House of Spies

by Daniel Silva

  “When are you planning to go to Washington?” asked the prime minister.

  “I haven’t been invited.”

  “Since when do you need an invitation?” The Israeli leader attempted to pick up an egg roll with a pair of chopsticks and, failing, impaled it. “You sure you won’t have one?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “How about some of the chicken?”

  Gabriel held up a hand defensively.

  “But it’s kung pao,” said the prime minister, incredulous.

  It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel’s SUV turned into Narkiss Street. Once among the city’s most tranquil, it now resembled something of an armed camp. There were security checkpoints at each end, and outside the old limestone apartment house at Number 16 a guard stood watch always. Otherwise, little had changed. The garden gate still screeched when opened, an overgrown eucalyptus tree still obscured the three little terraces, the light in the stairwell was still seasick green. Arriving on the third-floor landing, Gabriel found the door slightly ajar. He entered silently and saw Chiara seated at one end of the couch, an open book in her lap. He gently removed it from her grasp and looked at the cover. It was an Italian-language edition of an American spy thriller.

  “Don’t you get enough of this in real life?”

  “It seems so much more glamorous when he writes about it.”

  “What’s his hero like?”

  “A killer with a conscience, a bit like you.”

  “Is he an art restorer, too?”

  She made a face. “Who could invent such a thing?”

  Gabriel removed his overcoat and suit jacket and tossed both provocatively across the back of an armchair. Chiara shook her head slowly in disapproval and, licking the tip of her forefinger, turned the page of her book. She was wearing a pair of ordinary gray sweatpants and a fleece pullover against the winter chill. Even so, with her long riotous hair drawn over one shoulder, she looked astonishingly beautiful. Chiara was nearing forty now, but neither time nor the intense stress of Gabriel’s work had left a mark on her face. In it Gabriel saw traces of Arabia and North Africa and Spain and all the other places her ancestors had wandered before finding themselves in the ancient Jewish ghetto of Venice. But it was her eyes that had always enthralled him most. They were the color of caramel and flecked with gold, a combination he had been unable to reproduce on canvas. When they were happy, they filled him with a contentment he had never known. And when they were disappointed or angry, he felt like the lowliest creature to walk the earth.

  “How are the children?” he asked.

  “If you wake them . . .” She licked her forefinger and turned another page.

  Gabriel removed his shoes and in stocking feet entered the nursery without a sound. Two cribs stood end to end against a wall that Gabriel had painted with clouds. Two infants, a boy and a girl, aged fourteen months, slept head to head, as they had in their mother’s womb. Gabriel reached down toward his daughter, who was called Irene after her grandmother, but stopped. She was a creature of the night, easily woken, a spy by nature. Raphael, however, could sleep through anything, even the midnight touch of his father’s hand.

  Suddenly, Gabriel realized that three days had passed since he had last seen the children when they were awake. He had been chief for little more than a month and already he had missed important milestones—Raphael’s first word, Irene’s first halting steps. He had promised himself it would not be so, that he would not allow his work to intrude on his personal life. It was a fantasy, of course; the chief of the Office had no personal life. No family, no wife other than the country he was sworn to protect. It was not a life sentence, he assured himself. Just six years. The children would be seven at the end of his term. There would be plenty of time to make amends. Unless, of course, the prime minister imposed upon him to stay on. He calculated how old he would be at the end of two terms. The number depressed him. It was Abrahamic. Noah . . .

  He slipped out and went into the kitchen, where the small café-style table had been laid with his supper. Tagliatelle with fava beans and cheese, an assortment of bruschetta, an omelet with tomato and herbs, all arranged as though for a photograph in a cookbook. Gabriel sat down and placed his mobile phone at the center of the table, gingerly, as if it were a live grenade. After accepting the job as chief, he had briefly considered moving his family to one of the secular suburbs of Tel Aviv to be closer to King Saul Boulevard. He realized now that it was better to remain in Jerusalem to be close to the prime minister’s office. Three times he had been summoned to Kaplan Street in the middle of the night, once because the prime minister was restless and in need of company. They had discussed the state of the world while watching an American action film on television. Gabriel had nodded off during the climax and at dawn had been driven, bleary-eyed, to his desk.

  “Wine?” asked Chiara, holding aloft a bottle of Galilean red.

  Gabriel declined. “It’s late,” he said.

  Chiara placed the wine on the counter. “How was the prime minister?”

  “Unusually interested in Asian affairs.”

  “Chinese food again?”

  “Kung pao and egg rolls.”

  “He’s very consistent.”

  Chiara sat down opposite Gabriel and watched with appreciation as he filled his plate.

  “Aren’t you going to have something?” he asked.

  “I ate five hours ago.”

  “Have a little something so I don’t feel like a complete cad.”

  She picked up a slice of bruschetta smeared with chopped olives and Italian parsley and nibbled at the edge. “How was work?”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug and twirled his fork in the tagliatelle.

  “Don’t even,” she warned. “You’re my only contact with the real world.”

  “The Office isn’t exactly the real world.”

