Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  31

  COPENHAGEN: 5:34 P.M., TUESDAY

  There had been no time for Housekeeping to acquire proper safe lodging for Gabriel’s team in Copenhagen, and so they had settled instead at the Hotel d’Angleterre, a vast white luxury liner of a building looming over the sprawling King’s New Square. Gabriel and Sarah arrived shortly after 5:30 and made their way to a room on the fourth floor. Mordecai was seated at the writing desk in stocking feet, headphones over his ears, eyes fixed on a pair of receivers like a doctor reading a brain scan for signs of life. Gabriel slipped on the spare set, then looked at Mordecai and grimaced.

  “It sounds as though there’s a pile driver in the room.”

  “There is,” Mordecai said. “And his name is Ahmed. He’s banging a toy against the floor a few inches from the phone.”

  “How long has it been going on?”

  “An hour.”

  “Why doesn’t she ask him to stop?

  “Maybe she’s deaf. God knows I will be soon if he doesn’t stop.”

  “Any activity on the line yet?”

  “Just one outgoing call,” Mordecai said. “She called Ibrahim in Amsterdam to complain about Ishaq’s prolonged absence. Unless it was an elaborate ruse, she doesn’t know anything.”

  Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. It was 5:37. A spy’s life, he thought. Mind-numbing boredom broken by brief interludes of sheer terror. He slipped on the headset and waited for Hanifah’s telephone to ring.

  They adopted the uncomfortable silence of strangers at a wake and together endured an evening of frightening banality. Ahmed ramming his toy against the kitchen floor. Ahmed pretending to be a jet airplane. Ahmed kicking a ball against the wall of the sitting room. At 8:15, there was an ear-shattering crash. Though they were never able to accurately identify the object lost, it was of sufficient value to launch Hanifah into a hysterical tirade. A remorseful Ahmed responded by asking whether his father was going to telephone that night. Gabriel, who was pacing the floor as though looking for lost valuables, froze and awaited the answer. He’ll call if he can, Hanifah said. He always does. Ibrahim, it seemed, had been telling the truth after all.

  At 8:20, Ahmed was ordered into a bath. Hanifah cleaned up the disaster in the sitting room, then switched on the television. Her choice of channels was illuminative, for it soon became clear she was watching al-Manar, the official television network of Hezbollah. For the next twenty minutes, while Ahmed splashed about in his tub, they were forced to sit through a sermon by a Lebanese cleric who extolled the bravery of the Sword of Allah and called for more acts of terror against the infidel Americans and their Zionist allies.

  At 8:43, the sermon was interrupted by the shrill scream of the telephone. Hanifah answered it quickly and, in Arabic, said, “Ishaq, is that you?” It was not Ishaq but a very confused Danish man looking for someone named Knud. Hearing the voice of an Arabic-speaking woman—and, no doubt, the clerical rant in the background—he apologized profusely and hastily rang off. Hanifah returned the receiver to the cradle and shouted at Ahmed to get out of the bath. The Hezbollah preacher shouted back that the time had come for the Muslims of the world to finish the job Hitler had started.

  Mordecai looked at Gabriel in exasperation. “Both of us don’t have to sit through this shit,” he said. “Why don’t you get out of here for a few minutes?”

  “I don’t want to miss his call.”

  “That’s what the recorders are for.” Mordecai handed Gabriel his coat and gave him a little shove toward the door. “Go get something to eat. And take Sarah with you. You two make a nice couple.”

  A string quartet was sawing away indifferently at a Bach minuet downstairs in the parlor. Gabriel and Sarah slipped past them without a glance and struck out across the square toward the cafés along the New Harbor. It had turned much colder; Sarah wore a beret, and her coat collar was turned up dramatically. When Gabriel teased her about looking too much like a spy, she seized his arm playfully and pressed her body against his shoulder. They sat outside along the quay and drank freezing Carlsberg beneath a hissing gas heater. Gabriel picked at a plate of fried cod and potatoes while Sarah stared at the colorful floodlit façades of the canal houses on the opposite embankment.

  “Better than Langley, I suppose.”

  “Anything is better than Langley,” he said.

  She looked up at the hard black sky. “I suppose your fate is now in the hands of NSA and its satellites.”

  “Yours, too,” Gabriel said. “You would have been wise to go to London with Adrian.”

  “And miss this?” She lowered her gaze toward the canal houses. “If he calls tonight, do you think we’ll be able to find her?”

  “It depends on how well NSA is able to pinpoint Ishaq’s location. Even if NSA does manage to locate Elizabeth, Washington is going to have another problem—how to get her out alive. Ishaq and his colleagues are more than willing to die, which means that any attempt to storm the hideout will no doubt end violently. But I’m sure expert opinion will come up with a plan.”

  “Don’t play the wounded martyr, Gabriel. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I didn’t appreciate some of the things that were said about me in Washington today.”

  “Washington is a town without pity.”

