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

by Daniel Silva

  “When it’s convenient.”

  “No, not when it’s convenient. I want to know when you’re going to call.”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Whose time, yours or mine?”

  “Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”

  “At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”

  “I have to go now, Hanifah.”

  “Ishaq, wait.”

  “I love you, Hanifah.”

  “Ishaq—”

  Click.

  “What have you done, Ishaq? My God, what have you done?”

  STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

  “I want to know when you’re going to call.”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Who’s time, yours or mine?”

  “Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”

  “At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”

  STOP.

  Gabriel looked at Mordecai. “I’m going to listen to the spot where Ishaq asks Hanifah to go get the tickets and money. Can you turn down the room coverage so I can hear only Ishaq?”

  Mordecai nodded and did as Gabriel asked. The interlude was twenty-three seconds. Gabriel listened to it three times, then removed his headphones and looked at Sarah.

  “Tell Adrian not to wait for NSA,” he said. “Tell him that Ishaq is calling from a highway rest stop in Germany—the northwest, judging by the accents of the people I can hear in the background. Tell him he’s traveling with at least one other man. They’re moving her around in a cargo truck or a transit van. He won’t be stopping again for several hours. He just filled the tank with gas.”

  34

  ABOVE COLORADO: 3:28 P.M., TUESDAY

  The Falcon 2000 executive jet began to pitch as it sank into the storm clouds above the plains of eastern Colorado. Lawrence Strauss removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. One of Washington’s most powerful lawyers, he was a nervous flier by nature and avoided planes whenever he could—especially private planes, which he regarded as little more than death traps with wings. Given the nature of his current case, Strauss’s client had mandated he fly from Washington, D.C., to Colorado on a borrowed jet under conditions of extreme secrecy. Usually Lawrence Strauss didn’t permit clients to dictate his personal schedule or method of travel, but in this case he had made an exception. The client was a personal friend who also happened to be the president of the United States—and the mission he had given Strauss was so sensitive that only the president and his attorney general knew it existed.

  The Falcon came out of the clouds and settled into a stratum of smoother air. Strauss slipped his glasses back on and looked down at the file open on the worktable in front of him: The United States v. Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq. It had been given to him late the previous evening inside the White House by the president himself. Strauss had learned much by reading the government’s case against the Egyptian cleric, mainly that it had been a house of cards. In the hands of a good defense lawyer, it could have been toppled with the flick of a well-presented motion to dismiss. But the sheikh hadn’t had a good defense lawyer; instead he had enlisted the services of a grandstanding civil rights warrior from Manhattan who had walked straight into the prosecutor’s trap. If Lawrence Strauss had been the sheikh’s lawyer, the case would never have gone to trial. Abdullah would have pleaded down to a much less serious offense or, in all likelihood, walked out of the courtroom a free man.

  But Lawrence Strauss didn’t take cases like Sheikh Abdullah’s. In fact, he rarely took cases at all. In Washington he was known as the lawyer no one knew but everyone wanted. He never spoke to the press, stayed clear of Washington cocktail parties, and the only time he had been inside a courtroom in the last twenty years was to testify against a man who assaulted him during an early-morning run through northwest Washington’s Battery Kemble Park. Strauss had never won a major trial, and no groundbreaking appeal bore his name. He operated in Washington’s shadows, where political connections and personal friendships counted for more than legal brilliance, and, unlike most of his brethren in the Washington legal community, he possessed the ability to cross political lines. His politics were the politics of pragmatism, his opinion so highly valued that he usually spent several weekends a year at Camp David, no matter which party was in power. Lawrence Strauss was a cutter of deals and a smoother of ruffled feathers, a conciliator and a crafter of compromises. He made problems and prosecutors go away. He believed trials were a roll of the dice, and Lawrence Strauss didn’t play games of chance—except for his Thursday-night poker game, which included the chief justice of the United States Supreme Court, two former attorneys general, and the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Last week he’d won big. He usually did.

  A burst of static came over the plane’s intercom system, followed by the voice of the pilot, informing Strauss that they would be landing in ten minutes. Strauss slipped the file into his briefcase and watched the snow-covered plains rising slowly to receive him. He feared he had been sent on a fool’s errand. He had been dealt a lousy hand, but then so had his opponent. He’d have to bluff. He didn’t like to bluff. Bluffing was for losers. And the only thing Lawrence Strauss hated worse than flying was losing.