  “The Office,” she countered, “is as real as it gets. Everything else is make-believe.”

  He gave her a declassified, white-paper version of that evening’s strike on the convoy, but Chiara’s beautiful eyes soon became bored. She much preferred Office gossip to the details of Office operations. The politics, the internecine battles, the romantic affairs. It had been many years since she had left active service, and yet, if given the chance, she would have returned to the field in a heartbeat. Gabriel had far too many enemies for that, enemies who had targeted his family before. And so Chiara had to be content playing the role of first lady. Unlike the previous chief’s wife, the conniving Bella Navot, she was much beloved by the troops.

  “Is this the way it’s going to be for the next six years?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Midnight dinners. You eating, me watching.”

  “We knew it was going to be difficult.”

  “Yes,” she said vaguely.

  “It’s too late for second thoughts, Chiara.”

  “No second thoughts. I just miss my husband.”

  “I miss you, too. But there’s nothing—”

  “The Shamrons have invited us to dinner tomorrow night,” she said suddenly.

  “Tomorrow night is bad.” He didn’t explain why.

  “Maybe we can drive up to Tiberias on Saturday.”

  “Maybe,” he said without conviction.

  A heavy silence fell between them.

  “You know, Gabriel, God was not always kind to you.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “But he gave you a second chance to be a father. Don’t let it go to waste. Don’t be a man who comes and goes in darkness. That’s all they’ll remember. And don’t try to justify it by telling yourself you’re keeping them safe from harm. It’s not enough.”

  Just then, his mobile phone flared. Hesitantly, he punched in his password and read the text message.

  “The prime minister?” asked Chiara.

  “Graham Seymour.”

  “What does he want?”

  “A word in private.�
��

  “Here or there?”

  “There,” said Gabriel.

  Without another word, he rang King Saul Boulevard and ordered Travel to make the necessary arrangements for what would be his first foreign trip as chief of the Office. There was a flight leaving Ben Gurion at seven, arriving in London at half past ten. Space would be made in first class for Gabriel and his detail. The British would handle security at their end.

  With his itinerary complete, he killed the connection and, looking up, saw that Chiara had gone. Alone, he placed a second call to Uzi Navot and told him of his travel plans. Then he switched on the television and finished his dinner. With a bit of luck, he thought, he might get an hour or two of sleep. He would leave his children in darkness, he thought, and in darkness he would return. He would keep them safe from harm. And for his reward they might someday remember the midnight touch of his hand.

  14

  Jerusalem—London

  And so it was that Gabriel Allon, having slept fitfully if at all, slipped from his bed and into the womb of his armored SUV. He arrived at Ben Gurion Airport a few minutes before his flight’s departure and, accompanied by two bodyguards, boarded planeside on the tarmac. He had no ticket, his name appeared on no manifest. As a rule, the ramsad, the chief of the Office, never traveled internationally under his real name, even to a reasonably friendly destination like the United Kingdom. Hostile actors such as the Iranians and the Russians had access to airline records, too. So did the Americans.

  He passed the five-hour flight reading the newspapers, a rather pointless exercise for a man who knew too much, and upon arrival at Heathrow placed himself in the care of an MI6 reception team. Riding into central London in the back of a Jaguar limousine, he briefly regretted he had not tossed a necktie into his attaché case. Mainly, he stared out the window and recalled the many times he had crept into this city under different names, flying different flags, fighting different wars. The geography of London was for Gabriel a battlefield. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey, Covent Garden, the Brompton Road . . . He had bled in London, grieved in London, and in an Office safe flat on the Bayswater Road he had once recited secret marriage vows to Chiara because he feared he would not survive the day to come. His debt to the British secret services was profound. Britain had granted him sanctuary at the darkest times of his life, and protected him when another country might have thrown him to the wolves. In return, he had dealt with his fair share of problems on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government. By Gabriel’s calculation, the balance sheet was now roughly even.

  At last, the car turned onto Vauxhall Bridge and sped across the Thames, toward the temple of espionage on the opposite embankment. On the uppermost floor Gabriel crossed an English garden of an atrium and entered the finest office in all of spydom, where Graham Seymour, surrounded by several members of his executive staff, waited to receive him. A round of introductions followed, brief, perfunctory. Then the senior staff filed slowly out, and Seymour and Gabriel were alone. For a long moment they appraised one another in silence. They were as different as two men could be—in size and shape, in upbringing, in religious faith—but their bond was unbreakable. It had been forged during numerous joint operations, waged against a diverse cast of enemies and targets. Jihadist terrorists, the Iranian nuclear program, a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov. They distrusted one another only a little. In the espionage trade, that made them the best of friends.

  “So,” said Seymour finally, “how does it feel to be a member of the club?”

  “Our chapter of the club isn’t as grand as yours,” said Gabriel, glancing around the magnificent office. “Nor as old.”

  “Wasn’t it Moses who dispatched a team of agents to spy out the land of Canaan?”

