The English Girl: A Novel
Page 15
The next story had something to do with a Russian energy firm securing rights to drill for oil in the British territorial waters of the North Sea. Gabriel switched off the television, dressed, and extracted a 9mm Beretta pistol from the safe concealed beneath the floor of the closet. Then, after kissing Chiara one final time, he headed downstairs to the street. Waiting curbside behind the wheel of his Vauxhall Astra was Nigel Whitcombe. He made the drive to Number Ten in record time and deposited Gabriel at the back entrance along Horse Guards Road.
“Let’s hope this one doesn’t end like the last one,” he said with false cheerfulness.
“Let’s,” agreed Gabriel, and he headed inside.
23
10 DOWNING STREET
Jeremy Fallon was waiting in the rear foyer of Number Ten. He offered Gabriel a warm, damp hand and then wordlessly led him to the White Drawing Room. This time, it was empty. Gabriel sat down without waiting for an invitation, but Fallon remained standing. He reached into his pocket and removed the keys to a rental car.
“It’s a Passat saloon, as you requested. If you could return it in one piece, I would be eternally grateful. I’m not as well-to-do as the prime minister.”
Fallon smiled weakly at his own joke. It was obvious why he didn’t smile more often; he had teeth like a barracuda. He handed Gabriel the keys, along with a parking stub.
“It’s in the car park at Victoria Station. The entrance is—”
“On Eccleston Street.”
“Sorry,” Fallon said sincerely. “Sometimes I forget who I’m dealing with.”
“I don’t,” said Gabriel.
Fallon was silent.
“What color is the car?”
“Island Gray.”
“What the hell is Island Gray?”
“The island mustn’t be very nice, because the car is quite dark.”
“And the money?”
“It’s in the boot, two suitcases, just as they requested.”
“How long has it been there?”
“Since early this morning. I dropped it off myself.”
“Let’s hope it’s still there.”
“The money or the car?”
“Both.”
“Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“No,” said Gabriel.
Frowning, Fallon sat down opposite Gabriel and contemplated his nails. There was little left of them.
“I owe you an apology for my behavior last night,” he said after a moment. “I was only acting in what I believed to be the best interests of my prime minister.”
“So was I,” replied Gabriel.
Fallon seemed taken aback. Like most powerful men, he was no longer used to being spoken to honestly.
“Graham Seymour warned me that you could be blunt at times.”
“Only when lives are at stake,” Gabriel responded. “And the moment I climb behind the wheel of that car, my life will be in danger. Which means, as of this moment, I make all the decisions.”
“I don’t need to remind you that this affair has to be concluded as discreetly as possible.”
“No, you don’t. Because if it isn’t, the prime minister isn’t the only one who’ll pay the price.”
Fallon made no response other than to glance at his wristwatch. It was 11:40, twenty minutes before the phone was supposed to ring. He rose to his feet with the air of a man who had not slept well in many days.
“The prime minister is in the Cabinet Room, meeting with the foreign secretary. I’m supposed to join them for a few minutes. Then I’ll bring him here for the call.”
“What’s the topic of the meeting?”
“British policy regarding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.”
“Don’t forget who’s delivering the money.”
Fallon gave another dreadful smile and headed wearily toward the door.
“Did you know?” asked Gabriel.
Fallon turned slowly. “Know what?”
“That Lancaster and Madeline were having an affair.”
Fallon hesitated before answering. “No,” he said at last, “I didn’t know. In fact, I never would have dreamed that he would do something to jeopardize all we’d worked for. And the irony of it all,” he added, “is that I was the idiot who introduced them.”
“Why did you?”
“Because Madeline was an integral part of our political operation. And because she was an extremely bright, capable woman whose future was limitless.”
Gabriel was struck by Fallon’s use of the past tense when talking about his missing colleague. Fallon noticed it, too.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said.
“What did you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” he responded. They were three words he didn’t often utter. “It’s just that she isn’t likely to be the same person after something like this, is she?”
“Humans are more resilient than you realize, especially women. With the right kind of help, she’ll eventually be able to resume her normal life. But you are right about one thing,” Gabriel added. “She’ll never be the same person again.”
Fallon reached for the door. “Is there anything else you need?” he asked over his shoulder.
“A few hours’ sleep would be nice.”
“How do you take it?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
Fallon went out and closed the door softly behind him. Gabriel rose, walked over to the Turner cityscape, and stood before it with one hand resting on his chin and his head tilted slightly to one side. It was 11:43, seventeen minutes until the phone was supposed to ring.
Fallon returned just before noon, accompanied by Jonathan Lancaster. The change in the prime minister’s appearance was remarkable. Gone was the Lancaster whom Gabriel had seen on television earlier that morning, the confident politician promising to repair the fabric of British society. In his place was a man whose life and career were in imminent danger of unraveling in the most spectacular political scandal in British history. It was obvious Lancaster could not endure much more before unraveling himself.
“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” Gabriel asked, shaking the prime minister’s hand.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you might not like everything you hear.”
