Daniel Silva - The Secret Servant

“So why am I here?” asked Gabriel, though he already knew the answer.

“You are an intelligent man, Mr. Allon. You tell me.”

“I’m here because they want me to the deliver the money.”

“I’m afraid that is correct,” said the prime minister. “At five fifty-nine London time, they are going to call the FBI negotiator at the embassy. They want a one-word answer: yes or no. If the answer is no, Elizabeth Halton will be executed immediately. If it is yes-meaning that you have agreed to all their demands-she will be released forty-eight hours from now, give or take a few hours.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. It was broken by Adrian Carter, who objected on Gabriel’s behalf. “The answer is no,” he said. “It is an obvious trap. I can think of three possible outcomes, none of them pleasant.”

“We all know the pitfalls, Mr. Carter,” said the director-general of MI6. “There’s no need to review them now.”

“Humor me,” said Carter. “I’m just a dull-witted American. Scenario number one, Gabriel will be killed immediately after delivering the money. Scenario number two, he will be taken captive, tortured savagely for some period of time, and then killed. The third scenario, however, is probably the most likely outcome.”

“And what’s that?” asked the prime minister.

“Gabriel will take Elizabeth Halton’s place as a hostage. The Sword of Allah and al-Qaeda will then make demands on the Israeli government instead of ours, and we’ll all be right back at square one.”

“With one important difference,” added Graham Seymour. “Much of the world will be rooting for the Sword to kill him. He is an Israeli and a Jew, an occupier and an oppressor, and therefore in the eyes of many in Europe and the Islamic world he is worthy of death. His murder would be a major propaganda victory for the terrorists.”

“But his cooperation will buy us something we have in exceedingly short supply at the moment,” said Eleanor McKenzie. “If we say yes tonight, we will be granted at least twenty-four additional hours to look for Miss Halton.”

“We’ve been looking for her for two weeks,” said Carter. “Unless someone has made some serious inroads that I’m not aware of, twenty-four additional hours aren’t going to make much of a difference.”

Gabriel looked at Robert Halton. It had been more than a week since Gabriel had seen him last, and in those days the ambassador’s face appeared to have aged many years. The prime minister would have been wise to conduct this conversation without Halton present, because to say no at this moment would be an act of almost unspeakable cruelty. Or perhaps that was exactly the reason the prime minister had invited him here. He had left Gabriel no option but to agree to the scheme.

“They’re going to make additional demands,” Gabriel said. “They’ll demand that I come alone. They’ll warn that if I’m followed, the deal is off and Elizabeth dies. We’re going to abide by those rules.” He looked at Seymour and Carter. “No surveillance, British or American.”

“You can’t go into this thing with no one watching your back,” said the chief of the Metropolitan Police.

“I don’t intend to,” said Gabriel. “MI5 and the Anti-Terrorist Branch of Scotland Yard will give us all the intelligence and support we require, but this will be an Israeli operation from start to finish. I will bring whomever and whatever I need into the country to conduct it. Afterward, there will be no scrutiny and no inquiries. If anyone is killed or wounded during the recovery of Elizabeth, no one from my team will be questioned or prosecuted.”

“Out of the question,” said Eleanor McKenzie.

“Done,” said the prime minister.

“How long will it take you to assemble the cash?”

“Every major bank in the City is already involved,” the prime minister said. “The task should be complete by late tomorrow afternoon. Obviously it’s a large consignment and therefore it will be somewhat unwieldy. They think it will fit into two large rolling duffel bags.”

Gabriel glanced from face to face. “Don’t even think about putting any tracking devices in the cash or the bags.”

“Understood,” said the prime minister. “It occurs to me that tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Clearly it is not a coincidence.”

“No, Prime Minister, I suspect they’ve been preparing for this for a long time.” Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. “Can someone give me a lift to the American embassy? There’s a telephone call coming there in a few minutes that I’d like to take.”

“Graham will take you,” the prime minister said. “We’ll give you a police escort. The traffic in central London this time of day is really quite dreadful.”

On the wall above John O’Donnell’s workstation was a large digital clock with red numerals set against a black background. Gabriel, however, had eyes only for the telephone. It was a modern device, with access to twenty lines, including extension 7512, which was available nowhere else in the building. Extension 7512 was O’Donnell’s private reserve. Now it belonged to Gabriel, along with O’Donnell’s warm chair and O’Donnell’s wrinkled legal pad.

The clock rolled over to 17:59 and the seconds began their methodical march from:00 to:59. Gabriel kept his eyes on the phone-on the green light in the box marked 7512, and on the small crack in the receiver, inflicted by O’Donnell during a blind rage early in the crisis. A minute later, when the clock rolled over to 18:00:00, there was an audible gasp in the room. Then, at 18:01:25, Gabriel heard one of O’Donnell’s team members begin to weep. He did not share the pessimism of his audience. He knew the terrorists were cruel bastards who were just using the opportunity of the deadline to have a spot of fun at the expense of their American and Israeli opponents.

At 18:02:17, the telephone finally rang. Gabriel, unwilling to cause his audience any additional stress, answered before it could ring a second time. He spoke in English, with his heavy Hebrew accent, so there would be no misunderstanding about who was on the line.

“The answer is yes,” he said.

“Be ready at ten o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll give you the instructions then.”

Under normal circumstances, a professional negotiator like O’Donnell would have begun the delay tactics: trouble assembling the money, trouble getting the permission of local authorities for the handover, anything to keep the hostage alive and the kidnappers talking. But this was not a normal situation-the terrorists wanted Gabriel-and there was no point delaying the inevitable. The sooner it started, the sooner it would be over.

“You’ll call on this number?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Click .

Gabriel stood, pulled on his leather jacket, and started toward the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Carter.

“I’m leaving.”

“You can’t just leave. ”

“I can’t stay here, Adrian. I have work to do.”

“Let us give you a lift. We can’t have you wandering around London unprotected.”

“I think I can look after myself, Adrian.”

“At least let me rustle you up a gun.”

“What are you boys carrying these days?”

“Browning Hi-Power,” said Carter. “It doesn’t have the grace and beauty of your Berettas, but it’s quite lethal. Would you like one magazine or two?”

Gabriel frowned.

“I’ll bring you two,” said Carter. “And an extra box of ammo for laughs.”

Five minutes later, with Carter’s loaded Browning pressing against the base of his spine, Gabriel slipped past the Marine guard at the North Gate and turned into Upper Brook Street. The sidewalk along the embassy fence was closed to pedestrian traffic and lined with Metropolitan Police officers in lime green jackets. Gabriel crossed to the opposite side of the street and headed toward Hyde Park. He spotted the motorcyclist two minutes later as he rounded the corner into Park Lane. The bike was a powerful BMW and the figure seated atop it was long-legged and helmeted. Gabriel noticed the bulge beneath the leather jacket-the left side, for the right-handed cross draw. He continued north to Marble Arch, then headed west along the Bayswater Road. As he was approaching Albion Gate he heard the roar of the BMW bike at his back. It came alongside him and braked to an abrupt stop. Gabriel swung his leg over the back and wrapped his arms around the rider’s waist. As the bike shot forward he heard the sound of a woman singing. Chiara always sang when she was at the controls of a motorcycle.