some of it down the front of his jacket. He apologized and walked away, the plain brown envelope now residing safely in the outside pocket of the bodel‘s briefcase.
Gabriel wound his way through St. Giles, across New Oxford Street, then up the Tottenham Court Road, where there were several shops specializing in electronic goods. Ten minutes later, after visiting two of the shops, he was back in a taxi heading across London to the listening post in Sussex Gardens. On the seat next to him was a bag containing four items: a Sony clock radio, a British Telecom phone, and two felt-tipped pens, one red, one blue, both bold.
Karp sat at the dining room table, studying the exposed internal components of the clock radio and telephone through a lighted magnifying glass. As Gabriel watched Karp work, he thought about his studio in Cornwall and imagined he was peering through his Wild microscope at the surface of the Vecellio.
Karp said, “We call it a hot mike. Your outfit calls it a glass if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re correct as usual.”
“It’s a wonderful little piece of equipment, coverage of his flat and his telephone with the same device. Two for the price of one, you might say. And you never have to worry about replacing the battery because the transmitter draws its power from the telephone.”
Karp paused for a moment to concentrate on his work. “Once these go in, the monitoring operation is basically on autopilot. The tape decks are voice-activated. They’ll roll only if there’s something coming from the source. If you need to leave the flat for any reason, you can check the tapes when you come back. My work is basically finished.”
“I’ll miss you, Randy.”
“Gabe, I’m touched.”
“I know.”
“That was a nice piece of work, sending in the girl like that. Break-ins can get messy. Always better to get the keys and phone before you go in for the plant.”
Karp placed the cover back on the telephone, handed it to Gabriel. “Your turn.”
Gabriel the restorer picked up his pens and began making marks on the keypad.
Kemel Azouri had been at Schloss headquarters in Zurich earlier that morning, meeting with his sales staff, when he received a text message over his pager: Mr. Taylor wished to speak to him about a problem with last Thursday’s shipment. Kemel cut short his meeting, took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and boarded the next Eurostar train to London. The timing of the message intrigued him. Mr. Taylor was the code name for an agent in London. “A problem with the shipment” was a code phrase for urgent. Use of the word Thursday meant the agent wished to meet on Cheyne Walk at four-fifteen. Kemel strode through the arrival hall at Waterloo and climbed into a taxi at the stand. A moment later he was speeding across the Westminster Bridge.
He told the driver to drop him at Royal Hospital Chelsea. He walked along the river through the gathering darkness and waited at the foot of Battersea Bridge.
He checked his watch: four-twelve.
He lit a cigarette and waited.
Three minutes later, at precisely four-fifteen, a handsome young man in a black leather jacket appeared at his side.
“Mr. Taylor, I presume.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“I’m sorry to drag you all the way to London, Kemel, but you wanted to know about every potential approach.”
“What was her name?”
“She called herself Dominique Bonard.”
“French?”
“Claims to be.”
“You suspect she’s lying.”
“I’m not sure. I can’t be certain, but it’s possible she was going through my things this morning.”
“Have you been followed recently?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Where’s she from?”
“She says she’s from Paris.”
“What’s she doing in London?”
“She works at an art gallery.”
“Which one?”
“A place called Isherwood Fine Arts in St. James’s.”
“Where do you stand with this woman?”
“I’m supposed to see her again in two hours.”
“By all means, keep your date with her. In fact I’d like the two of you to develop a very close relationship. Do you think you’re up to the job?”
“I’ll manage.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
TWENTY-FIVE
St. James’s, London
The security buzzer groaned early that evening while Julian Isherwood was working his way through a stack of bills and sipping a good whiskey. He remained at his desk-after all, it was the girl’s job to answer the door-but when the buzzer howled a second time he looked up. “Dominique, there’s someone at the door. Would you mind? Dominique?”
Then he remembered he had sent her down to the storeroom to return a batch of paintings. He stood, walked wearily into the anteroom, peered into the security monitor. Standing outside was a young man. Mediterranean of some sort, good-looking. He pressed the button on the intercom. “Sorry, closed. As you can see we show by appointment only. Why don’t you ring in the morning? My secretary will be happy to set aside some time for you.”
“Actually, I’m here to see your secretary. My name is Yusef.”
Jacqueline stepped out of the lift and came into the anteroom.
Isherwood said, “There’s a fellow named Yusef downstairs. Says he’s here to see you.”
Jacqueline looked into the monitor.
Isherwood said, “Do you know him?”
She pressed the buzzer that released the door lock. “Yes, I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“A friend. A good friend.”
Isherwood’s jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide.
Jacqueline said, “If you’re going to be uncomfortable, perhaps you should leave.”
“Yes, I think that’s wise.” He walked back into his office and put on his jacket. When he returned to the anteroom, the Arab was kissing Jacqueline on the cheek. She said, “Yusef, I’d like you to meet Mr. Isherwood. He’s the owner of the gallery.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Yusef. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I’m running late for an appointment. So if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be going.”
“Do you mind if I show Yusef around the gallery?”
“Of course not. Delighted. Be sure to lock up, Dominique, darling. Thank you. See you in the morning. Pleasure meeting you, Yusef. Cheers.”
Isherwood clambered down the stairs and hurried across Mason’s Yard to the sanctuary of the bar at Green’s. He ordered a whiskey and drank it very fast, all the while wondering whether it was truly possible that Gabriel’s girl had just brought a terrorist into his gallery.
