Daniel Silva - The Secret Servant

“Close the Zamalek bridges,” he said. “No one gets off the island without a thorough search. Then start knocking on doors inside the Ramses. I don’t care if you have to ruffle the feathers of the rich and famous. I want to make sure the sheikh isn’t still hiding somewhere inside.”

The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.

“We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.

“Shall we have another go at Mandali?”

“No, he’s dry, too.”

“What do you want us to do with him?”

“We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”

Gabriel sat before the recorder, slipped on a pair of headphones, and pressed PLAY.

“I was afraid you were never going to call tonight. Do you know what time it is?”

“I’ve been busy. You’ve seen the news?”

“The bombings? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

“What are they saying?”

“The Danes are shocked, of course. They’re wondering when it’s going to happen in Copenhagen. Here in Nørrebro, they say Europe is getting what it deserves for supporting the Americans. They want the Americans to release the sheikh.”

“Be careful what you say on the telephone, Hanifah. You never know who’s listening.”

“Who would bother to listen to me? I’m no one.”

“You’re married to a man who works for the Islamic Affairs Council of Denmark.”

“A man who thinks nothing of leaving his wife and child to roam the Middle East conducting research on the state of the Islamic world. Where are you tonight anyway?”

“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”

Gabriel pressed STOP, then REWIND, then PLAY.

“Where are you tonight anyway?”

“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”

“He misses his father.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“It’s too late, Ishaq. He’s been asleep for almost an hour.”

“Wake him.”

“No.”

“It’s important I speak to him tonight.”

“Then you should have called earlier. Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”

“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”

“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”

“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”

STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

“Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”

“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”

“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”

“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”

“This afternoon.”

“He’s well?”

“He seemed so.”

“How’s the weather in Copenhagen?”

“Cold, Ishaq. What do you think?”

“Any strangers around the apartment? Any unfamiliar faces in the streets?”

“A few more police than usual, but it’s calm here.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Why are you so nervous?”

“Because the Muslim communities across Europe are under siege at the moment. Because we are being rounded up and brought in for questioning simply because we happen to speak Arabic or pray toward Mecca.”

“No one’s being rounded up in Copenhagen.”

“Not yet.”

“When does this conference of yours end, Ishaq? When are you coming home?”

“Actually, you’re coming here. Not Istanbul. Some place better.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I left an envelope for you there.”

“I don’t feel like playing games, Ishaq. I’m tired.”

“Just do as I tell you, Hanifah. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

Hanifah gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the receiver down next to the telephone so hard that the sound caused Gabriel’s eardrums to vibrate like a snare drum. The next sounds he heard were distant: the patter of slippered feet, a drawer being yanked open, the rustle of crisp paper. Then, a few seconds later, Hanifah’s startled voice.

“Where did you get this money?”

“Never mind where I got it. Do you have the tickets?”

“Beirut? Why are we going to Beirut?”

“For a holiday.”

“The plane leaves Friday morning. How am I supposed to be ready that soon?”

“Just throw a few things in a bag. I’ll have someone from the Council take you to the airport. A colleague of mine from Beirut will meet you at the airport and take you and Ahmed to an apartment that we’ve been given use of. I’ll come from Istanbul in a couple of days.”

“This is crazy, Ishaq. Why didn’t you tell me until now?”

“Just do as I say, Hanifah. I have to go now.”

“When am I going to hear from you again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure? You tell me to get on a plane to Beirut and that’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it. You’re my wife. You do as I say.”

“No, Ishaq. Tell me when I’m going to hear from you again or I’m not getting on that plane.”

“I’ll call tomorrow night.”

“When?”

“When it’s convenient.”

“No, not when it’s convenient. I want to know when you’re going to call.”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Whose time, yours or mine?”

“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”

“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”

“I have to go now, Hanifah.”

“Ishaq, wait.”

“I love you, Hanifah.”

“Ishaq-”

Click.

“What have you done, Ishaq? My God, what have you done?”

STOP. REWIND. PLAY.

“I want to know when you’re going to call.”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Who’s time, yours or mine?”

“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”

“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”

STOP.

Gabriel looked at Mordecai. “I’m going to listen to the spot where Ishaq asks Hanifah to go get the tickets and money. Can you turn down the room coverage so I can hear only Ishaq?”

Mordecai nodded and did as Gabriel asked. The interlude was twenty-three seconds. Gabriel listened to it three times, then removed his headphones and looked at Sarah.

“Tell Adrian not to wait for NSA,” he said. “Tell him that Ishaq is calling from a highway rest stop in Germany-the northwest, judging by the accents of the people I can hear in the background. Tell him he’s traveling with at least one other man. They’re moving her around in a cargo truck or a transit van. He won’t be stopping again for several hours. He just filled the tank with gas.”

The Falcon 2000 executive jet began to pitch as it sank into the storm clouds above the plains of eastern Colorado. Lawrence Strauss removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. One of Washington’s most powerful lawyers, he was a nervous flier by nature and avoided planes whenever he could-especially private planes, which he regarded as little more than death traps with wings. Given the nature of his current case, Strauss’s client had mandated he fly from Washington, D.C., to Colorado on a borrowed jet under conditions of extreme secrecy. Usually Lawrence Strauss didn’t permit clients to dictate his personal schedule or method of travel, but in this case he had made an exception. The client was a personal friend who also happened to be the president of the United States-and the mission he had given Strauss was so sensitive that only the president and his attorney general knew it existed.