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

by Daniel Silva

  “They had similar backgrounds. Both were children of the elite.”

  “There’s a big difference between Gosplan and the KGB.”

  Gabriel heard footfalls and looked up to see a floppy-haired runner bounding toward them with headphones over his ears. He envied those innocent souls who could go out in public deprived of a vital sense. When they were alone again, Carter asked, “How do you intend to play this?”

  “After listening to those intercepts, I’m convinced that if a painting by Mary Cassatt were to come quietly onto the market Elena Kharkov would jump at the opportunity to have a look.”

  “And you would be standing next to it when she did?”

  “Or one of my associates. Someone with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for the paintings of Mary Cassatt. Someone who won’t make Elena’s bodyguards nervous.”

  Carter absently patted his right pocket, as if looking for his pipe. “Should I assume this encounter would take place on British soil?”

  “You should.”

  “That means you’re going to have to bring the British into the picture. Ivan and his entourage are under full-time MI5 surveillance whenever they’re in London. I suspect our British cousins will be more than willing to cooperate. The British have been pressing us to do something about Ivan for years.”

  Twenty yards ahead, a young woman was being pulled along the towpath by a panting Siberian husky. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary in the trade, deftly switched places with Carter and watched with a certain professional satisfaction as the dog pressed its dripping muzzle against the leg of Carter’s tracksuit.

  “This agent with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for Mary Cassatt,” Carter said as he wiped away the spittle. “Do you have someone in mind for the job yet?”

  “I’m inclined to use a woman. She would have to be able to pass as an American or a Brit. We have several suitable candidates but none with any real expertise when it comes to art. Which means I’d have to start from scratch to get them ready.”

  “That’s a shame. After all, the clock is ticking.”

  “Yes, Adrian, I realize that.”

  “As you may recall, we have someone who might fit the bill. She has a Ph.D. in art history from Harvard and she’s done a job like this before. She’s even operated with your service on a couple of occasions, which means she understands your rather archaic Hebrew-based lexicon.”

  “It might be complicated, Adrian.”

  “Because she’s secretly in love with you.” Carter glanced at Gabriel to see his reaction but received only a blank stare in return. “She’s a big girl, Gabriel. And thanks to you, she’s a true professional now.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Still at the Counterterrorism Center at Langley, which means she’s technically under my control. If you want her, she’s yours.”

  “Poor choice of words, Adrian.”

  “I was speaking in a professional sense, of course.”

  Gabriel walked in silence for a moment. “Obviously, she’s perfect for the job. But are you sure she’s ready to go back into the field?”

  “She worked with you during the Halton affair.”

  “As a liaison only. This operation would require sending her undercover again.”

  “I’m given regular updates on her progress. The Agency psychiatrist we assigned to her says she’s coming along nicely. Personnel says she’s had no problems adapting to her new cover identity, and her superiors at the CTC have given her extremely high marks.”

  “Not surprising, Adrian. She’s a star. God only knows why your recruiters rejected her in the first place.”

  “They thought she was too independent—and maybe a bit too intelligent. We’re not like you, Gabriel. We like our case officers to think inside the box.”

  “And you wonder why your most talented operatives are working for private contractors now.”

  “Spare me the critique, Gabriel. Do you want to use her or not?”

  “I’ll know after I talk to her.”

  “She comes on duty in the CTC at noon.”

  “Langley?” Gabriel shook his head. “I want to see her somewhere the Agency isn’t listening.”

  “That narrows our options considerably.” Carter made a show of careful consideration. “How about Dumbarton Oaks? The gardens, at noon.”

  “Just make sure she’s alone.”

  Carter smiled sadly. “Thanks to you, Gabriel, she never goes anywhere alone. And she probably never will.”

  26

  DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON

  The sun managed to burn through the veil of haze by mid-morning, and by the time Gabriel presented himself at the entrance of Dumbarton Oaks it had grown appallingly hot. He purchased an admission ticket from a man in a little booth and was handed a glossy brochure. He consulted it frequently while he strolled past the elaborate arbors, trellises, and ornamental pools. A few minutes after noon, he made his way to a distant corner of the gardens, where he found an attractive woman in her early thirties seated primly on a wooden bench, a paperback book open in her lap, lilies of the valley at her feet. She wore a simple cotton sundress and sandals. Her blond hair had grown out since he had seen her last; her alabaster skin was beginning to turn red from the intense sun. She looked up sharply as Gabriel approached, but her face remained oddly expressionless, as if it had been rendered by the hand of Mary Cassatt.

  “Were you able to spot Adrian’s watchers?” asked Sarah Bancroft.

  He kissed her cheek and led her toward the shade of a nearby trellis. “A nearsighted probationer fresh out of the academy could have spotted Adrian’s watchers.”

  "Let’s hear it.”

  “Woman with the sunhat, man with the plaid Bermuda shorts, the couple wearing matching ‘I Love New York’ shirts.”

  “Very good. But you missed the two boys in the dark sedan on R Street.”