Lancaster sat down, making it clear he had no intention of going anywhere. Fallon withdrew the mobile phone from his coat pocket and placed it on the coffee table. Gabriel quickly removed the battery, exposing the serial number on the inside of the device, and used his personal BlackBerry to snap a photo of it.
“What are you doing?” asked Lancaster.
“In all likelihood, the kidnappers will tell me to leave this one in a place where it will never be found.”
“So why are you photographing it?”
“Insurance,” said Gabriel.
He slipped his BlackBerry back into his coat pocket and switched on the kidnappers’ device. It was 11:57. There was nothing more to do now but wait. Gabriel excelled at waiting; by his own calculation, he had spent more than half of his life doing it. Waiting for a train or a plane. Waiting for a source. Waiting for the sun to rise after a night of killing. Waiting for the doctors to say whether his wife would live or die. He had hoped his placid demeanor would calm Lancaster, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. The prime minister was staring unblinking at the display screen of the phone. By 12:03 it had yet to ring.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked finally in frustration.
“They’re trying to make you nervous.”
“They’re doing a damn good job of it.”
“That’s why I’m going to do the talking.”
Another minute passed with no contact. Then, at 12:05, the phone rang and began dancing its way across the tabletop. Gabriel picked it up and looked at the caller ID while the phone vibrated in his grasp. As he had expected, they were using a different phone. He lifted the cover and very calmly asked, “How can I help you?”
There was a pause, during which Gabriel could hear the clatter of a computer keyboard. Then came the robotic voice.
“Who is this?” it asked.
“You know who this is,” replied Gabriel. “Let’s get going. My girl has been waiting a long time for this day. I want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.”
There was another pause, more typing. Then the voice asked, “Do you have the money?”
“I’m looking at it now,” Gabriel responded. “Ten million euros, unmarked, nonsequential, no beacons, no dye packs, everything you asked for. I hope you have a nice dirty bank at your disposal because you’re going to need it.”
He cast a quick glance at Lancaster, who seemed to be chewing at something on the inside of his cheek. Fallon looked as though he had gone into respiratory arrest.
“Are you ready for the instructions?” the voice asked after another burst of typing.
“I’ve been ready for several minutes,” answered Gabriel.
“Do you have something to write with?”
“Just go ahead,” said Gabriel impatiently.
“Are you in London?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Take the four-forty ferry from Dover to Calais. Forty minutes after departure, drop this phone into the Channel. When you get to Calais, go to the park on the rue Richelieu. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“There’s a rubbish bin on the northeast corner. The new phone will be taped to the bottom. After you get it, go back to your car. We’ll call you and tell you where to go next.”
“Anything else?”
“Come alone, no backup, no police. And don’t miss the four-forty ferry. If you do, the girl dies.”
“Are you finished?”
There was silence at the other end, no voice, no typing.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Gabriel. “Now listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. This is your big day. You’ve worked very hard, and the end is almost in sight. But don’t spoil it by doing something stupid. I’m only interested in bringing the girl home safely. This is business, nothing more. Let’s do this like gentlemen.”
“No police,” said the voice after a few seconds’ delay.
“No police,” repeated Gabriel. “But let me say one more thing. If you try to harm either Madeline or me, my service is going to find out who you really are. And then they’re going to hunt you down and kill you. Are we clear?”
This time there was no response.
“And one other thing,” said Gabriel. “Don’t ever keep me waiting five minutes for a call again. If you do, the deal’s off.”
With that, he severed the connection and looked at Jonathan Lancaster.
“I think that went well. Don’t you, Prime Minister?”
It is rare to see a man stepping from the front door of 10 Downing Street dressed in blue jeans and a black leather jacket, but that is precisely what occurred at 12:17 p.m., on a rain-swept afternoon in early October. It was five weeks to the day after Madeline Hart’s disappearance on the island of Corsica, eight days after her photograph and video were left at the home of press aide Simon Hewitt, and twelve hours after the prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland agreed to pay ten million euros in ransom to secure her safe return. The policeman standing watch in the entrance hall knew none of this, of course. Nor did he realize that the unusually dressed man was the Israeli spy and assassin Gabriel Allon, or that beneath Gabriel’s black leather jacket was a Beretta semiautomatic, fully loaded. As a result, he bade him a pleasant day and then watched as Gabriel made his way along Downing Street to the Whitehall security gate. As he passed through it, a camera snapped his photograph. It was 12:19.
Jeremy Fallon had left the Passat in the uncovered portion of the Victoria Station car park. Gabriel approached it the way he always approached cars that were not his own, slowly and with a feeling of dread. He circled it once, as if inspecting the paint for scratches, and then intentionally dropped the keys to the redbrick paving stones. Crouching, he quickly scanned the undercarriage. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he stood upright again and pressed the trunk release. The hatch rose slowly, revealing two nylon suitcases of discount manufacture. He tugged at the zipper of one, peered inside, and saw row upon row of tightly packed hundred-euro notes.
