The Secret Servant

Home Secretary that oversees the British government response to a national emergency such as this.”

“Are they behaving themselves?”

Seymour exhaled heavily. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. For now, this is essentially a matter for the British police, which means there’s little for them to do except sit on the sidelines and pressure us to look harder and faster. They’ve made it clear that despite the appalling loss of British life, our first priority must be finding Elizabeth Halton. They’ve also made clear that they have no intention of negotiating for her release.”

“If they do negotiate, no American diplomat anywhere in the world will ever be safe again,” Gabriel said. “It’s a difficult lesson we learned a long time ago.”

“We prefer a more subtle interpretation of that principle. If a good-faith negotiation can bring that woman back alive, then I don’t see the harm in it.”

“I suppose that depends entirely on what you have to give up to get her back.”

Gabriel looked out the window at the Thames. Eight thousand miles of coastline, countless marinas and private airfields… He knew from personal experience that a terrorist with enough intelligence and money could move a hostage almost at will. A year earlier, his wife had been kidnapped from her bedroom in an exclusive British psychiatric hospital. She was on a boat bound for France before anyone even knew she was missing.

“It seems you and the Americans have everything in hand,” he said. “Which means there’s nothing left for me to do but leave London and pretend I was never here.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Gabriel.”

“Which part?”

“Both.”

Seymour removed a copy of that morning’s Times from his briefcase and handed it to Gabriel. The banner headline read: TERROR AND KIDNAPPING IN LONDON. But it was the headline at the bottom of the page that seized Gabriel’s attention: ISRAEL INTELLIGENCE OFFICER INVOLVED IN AMBUSH IN HYDE PARK. Beneath the headline was a grainy image of Gabriel pointing his Beretta into the face of Samir al-Masri. Inside was a second photograph: the mug shot taken of him in New Scotland Yard in the hours after the attack.

“The photograph of you in the park was taken by a passerby with a mobile phone camera. Poor quality, but quite dramatic. Congratulations, Gabriel. I suppose you now have another group of terrorists that would like your head on a platter.”

Gabriel switched on his reading lamp and scanned the article. It contained his real name, along with a largely accurate depiction of his professional exploits.

“Is your service responsible for this?”

“Trust me, Gabriel, I have enough headaches at the moment. I don’t need one more. The sourcing is vague, but obviously the leak must have come from someone at the Met. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a senior officer attempting to curry favor with an important newspaper. Regardless of how it happened, it does mean that you’re not going to be allowed to leave the country until all the questions of your involvement in this affair are sorted out and aired in a proper forum.”

“The details of my involvement in this affair are quite clear, Graham. I came to London to warn you that a cell of terrorists from Amsterdam was probably in England preparing for a major attack. You chose to ignore that warning. Would you like me to air that in front of a proper forum?”

Seymour appeared to give the question serious thought before responding. “You are charged with several serious offenses, including entering Britain on a false passport, illegal possession of a firearm, and the unlawful discharge of that firearm in a public place.”

“I discharged my illegal firearm into three terrorist murderers.”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to remain in Britain until we get this sorted out. To release you now would be to invite wailing and gnashing of teeth from all quarters.” Seymour gave a weak smile. “Don’t worry, Gabriel. We’ve arranged comfortable quarters for you. You’re lucky. You get to leave London. The rest of us have to stay here and live with the aftermath of this attack.”

“Does my service know I’m in custody?”

“They will shortly. We’ve just notified the legal liaison officer at your embassy, as well as your declared chief of station.”

The car turned into the driveway of Thames House, MI5’s imposing riverfront headquarters. Vauxhall Cross, the headquarters of MI6, the foreign intelligence service, stood on the opposite side of the river overlooking the Albert Embankment.

“My driver will run you out to one of our safe houses,” Seymour said. “Don’t even consider attempting to escape. He’s well armed and an excellent shot.”

“Where would I go, Graham? I don’t have a passport.”

“I’m sure you could come up with one.”

Seymour reached for the door but stopped himself. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Gabriel? Anything that might help us locate Elizabeth Halton?”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Everything except the name of your source in Amsterdam.”

“I promised to protect him, Graham. You remember what it means to protect a source.”

“At times like these, sources aren’t for protecting. They’re to be used and burned.”

“I’d rather not torch this one, Graham. He risked his life by coming to us.”

“Have you at least considered the possibility that he’s somehow linked to this affair?”

“He’s not.”

“I hope you’re right,” Seymour said. “It’s been my experience that sources rarely tell the whole truth. In fact, more times than not, they lie. That’s what sources do. That’s why they’re sources in the first place.”

Gabriel’s temporary home turned out to be a charming limestone cottage, surrounded by two hundred acres of private land, in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. The manager of the facility, a bluff, ginger-haired MI5 veteran called Spencer, briefed Gabriel on the rules of his stay the following morning over a leisurely meal in the light-filled breakfast room. Gabriel would be granted access to television, radio, and the London papers, though, of course, no telephones. All the rooms of the main cottage were available for his use, though he was to keep interaction with the household staff to a bare minimum. He could walk the grounds alone, but if he wished to go into the village, it would be necessary to arrange an escort. All his movements would be monitored and recorded. Any attempt to escape would end in failure and result in the revocation of all privileges.

Gabriel occupied his time by carefully monitoring the progress of the British investigation. He rose early each morning and read the stack of London newspapers that awaited him in the breakfast room with his tea and toast. Then he would retire to the library and search the British and American television news channels for reliable information about the identity of the perpetrators and the fate of Elizabeth Halton. Seventy-two hours after her abduction there was still no authenticated claim of responsibility and no demands from her captors. Ambassador Halton made a stoic appeal for his daughter’s release, as did the American president and the British prime minister. As the days ground slowly on, the television experts began to speculate that the ambassador’s daughter had already been murdered by her captors or was somehow killed in the initial attack. Gabriel regarded the speculation as premature and almost certainly incorrect. He had seen the elaborate operation in action. Eventually, he knew, the kidnappers would surface and make their demands.

On the afternoon of his fourth day in captivity, he arranged for a ride into the village and spent an hour roaming the shops of the high street. He bought a wool sweater for Chiara and a handsome oak walking stick for Shamron. When he returned to the cottage, he found Spencer waiting for him in the gravel forecourt, waving a single sheet of paper as though it held news of great import from a distant corner of the realm. It did. The British had agreed to drop all charges against Gabriel in exchange for his testimony at the official inquiry into the attacks. A seat was being held for him on that evening’s flight to Tel Aviv and arrangements had been made for private and expedited boarding. A car would collect him in an hour. The car, however, turned out to be a convoy. The vehicles were of American manufacture, as was the distinguished-looking man, clothed in diplomatic gray, seated in the back of the limousine. “Good afternoon, Mr. Allon,” said Ambassador Robert Halton. “Let me give you a lift to the airport. I’d like a word.”