Daniel Silva - The Secret Servant

“Because the woman got out of the vehicle and walked into the cemetery on her own,” Gabriel said. “I saw Elizabeth at the moment of her abduction. She wouldn’t have walked in there on her own. She would have fought them.”

“Unless they told her she was about to be released,” said Ibrahim.

Gabriel gave him an admiring sideways glance. “You’re not bad,” he said.

“I was a professor once,” he said. “And I love detective novels.”

She did not know the duration of her journey, for she had tried to think of anything but the clock. It was but a few minutes, she told herself. It was the blink of an eye. She had told herself other lies as well. She was in a comfortable bed, not a wooden box that smelled faintly of fish. She was wearing faded blue jeans and her favorite sweater, not the same dirty tracksuit she had been wearing since the morning of her capture. She could see her favorite mountain range through her favorite window. She was listening to beautiful music. The rest were just scenes from a bad dream. She would wake soon and it would all be over.

She had been prepared for the appalling discomfort-Cain’s note had made it abundantly clear what lay in store for her-but the earplugs had taken her by surprise. They had robbed her of one of her most potent weapons, the ability to hear what was taking place around her, and had reduced her world to a monotonous droning. She had been left with only one sense, the ability to feel motion. She knew that they had driven at high speeds and at moderate speeds, on good roads and bad. Once she’d had the sensation of being in a large city surrounded by people who did not realize she was only inches away. Now she felt certain they were on an unpaved track, in a place near the end of the earth.

They stopped suddenly-so suddenly that her head was pressed painfully against the end of her coffinlike container-and a moment later the droning of the engine went silent. Several minutes elapsed before they finally removed her from the vehicle, and several more passed before she finally heard the screech of the nails being removed by the claw of a hammer. Cold salty air streamed over her face as the lid came off. Hot tears spilled involuntarily into the fabric of her blindfold as she was lifted to her feet. No one spoke to her as she was led inside the new hideout. No one asked about the condition of her arrhythmic heart as she was placed on the cot in her new cell. When the door closed on her again, she removed the blindfold and the earplugs and gazed at a new set of white walls. There was a plate of food-bread, cheese, and chocolate because she had been good during the drive-and there was a yellow bucket for her toilet. She had no idea where they had moved her but was certain of one thing. She could smell the sea.

The road from the Baltic port of Frederikshavn to Skagen was abandoned and barely passable. Gabriel sat hunched over the steering wheel for mile after mile as a string of silent snowbound towns flashed past. Their names were full of strange consonant combinations that even Gabriel, whose first language was German, found impenetrable. Danish is not a language, he thought resentfully as he plunged through the gloom. Danish is merely an affliction of the throat.

After leaving the town of Ålbæk, a seemingly endless moonscape of dunes opened before them. The cutoff toward the summer resort town of Kandestederne lay near the northern end of the wasteland; Gabriel, after making the turn, saw a single set of freshly made tire tracks in the snow. He suspected they had been left by the same vehicle that had been at the cemetery in Lindholm Høje.

They sledded past a few small farms, then entered another expanse of dunes-vast dunes this time, dunes the size of foothills. Here and there Gabriel glimpsed the outlines of cottages and small homes. There were no lights burning, no other cars, and no other signs of life. Time, it seemed, had stopped.

The tire tracks bent to the right, into a narrow road, and vanished behind a curtain of snowfall. Gabriel continued straight and stopped a moment later at a small car park overlooking the beach, next to a boarded-up café. He started to switch off the engine, then thought better of it. “Wait here,” he said. “Lock the doors after I get out. Don’t open them for anyone but me.”

He took the tire tool and flashlight and walked over to the café. There were fresh footprints all around-two sets at least, perhaps more. Whoever had left them had come to this spot from the dunes. One set of tracks led down to the beach. They were identical to the ones he had seen at Lindholm. The woman’s.

He glanced back toward the Audi, then turned and followed the tracks across the beach. At the water’s edge, they disappeared. He looked left, then right, but could see no sign of them, so he turned around and headed back to the car. As he drew near, he could see that Ibrahim was leaning forward awkwardly and had his palms pressed to the dashboard. Then he saw a set of fresh tracks leading from the dunes to the rear passenger-side door of the Audi. Just then the window slid down halfway and a gloved hand beckoned him forward. Gabriel hesitated for a few seconds, then obeyed. Along the way he made a slight detour in order to examine the prints. Size six, he reckoned. Adidas or Nike. A woman’s shoe.

He had been wrong about the brand of the shoes. They were Pumas. The woman who was wearing them looked no older than twenty-five. She wore a navy blue peacoat and a wool hat pulled down close to her dark eyes. She was seated directly behind Ibrahim and had a Makarov pointed at his spine. Her hand was vibrating with cold.

“Why don’t you point that gun at the floor before someone gets hurt?” Gabriel said.

“Shut up and put your hands on the steering wheel.”

She spoke very calmly. Gabriel did as he was told.

“Where’s Ishaq?”

“Ishaq who?” she asked.

“Let’s not play any more games. It’s been a long cold night.” He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Just tell us where we can find Elizabeth Halton and we’ll be on our way.”

“You are the Israeli, yes? The Zionist pig who killed our comrades in Hyde Park?”

“No, I’m an American pig.”

“You speak very good Arabic for an American pig.”

“My father was a diplomat. I grew up in Beirut.”

“Really? Then speak English for me, American pig.”

Gabriel hesitated. The girl leveled the gun at the back of Ibrahim’s head.

“You’ve made your point,” Gabriel said.

She pointed the gun at Gabriel. “I should kill you now,” she said. “But you’re fortunate. You won’t be dying tonight. Others have already laid claim to your life.”

“Lucky me.”

She hit him in the back of the head with the gun, hard enough for Gabriel to see a burst of fireworks before his eyes. When he reached reflexively toward the wound, she hit him again, harder still, and commanded him to put his hands back on the wheel. A moment later he could feel something warm and sticky running along the back of his right ear.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said sincerely.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Turn the car around,” the woman said. “Slowly.”

Gabriel eased the car into gear, executed a careful three-point turn, and headed inland.

“Make the first left into the dunes,” the woman said. “Then follow the tire tracks.”

He did as she instructed. The road was wide enough for only a single car and led to a colony of cottages tucked within the dunes. The cottages were small and wooden and abandoned to the winter. Some were painted Skagen yellow; others inexplicably had grass growing on the roof. Gabriel navigated only by the amber light of the parking lamps. The blood was now running freely down the side of his neck into his shirt collar.