  “So is Jerusalem.”

  “Then you’re going to need a thicker skin when you become the chief of the Office.” She gave him a mischievous sideways glance over the top of her collar. “Adrian says it’s just a rumor, but, judging from your reaction, it’s true.” She raised her glass. “Mazel tov.”

  “Condolences would be more appropriate.”

  “You don’t want the job?”

  “Some men have greatness thrust upon them.”

  “You’re in a fine mood tonight.”

  “Forgive me, Sarah. Talk of genocide and extermination tends to spoil the evening for me.”

  “Oh, that.” She sipped her beer and fought off a shiver. “You know, this restaurant does have an indoor section.”

  “Yes, but it’s harder for me to tell whether we’re being watched.”

  “Are we?”

  “You’re trained in countersurveillance. You tell me.”

  “There was a man drinking in the bar when we left the hotel,” she said. “He’s now standing on the other side of the canal with a woman who’s at least fifteen years older than he is.”

  “Is he Danish security?”

  “He was speaking German in the bar.”

  “So.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think he’s Danish security. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s a German gigolo who’s going to take that poor woman for every penny she has.”

  “Should we warn her?”

  “I’m afraid we have enough to worry about tonight.”

  “Are you always such a charming date?”

  “I didn’t realize this was a date.”

  “It’s the closest thing to a date I’ve had in a long time.”

  Gabriel gave her a disbelieving look and popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “Do you really expect me to believe you have difficulty attracting men?”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but at the moment I’m living under an assumed identity because of my role in the al-Bakari operation. It makes it rather difficult to meet men. Even my coworkers in the CTC don’t know my real name or anything about my past. I suppose it’s for the best. Anyone I met now wouldn’t stand a chance anyway. I’m afraid my heart has been taken hostage by someone else.” She peered at him over her glass. “Now is the time you’re supposed to bashfully ask me the name of the man who’s kidnapped my heart.”

  “Some questions are better left unasked, Sarah.”

  “You’re such a stoic, aren’t you, Gabriel?” She took a drink of her beer and resumed her appraisal of the canal houses. “But your heart is spoken for, too, isn’t it?”

  “Trust me, Sarah—you can do far better than a fifty-something m
isanthrope from the Valley of Jezreel.”

  “I’ve always been attracted to misanthropic men, especially gifted ones. But I’m afraid my timing has always been lousy. It’s why I studied art instead of music.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “It’s Chiara, isn’t it?”

  Gabriel nodded his head slowly.

  “I could always tell,” Sarah said. “She’s a very lucky girl.”

  “I’m the lucky one.”

  “She’s far too young for you, you know.”

  “She’s older than you, but thanks for the reminder anyway.”

  “If she ever throws you over for a younger man…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, you know where to find me. I’ll be the lonely former museum curator working the graveyard shift on the Saudi Arabia desk of the Counterterrorism Center.”

  Gabriel reached out and touched her face. The cold had added a dab of crimson to her alabaster cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “We should have never used you. We should have found someone else.”

  “There is no one else like me,” she said. “But I guess you already know that.”

  A band of Chinese tourists, Europe’s newest packaged invaders, were posing for pictures in the center of the King’s New Square. Gabriel took Sarah by the arm and led her the long way round, while privately he waxed poetic on the splendid irony of a people on the march vacationing in the shrines of a civilization in twilight. They entered the lobby of the d’Angleterre under the admiring gaze of the concierge and climbed the stairs to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon. Mordecai was pacing nervously as they slipped quietly into the room. He pressed a pair of headphones into Gabriel’s hand and led him over to the recorders. “He called,” he whispered. “He actually called. We’ve got him, Gabriel. You’ve done it.”

  32

  CAIRO: 10:19 P.M., TUESDAY

  The truth had come out in Interrogation Room 4 of the Scorpion, but then it always did. Just as Wazir al-Zayyat had suspected, Hussein Mandali was no ordinary middle school teacher. He was a senior operative of the Sword of Allah and commander of an important cell based in Imbaba. He had also confessed to being present when Sheikh Tayyib recorded his sermon calling for an uprising against the regime, a recording session that had taken place Sunday morning in Apartment 2408 of the Ramses Towers, a luxury block north of the Gezira Sporting Club filled with foreigners, film stars, and newly rich friends of the regime. A quick check of the files had revealed that the apartment in question was owned by a company called Nejad Holdings, and a second check had confirmed that Nejad Holdings was controlled by one Prince Rashid bin Sultan al-Saud.

  It was not the first time the prince’s name had arisen in connection with Islamic terrorism in Egypt. He’d funneled millions of dollars into the pockets of the Egyptian jihadists over the years, including fronts and entities controlled by the Sword of Allah. But because the prince was a Saudi—and because impoverished Egypt was beholden to Saudi economic aid—al-Zayyat had had no choice but to turn a blind eye to his charitable endeavors. This is different, he thought now. Giving money to Islamist causes was one thing; providing aid and shelter to a terrorist bent on the destruction of the Mubarak regime was quite another. If the SSI managed to find Sheikh Tayyib hiding in a Saudi-owned property, it might very well give al-Zayyat the ammunition he needed to end Saudi meddling in Egypt’s internal affairs once and for all.

