The Secret Servant

“You have me to thank for your release,” the ambassador said. “When I found out you were still in custody, I telephoned the prime minister and told him to free you at once.”

“I knew the Americans wielded considerable influence at Downing Street, but I never knew you had the power to free prisoners.”

“The last thing the prime minister wanted was to see me make my demand in public. The polls show that I am now the most popular man in Britain. Please tell me why the press bother to even take such a poll.”

“I’ve given up trying to understand the press, Ambassador Halton.”

“That same poll found a majority of Britons believe I brought this calamity upon myself because of my friendship with the president and my outspoken support for the war in Iraq. The war is now being used by our enemies to justify all manner of sins. So is our support for the State of Israel.”

“I’m afraid it will be for a long time to come.”

The ambassador removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked as though he had not slept in many days. “I only wish I could free my daughter with a phone call. It’s not easy to be a powerful man made powerless. I’ve had everything in life I wanted, but they took from me the one thing I cannot afford to lose.”

“I just wish I’d arrived a few seconds earlier,” Gabriel said. “If I had, I might have been able to stop them from taking your daughter.”

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me. I was the one who took this job. I was the one who asked Elizabeth to put her life on hold and come here with me. And I was the one who let her go running in Hyde Park three mornings a week even though I feared something like this could happen.”

The American ambassador put his glasses back on and gazed at Gabriel thoughtfully for a moment. “But imagine my surprise when I heard that the mysterious man who killed three of the terrorists in Hyde Park was you. The president is my closest friend, Mr. Allon. If it weren’t for you, he might have been killed at the Vatican earlier this year.”

Actually, it was the pope’s private secretary, Monsignor Luigi Donati, who had saved the president’s life. Gabriel had only killed the assassin, a convert to radical Islam who had managed to penetrate the ranks of the Swiss Guard.

“What are the British telling you about the prospects of finding your daughter?” he asked.

“Maddeningly little, I’m afraid. They conducted raids at three locations today where they thought she might be being held. The intelligence turned out to be incorrect. What I don’t understand is why the terrorists haven’t made any demands yet.”

“Because they know the uncertainty is causing you a great deal of pain. They want you to be grateful when they finally come forward and make their demands.”

“You’re sure they want something in return?”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador. But you have to be prepared for the fact that it’s almost certainly something you can’t give them.”

“I’m trying to remind myself that there are larger principles and issues of policy involved than the fate of my daughter,” the ambassador said. “I’m preparing myself for the possibility that my daughter might have to die to keep diplomats safe around the world. But it hardly seems a fair tradeoff, Mr. Allon. And I’m not at all sure it’s a price I’m prepared to pay. In fact, I’m quite certain I’d give them anything they wanted to get my daughter back alive.”

“That’s what they want, Mr. Ambassador. That’s why they’re waiting to make their demands.”

“Your government has experience in these kinds of matters. What do you think they want?”

“Prisoners,” Gabriel said. “That’s almost always what they want. It might be several prisoners. Or it might be just one important prisoner.”

“Like one of the 9/11 masterminds that we’re holding?”

“It depends on who’s taken her.”

“I’m considering offering a sizeable reward for information.”

“How sizeable?”

“Fifty million dollars.”

“A reward like that will almost certainly bring out the charlatans and the con artists. And then the British will find themselves buried beneath a blizzard of false tips and leads. It will get in the way of the investigation rather than help it. For the time being, I would recommend keeping your wallet closed, Mr. Ambassador.”

“That’s probably sound advice.” He looked at Gabriel for a moment without speaking. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to stay in London for a few days and help find my daughter?”

“I’m afraid I have to go home and face the music for getting my picture in the newspaper. Besides, this is a matter for you and the British. Obviously, if we happen to pick up any intelligence, we’ll pass it along right away.”

The telephone rang. The ambassador lifted the receiver out of the console and brought it to his ear. He listened for a moment, face tense, then murmured, “Thank you, Prime Minister.” He hung up the phone and looked at Gabriel. “The Metropolitan Police just raided a house in Walthamstow in East London. Nothing.” He lapsed into a contemplative silence. “It just occurred to me that you were the last person to see my daughter-the last decent person, I should say.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador, I suppose I was.”

“Did you see her face?”

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, sir, I saw her face.”

“Did they harm her?”

“It didn’t look as though she was injured.”

“Was she frightened?”

Gabriel answered truthfully. “I’m sure she was very frightened, sir, but she didn’t go willingly. She fought them.”

The ambassador’s eyes shone suddenly with tears.

“I’m glad she fought them,” Robert Halton said. “I hope she’s fighting them right now.”

12

She had fought them. Indeed she had fought them with more rage, and for much longer, than they had anticipated. She had fought them as they raced up the Edgware Road from Hyde Park, and she had fought them in the mews garage in Maida Vale, where they had transferred her to a second van. She had clawed and kicked. She had spit in their faces and called them murderous cowards. In the end, they had been forced to use the needle on her. She didn’t like the needle. She didn’t fight them anymore.

Her room was small and square, with cinder-block walls painted bone white and a cement floor. It contained nothing except for a folding army cot with a bricklike pillow and a scratchy woolen blanket that smelled of mothballs and disinfectant. Her hands were cuffed and her legs shackled, and they left the light on always so that she had no idea whether it was day or night. There was a spy hole in the metal door through which a malevolent brown eye watched her constantly. She dreamed of ramming a scalpel into it. When she slept, which was seldom, her dreams were filled with violence.

Interaction with her captors was kept to an absolute minimum and strictly regulated. The ground rules were established early on the first day, after she had awakened from the drugs. All communication was conducted in writing, with notes slipped beneath the door of her cell. Upon receipt of such a note, she was to reply yes or no in a low voice. Any deviation from the procedures, they warned, would result in a loss of food and water. Thus far they had asked her only two questions. One was: Do you want food? The other was: Do you wish to use the toilet? Each time a question appeared beneath her door, she replied yes, regardless of whether she was hungry or needed to relieve herself. Saying yes to them meant a break from the tedium of staring at the featureless white walls. Saying yes meant a moment of contact with her