Daniel Silva - The Secret Servant

“A career free of scandal is not a proper career at all, Adrian.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Shamron.”

Carter managed a weak smile. “The Office operates by a different set of standards than the Agency. You accept the occasional mistake if it occurs in the service of a noble cause. We don’t tolerate failure. Failure is not an option.”

“If that were the case, they would have turned the lights out at Langley a long time ago.”

Carter squinted as a sudden burst of sunlight came slanting through the cabin window. He pulled down the shade and stared at Gabriel for a long moment in silence.

“She wasn’t there, Adrian. She was never there. In all likelihood she’s still somewhere in Britain. It was all an elaborate deception orchestrated by the Sphinx. They planted that ferry reservation number on the body of the man I wounded in Hyde Park and left him in the dunes of Norfolk for the British to find. The Sphinx instructed Ishaq to remain in touch with his wife in Copenhagen, knowing that eventually NSA, or someone else, would overhear him and make the connection. And when we did make the connection, the Sphinx played it out slowly, so there would be almost no time left before the deadline. He wants you frustrated and dejected and tearing yourself to shreds behind the scenes. He wants you to feel you have no choice but to release Sheikh Abdullah.”

“Fuck Sheikh Abdullah,” said Carter with uncharacteristic venom. He quickly regained his composure. “Do you think Ibrahim was a part of this grand illusion?”

“Ibrahim was the real thing, Adrian. Ibrahim was the answer to our prayers.”

“And you got him killed.”

“You’re tired, Adrian. You haven’t slept in a long time. I’m going to do my best to forget you ever said that.”

“You’re right, Gabriel. I haven’t slept.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Seven hours is all we have-seven hours until an extraordinary young woman is put to death. And for what?”

Carter was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He brought it to his ear, listened in silence, then rang off.

“Robert Halton just faxed his letter of resignation to the White House Situation Room,” he said. “I suppose the pressure finally got to him.”

“Wrong, Adrian.”

“You can think of another explanation?”

“He’s going to try to save his daughter’s life by negotiating directly with the kidnappers.”

Carter snatched up the telephone again and quickly dialed. Gabriel reclined his seat and closed his eyes. His head began to throb. A preview of coming attractions, he thought.

There was a small Internet café around the corner from the Islamic Affairs Institute with decent coffee and pastries and even better jazz on the house sound system. Yusuf Ramadan ordered a café crème and thirty minutes of Web time, then he sat down at a vacant computer terminal in the window overlooking the street. He typed in the address for the home page of the BBC and read about the developments in London, where Ambassador Robert Halton had just resigned his post and offered twenty million dollars in exchange for his daughter’s release. While the news appeared to have come as a shock to the BBC, it was no surprise to the Egyptian terrorist known as the Sphinx. The perfectly executed operation in Denmark had no doubt broken the ambassador’s will to resist. He had now decided to take matters into his own hands, just as Yusuf Ramadan had always known he would. Robert Halton was a billionaire from Colorado -and billionaires from Colorado did not allow their daughters to be sacrificed on the altar of American foreign policy.

Ramadan watched a brief clip of the ambassador’s Winfield House news conference, then visited the home pages of the Telegraph, Times, and Guardian to read what they had to say. Finally, with ten minutes to spare on his thirty-minute chit, he typed in the address of a Karachi-based site that dealt with Islamic issues. The site was administered by an operative of the Sword of Allah, though its content was so benign it never attracted more than a passing glance from the security services of America and Europe. Ramadan entered a chat room as DESMOND826. KINKYKEMEL324 was waiting for him. Ramadan typed: “I think the Sword of Allah should take the deal. But they should definitely ask for more money. After all, the ambassador is a billionaire.”

KINKYKEMEL324: How much more?

DESMOND826: Thirty million feels right.

KINKYKEMEL324: I think the Zionist oppressor should pay, too.

DESMOND826: The ultimate price, just as we discussed during our last conversation.

KINKYKEMEL324: Then it will be done, in the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful.

DESMOND826: Master of the day of judgment.

KINKYKEMEL324: Show us the straight path.

DESMOND826: Peace be upon you, KK.

KINKYKEMEL324: Ciao, Dez.

Ramadan logged out and drank his café crème. “Ruby, My Dear,” by Coltrane and Monk, was now playing on the stereo. Too bad all Americans weren’t so sublime, he thought. The world would be a much better place.

The first calls arrived at the embassy switchboard before Ambassador Halton disappeared through the doorway of Winfield House. FBI hostage negotiator John O’Donnell, who had been given just five minutes’ warning of the pending statement, had hastily broken the staff of the ops center into two teams: one to dispense with obvious charlatans and criminal conmen, another to conduct additional screening of any call that sounded remotely legitimate. It was O’Donnell himself who assigned the calls to the appropriate teams. He did so after a brief conversation, usually thirty seconds in length or less. His instincts told him that none of the callers he had spoken to thus far were the real kidnappers, even the callers he had passed along to the second team for additional vetting. He did not share this belief with any of the exhausted men and women gathered around him in the embassy basement.

Two hours after Robert Halton’s appearance before the cameras, O’Donnell picked up a separate line and dialed the switchboard. “How many do you have on hold?”

“Thirty-eight,” the operator said. “Wait…make that forty-two…forty-four…forty-seven. You see my point.”

“Keep them coming.”

O’Donnell hung up and quickly worked his way through ten more calls. He assigned seven to team number one, the team that dealt with obvious cranks, and three to the second team, though he knew that none of the callers represented the real captors of Elizabeth Halton. He was about pick up another call when his private line rang. He answered that line instead and heard the voice of the switchboard operator.

“I think I’ve got the call you’re looking for.”

“Voice modifier?”

“Yep.”

“Send him down on this line after I hang up.”

“Got it.”

O’Donnell hung up the phone. When it rang ten seconds later, he brought the receiver swiftly to his ear.

“This is John O’Donnell of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How can I help you?”

“I’ve been trying to get through to you for a half hour,” said the electronically modified voice.

“We’re doing the best we can, but when twenty million is on the table, the nutcases tend to come out of the woodwork.”

“I’m not a nutcase. I’m the one you want to talk to.”

“Prove it to me. Tell me where you left the DVD of Elizabeth Halton.”

“We left it under the rowboat on the beach at Beacon Point.”

O’Donnell covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and pleaded for quiet. Then he looked at Kevin Barnett of the CIA and motioned for him to pick up the extension.