“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.”