  “History’s first intelligence failure,” said Gabriel. “Imagine how things might have turned out for the Jewish people if Moses had chosen another plot of land.”

  “And now that plot of land is yours to protect.”

  “Which explains why my hair is growing grayer by the day. When I was a boy growing up in the Valley of Jezreel, I used to have nightmares about the country being overrun by our enemies. Now I have those dreams every night. And in my dreams,” said Gabriel, “it’s always my fault.”

  “I’ve been having those dreams lately myself.” Seymour gazed across the river toward the West End. “And to think it would have been worse if a prominent London art dealer hadn’t spotted the terrorists entering the theater.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Actually,” said Seymour, “you might. Owns an Old Master gallery in St. James’s. He’s seventy-five in the shade but still runs around with younger women. In fact, he was supposed to have dinner with a girl half his age at the Ivy the night of the attack, but the girl stood him up. Best thing that ever happened to him.” Seymour looked at Gabriel. “He hasn’t mentioned any of this to you?”

  “We try to keep our contact to a minimum.”

  “You must have rubbed off on him. He acted like a real hero.”

  “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Julian Isherwood?”

  Seymour smiled in spite of himself. “I have to hand it to your friend Saladin,” he said after a moment. “He ran a very tight operation. Thus far, we’ve been able to identify only one other individual directly linked to the plot, an operative in France who supplied the automatic rifles. I dispatched one of our officers to locate this operative, but unfortunately there was a small mishap.”

  “What kind of mishap?”

  “A fatality. Three, actually.”

  “I see,” said Gabriel. “And the name of the operative?”

  “Peter Marlowe. Did time in Northern Ireland. Used to work in the olive oil business on Corsica.”

  “In that case,” said Gabriel, “consider yourself lucky that only three people died.”

  “I doubt the French will see it that way.” Seymour paused, then added, “Which is why I need you to have a word with them on my behalf.”

  “Why me?”

  “Despite your rather abysmal track record on French soil, you’ve managed to make some important friends inside the French security service.”

  “They won’t be my friends for long if I get mixed up in your bungled operation.”

  Seymour said nothing.

  “And if I agree to help you?” asked Gabriel. “What’s in it for me?”

  “The everlasting gratitude of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.”

  “Come now, Graham, you can do better than that.”

  Seymour smiled. “I can, indeed.”

  It was approaching dusk by the time Gabriel finally departed Vauxhall Cross. He did so not in the back of the Jaguar limousine but in the passenger seat of a small Ford hatchback piloted by Nigel Whitcombe. The young Englishman drove very fast and with the languid ease of someone who raced rally cars at the weekend. Gabriel balanced his secure attaché case on his knees and clung tightly to the armrest.

  “Where’s he living now?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified,” answered Whitcombe without a trace of irony.

  “Maybe I should wear a blindfold then.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Never mind, Nigel. But would you slow down a bit? I’d rather not be the first chief of the Office to die in the line of duty.”

  “I thought you were dead,” said Whitcombe. “Died on the Brompton Road outside Harrods. That’s what they wrote in the Telegraph.”

  Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly. He followed Grosvenor Road along the Thames and then headed north through Chelsea and Kensington to Queen’s Gate Terrace, where finally he drew to a stop outside a large Georgian house the color of clotted cream.

  “Is all that his?” asked Gabriel.

  “Only the bottom two floors. It was a steal at eight million.”

  Gabriel checked the window on the first floor. The curtains were drawn and there appeared to be no light burning within. “Where do y
ou suppose he is?”

  “I’d rather not hazard a guess.”

  “Try his mobile.”

  “He’s still figuring out how to use it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll let him explain.”

  Whitcombe dialed the number. It rang several times without answer. He dialed it a second time with the same result.

  “Think there’s a key under the doormat?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to use mine instead.”

  Gabriel climbed out of the car and descended the short flight of steps that led to the basement entrance of the maisonette. He tried the latch; it was locked. Whitcombe frowned.

  “I thought you had a key.”

  “I do.” Gabriel drew a thin metal tool from the breast pocket of his overcoat.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “You might find this difficult to believe,” said Whitcombe, “but ‘C’ never carries a lock pick.”

  “Perhaps he should.”

  Gabriel slid the tool into the lock and worked it gently back and forth until the mechanism gave way.

  “What if there’s an alarm?” asked Whitcombe.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Gabriel turned the latch and opened the door a few inches. There was only silence.

  “Tell Graham I’ll find my own way home tonight. Tell him I’ll call him from Paris as soon as I’ve cleaned up the mess with the French.”

  “What about your security detail?”

  “I’m carrying more than a lock pick,” said Gabriel, and went inside.

  The doorway gave onto a kitchen that was the stuff of Chiara’s dreams. An acre and a half of tastefully lit counter space, an island with a chef’s sink, a pair of convection ovens, a Vulcan gas stove with a professional-grade hood. The refrigerator was a stainless steel Sub-Zero. Inside were several bottles of Corsican rosé and a lump of cheese flavored with rosemary and lavender and thyme. It seemed the owner’s transition was still a work in progress.