  The United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility, also known as the Supermax, and the Alcatraz of the Rockies, stands two miles south of Florence, Colorado, hidden from public view by the rolling brown hills of Colorado’s high desert. Four hundred of the country’s most hardened and dangerous prisoners are incarcerated there, including Theodore Kaczynski, Terry Nichols, Eric Rudolph, Matthew Hale, David Lane, and Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso, underboss of the Lucchese crime family. Also residing within the walls of the Supermax is a large contingent of Islamic terrorists, including Zacarias Moussaoui, Richard Reid, and Ramzi Yousef, mastermind of the first World Trade Center attack in 1993. Despite the high-profile inmate population, recent investigations had revealed that the prison was dangerously understaffed and far from secure. Prosecutors in California had learned that Mexican mafia leader Ruben Castro was running his Los Angeles criminal enterprises from his cell in the Supermax, while authorities in Spain discovered that World Trade Center conspirator Mohammed Salameh had been in written communication with terror cells linked to the Madrid subway bombings. Lawrence Strauss, as he passed through the outer gate in the back of an FBI Suburban, hoped the beleaguered guards managed to keep a lid on the place until he was airborne again.

  The warden was waiting for Strauss in the reception area. He extended his hand solemnly as Strauss came inside and offered a murmured greeting, then turned and led him wordlessly into the bowels of the complex. They passed through a series of barred doors, each of which closed behind them with an irrefutable finality. Strauss had taken a ride with the president once on a nuclear submarine, an experience he had vowed never to repeat. He felt the same way now—confined, claustrophobic, and sweating despite the sharp chill.

  The warden led him into a secure interview room. It was divided into two chambers separated by a Plexiglas wall—visitors on one side, prisoner on the other, a telephone line between them. A sign warned that all conversations were subject to electronic monitoring. Strauss looked at the warden and said, “I’m afraid this won’t do.”

  “The recording devices and surveillance cameras will be turned off.”

  “Under no circumstances is this conversation going to be conducted electronically.”

  “It’s good enough for the CIA and the FBI when they come here.”

  “I don’t work for the CIA or the FBI.”

  “I’m afraid it’s regulations, Mr. Strauss.”

  Strauss reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “One phone call—that’s all it will take. One phone call and I get what I want. But let’s not waste valuable time. Let’s find some reasonable compromise.”

  “What do you have in mind?”
r />   Strauss told him.

  “He hasn’t been out of his cell in weeks.”

  “Then the fresh air will do him good.”

  “Do you know how cold it is outside?”

  “Get him a coat,” Strauss said.

  It was beginning to get dark by the time Strauss was shown through a secure doorway leading to the west exercise yard. A folding table and two folding chairs had been placed in the precise center and arc lamps were burning along the top of the electrified fence. Four guards stood like statuary along the perimeter; two more were perched along the parapet of the watchtower with weapons trained downward. Strauss nodded in approval to the warden, then headed into the yard alone and took his seat.

  Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq emerged from the cellblock five minutes later in shackles, sandwiched between a pair of hulking guards. He was shorter than Strauss anticipated, five-six perhaps, and thin as a pauper. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit and a tan parka was draped over his boney shoulders. His beard was unkempt, and what little Strauss could see of his face was gray and slack with illness. It was the face of a dying man, he thought, a face that had not seen sunlight in many years. His eyes, however, still shone with a condescending intelligence. Lawrence Strauss was a man who earned his living making instantaneous judgments about people. His first opinion of Sheikh Abdullah was that he was a courageous and committed man—hardly the raving zealot that had been portrayed by the media and the prosecution at the time of his trial. He would be more than a worthy opponent.

  As the sheikh lowered himself into the chair, Strauss looked at one of the guards. “Remove his shackles, please.”

  The guard shook his head. “It’s against the rules.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “Sorry,” the guard said, “but it’s a rule we never bend at the Max. Prisoners are never unshackled when they’re outside the cell. Right, Sheikh Abdullah?”

  The guards gave the sheikh a pat on the back and started back to the cellblock. The Egyptian made no response other than to fix his dark eyes directly on those of Lawrence Strauss.

  “Who are you?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  “My name is Arthur Hamilton,” said Strauss.

  “You work for the American government, Mr. Hamilton?”

  Strauss shook his head. “I want to make clear from the outset that I am a private citizen. I have no connection to the government of the United States whatsoever.”

  “But surely you didn’t come to this place on your own volition. Surely you have been sent here by others.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Who sent you here?”

  Strauss looked up at the guards in the tower, then gazed directly at Sheikh Abdullah. “I am an emissary of the president of the United States.”

  The sheikh accepted this piece of information with an air of detachment. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said calmly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “I assume you are aware of the fact that your group has kidnapped the daughter of the American ambassador in London and is threatening to murder her if the United States does not release you and return you to Egypt.”

  “Choose your words carefully, Mr. Hamilton. Elizabeth Halton is a legitimate target in our eyes. Her death, should it come to pass, would not be murder, but a justifiable killing.”

  “So then you are aware of what has transpired on your behalf?”

  “I am fully aware, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Are you in any way connected to the attack?”

  “Are you asking me if I ordered it or helped plan it?”

  “That is precisely what I’m asking.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I have had no contact with the Sword of Allah since my incarceration in this facility. What has been done on my behalf was set in motion without my approval or knowledge.”

  “By your brother?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The sheikh gave a fleeting smile. “You are very good at asking questions, Mr. Hamilton. Am I to assume that you are a lawyer?”