By London standards, the traffic at that hour was only mildly catastrophic. Gabriel crossed the Chelsea Bridge at one o’clock, and by half past he had put London’s southern suburbs behind him and was speeding along the M25 motorway. At 2:00 p.m. he switched on Radio Four to listen to a news update. Little had changed since the morning; Jonathan Lancaster was still talking about curing the ills of Britain’s poor, and a Russian oil company was still planning to drill for oil in the North Sea. There was no mention of Madeline Hart, or of a man in blue jeans and a leather jacket who was about to pay ten million euros to her kidnappers. The man listened to the latest weather bulletin and learned that conditions were expected to deteriorate rapidly throughout the afternoon, with heavy rain and dangerous winds along the Channel coast. Then he switched off the radio and absently fingered the Corsican talisman around his neck. When she is dead, he heard the old woman say. Then you will know the truth.
24
DOVER, ENGLAND
By the time Gabriel turned onto the M20, the skies were pouring with rain. He raced past Maidstone, Lenham Heath, and Ashford, arriving in the port of Folkestone at half past three. There he turned onto the A20 and continued east, across a seemingly endless plain of the greenest grass he had ever seen. Finally, he breasted a low hill, and the sea appeared, dark and whitecapped. It promised to be an unpleasant crossing.
As the road descended into the Dover seafront, Gabriel glimpsed a portion of the cliffs for the first time, chalky white against a background of gunmetal-gray cloud. The way to the ferry terminal was clearly marked. Gabriel entered the ticket office and confirmed his booking, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the Passat. Then, ticket in hand, he climbed behind the wheel again and joined the line of cars waiting in the departure queue. And don’t miss the four-forty ferry. If you do, the girl dies . . . There was only one reason to make such a demand, thought Gabriel. The kidnappers were now watching him.
It was against regulations for passengers to remain inside their cars during the crossing. Gabriel briefly considered bringing the suitcases with him but decided the act of lugging them up and down the passageways would leave him too vulnerable. So he locked the car tightly, checking the trunk and each of the four doors twice to make sure they were secure, and headed to the passenger lounge. As the ferry eased from the terminal, he went to the snack bar and ordered tea and a scone. Outside the skies gradually darkened, and by 5:15 the sea was no longer visible. Gabriel remained in his seat for another five minutes. Then he rose and made his way to an isolated corner of the windblown observation deck. None of the other passengers followed him. Therefore no one saw him drop a mobile phone over the railing.
Gabriel neither saw nor heard the device strike the surface of the sea. He stood at the rail for two more minutes before returning to his seat in the lounge. And there he remained, committing to memory each of the faces around him, until an announcement came over the public address system, first in English, then in French, alerting passengers it was time to return to their cars. Gabriel made certain he was the first to arrive on the vehicle deck. Opening the trunk of the Passat, he saw that the two suitcases were still in place and that both were still filled with money. Then he climbed behind the wheel and watched the other passengers filing toward their cars. In the next row a woman was unlocking the door of a small Peugeot. She had short blond hair, almost like a boy’s, and a heart-shaped face. But Gabriel noticed something else. She was the only passenger on the ferry wearing gloves.
He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
Calais was an ugly seaside town, part English, part German, scarcely French at all. The rue Richelieu was about a half mile from the ferry terminal in the quartier known as Calais-Nord, an octagonal artificial island ringed by canals and harbors. Gabriel parked outside a terrace of stucco houses and headed toward the park, watched by a trio of Afghan men in heavy coats and traditional pakul hats. The men were probably economic migrants waiting for a chance to hitch an illegal ride across the Channel to Britain. There had once been a large encampment in the sand dunes along the beach where, on a clear day, they could see the White Cliffs of Dover sparkling on the other side of the Channel. The good citizens of Calais, a stronghold of the Socialist Party, had referred to the camp as “the jungle” and had applauded the French police when they finally shut it down.
The trash receptacle stood to the right side of a footpath leading into the park. It was four feet in height and forest green in color. Next to it was a sign asking visitors not to harm the park’s grass and flowers. It said nothing about searching for a hidden mobile phone beneath the rubbish bin, which is what Gabriel did after discarding his ferry ticket. He found it instantly; it was secured to the underside of the bin by packing tape. He tore it away and slipped it into his coat pocket before standing upright and heading back to the Passat. The phone was ringing as he started the engine. “Very good,” said the computer-generated voice. “Now listen carefully.”
It told him to go directly to the Hotel de la Mer, in the town of Grand-Fort-Philippe. A reservation had been made there under the name Annette Ricard. Gabriel was to check into the room using his own credit card and explain that a Mademoiselle Ricard would be joining him later that evening. Gabriel had never heard of the hotel, or even of the town where it was located. He found it using the Internet browser on his personal mobile phone. Grand-Fort-Philippe was just west of Dunkirk, scene of one of the greatest military humiliations in British history. In the spring of 1940, more than three hundred thousand members of the British Expeditionary Force were evacuated from Dunkirk’s beaches as France was falling to Nazi Germany. In their haste to leave, the British forces had no choice but to abandon enough materiel to equip some ten divisions. It was possible the kidnappers hadn’t realized any of this when they had chosen the hotel, but Gabriel doubted it.