Zoe examined it with a slightly bemused expression, then, at Seymour’s invitation, sat in a leather wing chair.
Seymour walked over to the sideboard, which had been laid with an array of food and drinks, and drew two cups of coffee from the pump-action thermos. The care with which he performed this task was an accurate reflection of his mood. Zoe Reed was no run-of-the-mill target for recruitment. Yes, she had been left vulnerable by her relationship with Martin Landesmann, but Seymour knew he could not be seen to exploit the affair in any way. To do so, he reckoned, would not only place his own career at risk but spoil any chance of obtaining what they needed most. Like all veterans, Seymour knew that successful recruitments, much like successful interrogations, were usually the result of playing to the dominant aspects of the target’s personality. And Graham Seymour knew two critical things about Zoe Reed. He knew she despised corruption in al
l its forms and he knew that she was not afraid of powerful men. He also suspected she was not the sort of woman who would react well when told she had been deceived. But then few women did.
It was into this minefield of human emotion that Graham Seymour waded now, a cup of hot coffee balanced in each hand. He gave one to Zoe, then, almost as an afterthought, instructed her to sign the document lying on the table in front of her.
“What is it?”
“The Official Secrets Act.” Seymour’s tone was repentant. “I’m afraid you’ll need to sign it before this conversation can continue. You see, Ms. Reed, the information I’m about to share with you can’t be written about in the pages of the Journal. In fact, once you sign—”
“I’ll be forbidden from discussing it even with members of my own family.” She fixed him with a mocking stare. “I know all about the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Seymour. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“I’m dealing with one of Britain’s most accomplished and respected journalists, which is why we’ve gone to such lengths to keep this conversation private. Now, if you would please sign, Ms. Reed.”
“It’s not worth the paper it’s printed on.” Greeted by silence, Zoe gave an exasperated sigh and signed the document. “There,” she said, pushing the paper and pen toward Seymour. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly why I’m here.”
“We need your help, Ms. Reed. Nothing more.”
Seymour had composed the words carefully that afternoon. They were a call to colors—an appeal to patriotism without uttering so unfashionable a word—and they elicited the precise response he had been hoping for.
“Help? If you needed my help, why didn’t you just call me on the telephone and ask? Why the spy games?”