  “Guilty as charged, Sheikh Abdullah.”

  “I appreciate your candor. May I now ask you a question?”

  Strauss nodded.

  “Will you convert to Islam, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As a devout Muslim, I am obligated to do many things, including bringing the gift of Islam to the unbelievers.”

  “I’m afraid my allegiances are already spoken for, Sheikh Abdullah.”

  “You are a person of the Book?”

  “I believe in the law, Sheikh Abdullah.”

  “The only law that matters is God’s law.”

  “And what would God say about the atrocities that have been committed in Europe on your behalf? What would God say about the murder and kidnapping of innocents?”

  “The number of dead pale in comparison to the number who have been tortured and killed by your friend Hosni Mubarak. They are but a pittance compared to the number of innocent Muslims who have died because of the American and British adventure in Iraq.” The sheikh fell silent for a moment. “Do you know what happened in my country after Osama’s airplanes hit your Twin Towers? Your government gave the Mubarak regime a list of names—hundreds of names, Mr. Hamilton. And do you know what Mubarak and his secret police did? They arrested all those men and tortured them mercilessly, even though they had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11.”

  “And this justifies the kidnapping and murder of an innocent woman?”

  “Without question.” The sheikh turned his face to the arc lamps. The harsh light washed all color from him. “But the president didn’t send you all the way here from Washington to engage in a debate, did he, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “No, Sheikh Abdullah, he did not.”

  “What then is the purpose of your visit?”

  “The president has dispatched me here to request a favor. He would like you to issue a fatwa condemning the actions of your group and calling for Elizabeth Halton’s immediate release. The president feels your words would have a profound influence on the minds of her captors.”

  “Her captors are listening to other voices, Mr. Hamilton. Mine would be mere background noise.”

  “The president thinks otherwise.” Strauss’s next words were spoken with care. “And he would be extremely grateful for whatever help you could provide us in this matter.”

  “How would the president demonstrate this gratitude?”

  “I’m not here to negotiate, Sheikh Abdullah.”

  “Of course you are, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “The president believes you are a reasonable man who would not want Elizabeth Halton harmed. The president believes bargaining at a time like this would be inappropriate. It would also be against the stated policy of the United States of America.”

  “If the president believes I am such a reasonable man, then why did he refer to me as a bloodthirsty terrorist?”

  “Sometimes things are said for public consumption that don’t necessarily reflect true feelings,” Strauss said. “As a man of the Middle East, I’m sure you can understand this.”

  “More than you might think,” the Egyptian said. “But the president doesn’t need my cooperation in this fatwa. He can tell his clever spies in the CIA to fabricate one.”

  “The president feels it won’t be believed by the captors unless it is spoken by you. He would like you to read your statement on camera. We would make provisions here, of course.”

  “Of course.” The sheikh tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Am I to understand that the president of the United States is asking me to end this crisis for him and yet he is offering me nothing in return?”

  Strauss removed the file from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “It has come to my attention that the prosecutors from the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Virginia did not turn over to your lawyers certain exculpatory evidence that they were required by law to give them. I belie
ve a well-crafted Section 2255 motion would receive a favorable reception in the courts.”

  “How favorable?”

  Again Strauss proceeded with caution. “I can foresee a scenario in which your conviction is overturned, at which point the government would have to decide whether to retry you or simply release you. In the meantime, steps can be taken to make your stay here more comfortable.”

  “You make it sound as though I am an invited guest.”

  “You were an invited guest, Sheikh Abdullah. We granted you permission to enter our country and you repaid our hospitality by conspiring to attack some of our most important landmarks.”

  “But you would be willing to take my case nonetheless?”

  “It’s not the sort of work I do,” Strauss said. “But I can think of several lawyers who would do a very fine job.”

  “And how long would such a process take?”

  “Two years,” Strauss said. “Three years at most.”

  “Do I look like a man who has three years to live?”

  “You have no other options.”

  “No, Mr. Hamilton, the president is the one without options. In fact, his options are so limited he has sent you here cap in hand to plead for my help. In return you offer me false hope and expect me to be grateful. But that’s what you Americans always do, isn’t it, Mr. Hamilton? What you don’t seem to understand is that there is more at stake now than just the fate of a single American woman. The Sword has set fire to Egypt. The days of the Mubarak regime are now numbered. And when it falls, the entire Middle East will change overnight.”

  Strauss put the file back into his briefcase. “I’m not an expert on the Middle East, but something tells me you have miscalculated. Issue the fatwa, Sheikh Abdullah. Save Elizabeth Halton’s life. Do the decent thing. God will reward you.” He hesitated, then added: “And so will the president.”

  “Tell your president that America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists and we don’t negotiate with tyrants. Tell him to comply with the Sword’s demands or he’ll be standing at Andrews Air Force Base soon, watching a coffin coming off an airplane.”