  “I didn’t miss them. They might as well have just waved hello to me as I came inside.”

  They sat down together, but even in the shade there was little relief from the heavy wet heat. Sarah pushed her sunglasses into her hair and brushed a trickle of perspiration from her cheek. Gabriel gazed at her in profile while her eyes flickered restlessly around the gardens. The daughter of a wealthy Citibank executive, Sarah Bancroft had spent much of her childhood in Europe, where she had acquired a Continental education along with a handful of Continental languages and impeccable Continental manners. She had returned to America to attend Dartmouth, and later, after spending a year studying at the prestigious Courtauld Institute of Art in London, became the youngest woman ever to earn a Ph.D. in art history at Harvard. While finishing her dissertation, she began dating a young lawyer named Ben Callahan, who had the misfortune of boarding United Airlines Flight 175 on the morning of September 11, 2001. He managed to make one telephone call before the plane plunged into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. That call was to Sarah. Gabriel had given her the chance that Langley had denied her: to fight back against the murderers. With Carter’s blessing, and with the help of a lost Van Gogh, he had inserted her into the entourage of a Saudi billionaire named Zizi al-Bakari and ordered her to find the terrorist mastermind lurking within it. She had been lucky to survive. Her life had never been the same since.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.

  “Why ever would you think that? Because in the midst of a very tense operation, I committed the terribly unprofessional act of confessing my true feelings for you?”

  “That was one reason.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Gabriel. I’m over you now.” She looked at him and smiled. “Is it my imagination or do you seem a little disappointed?”

  “No, Sarah, I’m not disappointed.”

  “Of course you are. The question is, do you really want me tagging along on another operation?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because your lovely new Italian bride might not approve.”
She adjusted the thin straps of her sundress. It clung to her breasts in a way that could cause even the most faithful eye to wander. “You know, for a man of your many gifts, your knowledge of women is shockingly deficient.”

  “I make up for it in other ways.”

  “With your unfailingly pleasant demeanor?”

  “For starters.”

  She gazed at him for a moment as though he were a dull student. “The last person Chiara wants to see in the field again is me.”

  “You were a guest at our wedding.”

  “One of the worst days of my life. And that’s saying something, because I’ve had some pretty terrible days.”

  “But you’re over me now?”

  “Not even a flicker of interest.”

  A pair of Japanese tourists approached and, in a combination of broken English and halting gestures, asked Sarah to take their photograph. She agreed, much to Gabriel’s displeasure.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What have I done now?”

  “What if there had been a bomb in that camera?”

  “Who would put a bomb in a camera?”

  “We would.”

  “If it was so dangerous, then why did you let me do it?”

  “Because they were obviously harmless Japanese tourists.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I can tell.”

  “Just by looking at them?”

  “Yes, I can tell just by looking at them.”

  She laughed. “You’d better be careful, Gabriel. Otherwise, you might make me fall in love with you again.”

  “And we can’t have that.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  Gabriel gazed across the gardens and asked how much Carter had told her.

  “Only that you’re going after Ivan Kharkov.”

  “Know much about him?”

  “He’s not formally under the purview of the CTC, but he probably should be. We went to war in Iraq, in part, because we feared that Sad-dam might be willing to supply the terrorists with sophisticated weaponry or even weapons of mass destruction. But the terrorists don’t have to go to a state like Iraq to get their weapons. They can go to a nonstate actor like Ivan instead. For the right amount of money, he’ll sell them whatever they want and route it to them through one of his customers in Africa or Latin America.”

  “You’ve obviously learned your craft well.”

  “I was well trained.” She crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the wrinkles from her sundress. “What do you need me to do this time?”

  “Memorize the CIA’s files on Ivan and his network, and read everything you can about Mary Cassatt. Adrian will tell you the rest.”

  “Kharkov and Cassatt? Only a Gabriel Allon operation could feature a combination like that.” She lowered her sunglasses. “Should I assume you’ll need me to go undercover again?”

  “Yes, you should.” A silence fell between them, heavy as the midday heat. “If you don’t want to do it, Sarah, just tell me. God knows, you’ve done more than enough already.”

  She looked at him and smiled. It was a brave smile, thought Gabriel. The kind that didn’t quite extend to the rest of the face. “And miss all the fun?” She fanned herself dramatically with her book. “Besides, I’d do just about anything to get out of here for a few days. I can’t stand Washington in the summer.”

  27

  LONDON

  Number 7 Mornington Terrace was a sooty postwar apartment block overlooking the rail tracks of Euston Station. When Gabriel rang the bell of Apartment 5C, the door opened a few inches and a pair of gray eyes regarded him coolly over the chain. They didn’t look pleased to see him. They rarely did.

  Free of the chain, the door swung open a more hospitable distance. Gabriel stepped inside and took stock of his surroundings: a dreary little bed-sit, with a cracked linoleum floor and flea market furnishings. The man waiting inside looked as though he had wandered into the flat by mistake. He wore a pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, and cuff links the size of shillings. His hair had been blond once; now it had the cast of pewter. It gave him the appearance of a model in a magazine advertisement for fine cognac, or an actor in a soap opera, the older millionaire type who puts himself about with younger women.