  Al-Zayyat arrived at the Ramses Towers shortly after 10:30 and found the building surrounded by several hundred raw police recruits. He knew that many of the young officers secretly supported the goals of the Sword—and that many of them, if given the opportunity, would gladly duplicate the actions of Lieutenant Khaled Islambouli and put a bullet through Pharaoh’s chest. He directed his driver to a spot across the street and lowered his window. Aman from his directorate, spotting the official Mercedes, came over at a trot.

  “We went in about two minutes ago,” the officer said. “The place was empty, but it was clear someone had been there recently and that whoever it was had left in a hurry. There was food on the table and pans in the kitchen. Everything was still warm.”

  Al-Zayyat swore softly. Was it bad luck, or did he have a traitor in his midst—someone inside the SSI who had alerted the sheikh that Mandali had been captured and was talking?

  “Close the Zamalek bridges,” he said. “No one gets off the island without a thorough search. Then start knocking on doors inside the Ramses. I don’t care if you have to ruffle the feathers of the rich and famous. I want to make sure the sheikh isn’t still hiding somewhere inside.”

  The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.

  “We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.

  “Shall we have another go at Mandali?”

  “No, he’s dry, too.”

  “What do you want us to do with him?”

  “We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”

  33

  COPENHAGEN: 10:24 P.M., TUESDAY

  Gabriel sat before the recorder, slipped on a pair of headphones, and pressed PLAY.

  “I was afraid you were never going to call tonight. Do you know what time it is?”

  “I’ve been busy. You’ve seen the news?”

  “The bombings? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “The Danes are shocked, of course. They’re wondering when it’s going to happen in Copenhagen. Here in Nørrebro, they say Europe is getting what it deserves for supporting the Americans. They want the Americans to release the sheikh.”

  “Be careful what you say on the telephone, Hanifah. You never know who’s listening.”

  “Who would bother to listen to me? I’m no one.”

  “You’re married to a man who works for the Islamic Affairs Council of Denmark.”

  “A man who thinks nothing of leaving his wife and child to roam the Middle East conducting research on the state of the Islamic world. Where are you tonight anyway?”

  “Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”

  Gabriel pressed STOP, then REWIND, then PLAY.

  “Where are you tonight anyway?”

  “Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”

  “He misses his father.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “It’s too late, Ishaq. He’s been asleep for almost an hour.”

  “Wake him.”

  “No.”

  “It’s important I speak to him tonight.”

  “Then you should have called earlier. Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”

  “It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”

  “It sounds like you’re on a highway.”

  “It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”

  STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

  “Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”

  “It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”

  “It sounds like you’re on a highway.”

  “It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “He’s well?”

  “He seemed so.”

  “How’s the weather in Copenhagen?”

  “Cold, Ishaq. What do you think?”

  “Any strangers around the apartment? Any unfamiliar faces in the streets?”

  “A few more police than usual, but it’s calm here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Why are you so nervous?”

  “Because the Muslim communities across Europe are under siege at the moment. Because we are being rounded up and brought in for questioning simply because we happen to speak Arabic or pray toward Mecca.”

  “No one’s
being rounded up in Copenhagen.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When does this conference of yours end, Ishaq? When are you coming home?”

  “Actually, you’re coming here. Not Istanbul. Some place better.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Go to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I left an envelope for you there.”

  “I don’t feel like playing games, Ishaq. I’m tired.”

  “Just do as I tell you, Hanifah. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

  Hanifah gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the receiver down next to the telephone so hard that the sound caused Gabriel’s eardrums to vibrate like a snare drum. The next sounds he heard were distant: the patter of slippered feet, a drawer being yanked open, the rustle of crisp paper. Then, a few seconds later, Hanifah’s startled voice.

  “Where did you get this money?”

  “Never mind where I got it. Do you have the tickets?”

  “Beirut? Why are we going to Beirut?”

  “For a holiday.”

  “The plane leaves Friday morning. How am I supposed to be ready that soon?”

  “Just throw a few things in a bag. I’ll have someone from the Council take you to the airport. A colleague of mine from Beirut will meet you at the airport and take you and Ahmed to an apartment that we’ve been given use of. I’ll come from Istanbul in a couple of days.”

  “This is crazy, Ishaq. Why didn’t you tell me until now?”

  “Just do as I say, Hanifah. I have to go now.”

  “When am I going to hear from you again?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure? You tell me to get on a plane to Beirut and that’s it?”

  “Yes, that’s it. You’re my wife. You do as I say.”

  “No, Ishaq. Tell me when I’m going to hear from you again or I’m not getting on that plane.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow night.”

  “When?”