She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “How are things between you and Chiara?”
“Perfect,” said Gabriel.
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sarah murmured archly.
“Sarah . . .”
“Don’t worry, Gabriel, I got over you a long time ago.”
A pair of middle-aged women entered the garden and sat at the opposite end. Sarah leaned forward in feigned intimacy and, in French, asked Gabriel what he was doing in town. He responded by tapping the front page of her newspaper.
“Since when is our soaring national debt a problem for Israeli intelligence?” she asked playfully.
Gabriel pointed toward the front-page story about the debate raging within the American intelligence community about the provenance of the three attacks in Europe.
“How did you get dragged into it?”
“Chiara and I decided to take a stroll through Covent Garden last Friday afternoon on our way to lunch.”
Sarah’s expression darkened. “So the reports about an unidentified man drawing a weapon a few seconds before the attack—”
“Are true,” said Gabriel. “I could have saved eighteen lives. Unfortunately, the British wouldn’t hear of it.”
“So who do you think was responsible?”
“You’re the terrorism expert, Sarah. You tell me.”
“It’s possible the attacks were masterminded by the old-line al-Qaeda leadership in Pakistan,” she said. “But in my opinion, we’re dealing with an entirely new network.”
“Led by whom?”
“Someone with the charisma of Bin Laden who could recruit his own operatives in Europe and call upon cells from other terror groups.”
“Any candidates?”
“Just one,” she said. “Rashid al-Husseini.”
“Why Paris?”
“The ban on the facial veil.”
“Copenhagen?”
“They’re still seething over the cartoons.”
“And London?”
“London is low-hanging fruit. London can be attacked at will.”
“Not bad for a former curator at the Phillips Collection.”
“I’m an art historian, Gabriel. I know how to connect dots. I can connect a few more, if you like.”
“Please do.”
“Your presence in Washington means the rumors are true.”
“What rumors are those?”
“The ones about Rashid being on the Agency’s payroll after 9/11. The ones about a good idea that went very bad. Adrian believed in Rashid and Rashid repaid that trust by building a network right under our noses. Now I suppose Adrian would like you to take care of the problem for him—off the books, of course.”
“Is there any other way?”
“Not where you’re concerned,” she said. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Adrian needs someone to spy on me. You were the obvious candidate.” Gabriel hesitated, then said, “But if you think it would be too awkward . . .”
“Because of Mikhail?”
“It’s possible you’ll be working together again, Sarah. I wouldn’t want personal feelings to interfere with the smooth functioning of the team.”
“Since when has your team ever functioned smoothly? You’re Israelis. You fight with one another constantly.”
“But we never allow personal feelings to influence operational decisions.”
“I’m a professional,” she said. “Given our history together, I shouldn’t think I’d need to remind you of that.”
“You don’t.”
“So where do we start?”
“We need to get to know Rashid a bit better.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“By reading his Agency files.”
“But they’re filled with lies.”
“That’s correct,” said Gabriel. “But those lies are like layers of paint on a canvas. Peel them away, and we might find ourselves staring directly at the truth.”
“No one ever speaks that way at Langley.”
“I know,” Gabriel said. “If they did, I’d still be in Cornwall working on a Titian.”
Chapter 15
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
GABRIEL AND SARAH TOOK UP residence at the house on N Street at nine the following morning. The first batch of files arrived one hour later—six stainless steel crates, all sealed with digital locks. For some unfathomable reason, Carter entrusted the combinations only to Sarah. “Rules are rules,” he said, “and Agency rules state that officers of foreign intelligence services are never to be given the combinations of document receptacles.” When Gabriel pointed out that he was being allowed to see some of the Agency’s dirtiest laundry, Carter was unyielding. Technically speaking, the material was to remain in Sarah’s possession. The taking of notes was to be kept to a minimum and photocopying was forbidden. Carter personally removed the secure fax machine and requested Gabriel’s mobile phone—a request Gabriel politely declined. The phone had been issued to him by the Office and contained several features not available commercially. In fact, he had used it the previous evening to sweep the house for listening devices. He had found four. Obviously, interservice cooperation only went so far.
The initial shipment of files all focused on Rashid’s time in America before 9/11 and his connections, nefarious or serendipitous, to the plot itself. Most of the material had been generated by Langley’s unglamorous rival, the FBI, and had been shared during the brief period when, by presidential order, the two agencies were supposed to be cooperating. It revealed that Rashid al-Husseini popped up on the Bureau’s radar within weeks of his arrival in San Diego and was the target of somewhat apathetic surveillance. There were transcripts from the court-approved wiretaps on his phones and surveillance photos shot during the brief periods when the San Diego and Washington field offices had the time and manpower to follow him. There was also a copy of the classified interagency review that officially cleared Rashid of playing any role in the 9/11 plot. It was, thought Gabriel, a profoundly naïve piece of work that chose to portray the cleric in the kindest possible light. Gabriel believed a man was the company he kept, and he had been around terror networks long enough to know an operative when he saw one. Rashid al-Husseini was almost certainly a messenger or an innkeeper. At the very least, he was a fellow traveler. And, in Gabriel’s opinion, fellow travelers should rarely be taken on by intelligence services as paid agents of influence. They should be watched and, if necessary, dealt with harshly.
The next shipment contained the transcripts and recordings of Rashid’s interrogation by the CIA, followed soon after by the detritus of the ill-fated operation in which he had played a starring role. The material concluded with a despairing after-action postmortem, written in the days following Rashid’s defection in Mecca. The operation, it said, had been poorly conceived from the outset. Much of the blame was placed squarely at the feet of Adrian Carter, who was faulted for lax oversight. Attached was Carter’s own assessment, which was scarcely less scathing. Predicting there would be blowback, he recommended a thorough review of Rashid’s contacts in the United States and Europe. Carter’s director had overruled him. The Agency was stretched too thin to go chasing after shadows, the director said. Rashid was back in Yemen where he belonged. Good riddance.