  Graham Seymour didn’t have time to pursue women. As deputy director of MI5, the British Security Service, he had more than enough work on his desk to keep him occupied. His country was now home to several thousand Islamic extremists with known terrorist connections. And just to keep things interesting, Russian espionage activities in London were now at levels not seen since the end of the Cold War. Those activities included the 2006 murder of Aleksandr Litvinenko, a former FSB agent and Kremlin critic who had been poisoned with a dose of highly radioactive polonium-210, an act of nuclear terrorism carried out by the FSB in the heart of the British capital.

  Seymour must have arrived just before Gabriel because the shoulders of his coat were still beaded with raindrops. He tossed it wearily over the back of a chair and held out his hand. The palm was facing up.

  “Let’s not do this again, Graham.”

  “Hand it over.”

  Gabriel exhaled heavily and surrendered his passport. Seymour opened the cover and frowned.

  “Martin Stonehill. Place of birth: Hamburg, Germany.”

  “I’m a naturalized American citizen.”

  “So that explains the accent.” Seymour handed the passport back to Gabriel. “Is this a gift from your friend the president or the handiwork of your little band of forgers at King Saul Boulevard?”

  “Adrian was kind enough to let me borrow it. Traveling is hard enough these days without doing it on an Israeli passport bearing the name Gabriel Allon.” He slipped the passport back into his coat pocket and looked around the room. “Do you use this for all your high-level liaison meetings, Graham, or is this palace reserved for Israeli visitors?”

  “Don’t get your nose bent out of shape, Gabriel. I’m afraid it was all we could find on short notice. Besides, you were the one who refused to come to Thames House.”

  Thames House was MI5’s riverfront headquarters near Lambeth Bridge.

  “I really like what you’ve done with the place, Graham.”

  “It’s been in the family for years. We use it mainly as a crash pad and for debriefing sources and penetration agents.”

  “What sort of penetration agents?”

  “The sort that we slip into potential terrorist cells.”

  “In that case, I’m surprised you were able to squeeze me in.”

  “I’m afraid it does get its fair share of use.”

  “Any of your sources picking up any whispers about Russian arms headed this way?”

  “I put that question to the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre last night after talking to Adrian. The Americans aren’t the only ones who’ve been hearing chatter about the arrows of Allah. We’ve intercepted references to them as well.”

  In the galley kitchen, an electric teakettle began to spew steam. Gabriel walked over to the window and peered out at a passing West Coast Main Line train while Seymour saw to the tea. He returned with two cups, plain for Gabriel, milk and sugar for himself. “I’m afraid the housekeepers neglected to stock the pantry with digestive biscuits,” he said morosely. “It’s bad enough they left shelf milk instead of fresh, but failure to leave a package of McVitie’s is a firing offense, in my humble opinion.”

  “I can run down to the corner market if you’d like, Graham.”

  “I’ll survive.” Seymour lowered himself hesitantly onto the couch and placed his mug on a scratched coffee table. “Adrian gave me the basics of what you picked up in Moscow. Why don’t you fill me in on the rest?”

  Gabriel told Seymour everything, beginning with the murder of Boris Ostrovsky in Rome and ending with his interrogation and deportation from Russia. Seymour, who did nothing more dangerous these days than change his own ink cartridges, was suitably impressed.
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  “My, my, but you do manage to get around. And to think you accomplishedall that with only three dead bodies. That’s something of an accomplishment for you.” Seymour blew thoughtfully into his tea. “So what are you proposing? You want to pull Elena Kharkov aside for a private chat about her husband’s operations? Easier said than done, I’m afraid. Elena doesn’t put a toe outside her Knightsbridge mansion without a full complement of very nasty bodyguards. No one talks to Elena without talking to Ivan first.”

  “Actually, that’s not exactly true. There’s someone in London she talks to on a regular basis—someone who might be willing to help, considering the gravity of the situation.”

  “He’s a British citizen, I take it?”

  “Quite.”

  “Is he honestly employed?”

  “I suppose that depends on your point of view. He’s an art dealer.”

  “Where does he work?”

  Gabriel told him.

  “Oh, dear. This could be a bit ticklish.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Graham. I wouldn’t dream of operating in London without consulting you first.”

  “Spare me.”

  “I think we should have a little look under his fingernails before we make any approach. The art world is filled with a lot of shady characters. One can never be too careful.”

  “We? No, Gabriel, we won’t go anywhere near him. The Security Service will handle this matter with the utmost discretion and a proper Home Office warrant.”

  “How soon can you start?”

  “Seventy-two hours should suffice.”

  “I’ll have a man on him by lunch,” Seymour said.“ I propose we meet once a day to review the watch reports.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We can do it here if you like.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Your choice, then.”

  “St. James’s Park. Six o’clock. The benches on the north side of Duck Island.”

  Graham Seymour frowned. “I’ll bring the bread crumbs.”