Daniel Silva - The Messenger

Carter hesitated a moment.

“Why isn’t she married, Adrian?”

“She had a boyfriend while she was at Harvard, a young lawyer named Ben Callahan. It ended badly.”

“What happened to Ben?”

“He boarded a flight to Los Angeles at Logan Airport on the morning of September 11, 2001.”

Gabriel held out the photograph toward Carter. “Zizi’s not going to be interested in hiring someone touched by 9/11. You brought me here for nothing, Adrian.”

Carter kept his hands on the wheel. “Ben Callahan was a college boyfriend, not a husband. Besides, Sarah never talks about him to anyone. We practically had to beat it out of her. She was afraid Ben’s death would follow her around for the rest of her life, that people would treat her like a widow at age twenty-six. She keeps it very much inside. We did some sniffing around for you this week. No one knows.”

“Zizi’s security hounds are going to do more than sniff around, Adrian. And if they catch one whiff of 9/11, he’s going to run from her as fast as he can.”

“Speaking of Zizi, his house is just ahead.”

Carter slowed to negotiate a bend. A large brick-and-iron security gate appeared on their left. Beyond the gate a long paved drive rose to an enormous faux-chateau mansion overlooking the river. Gabriel looked away as they sped past.

“Zizi will never find out about Ben,” Carter said.

“Are you willing to bet Sarah’s life on that?”

“Meet her, Gabriel. See what you think.”

“I already know what I think. She’s perfect.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“If we make one mistake, Zizi’s going to drop her down a very deep hole. That’s the problem, Adrian.”

THE SUDDENNESS with which they reached the center of Washington took Gabriel by surprise. One moment they were on a two-lane rural road at the edge of the Potomac gorge, the next they were crawling along Q Street through the Georgetown evening rush. Carter, playing the role of tour guide, pointed out the homes of the neighborhood’s most celebrated residents. Gabriel, head against the window, couldn’t summon the energy even to feign interest. They crossed a short bridge, guarded at each end by a pair of enormous tarnished buffalos, and entered the city’s diplomatic quarter. Just beyond Massachusetts Avenue, Carter pointed to a turreted redbrick structure on the left side of the street. “That’s the Phillips,” he said helpfully. Gabriel looked to his right and saw a bronze version of Mohandas Gandhi hiking across a tiny triangular park. Why Gandhi? he wondered. What did the ideals of the Mahatma have to do with this patch of American global power?

Carter drove another block and parked in a restricted diplomatic zone outside a tired-looking Latin American embassy. He left the engine running and made no movement to indicate he intended to get out of the car. “This part of town is called Dupont Circle,” he said, still in tour guide mode. “It’s what passes for avant-garde in Washington.”

An officer of the Secret Service Uniformed Division rapped his knuckle on Carter’s window and gestured for him to move along. Carter, eyes straight ahead, held his ID against the glass, and the officer walked back to his squad car. A moment later something caught Carter’s attention in the rearview mirror. “Here she comes,” he said.

Gabriel looked out his window as Sarah Bancroft floated virtuously past, dressed in a long dark overcoat with a narrow waist. She held a leather briefcase in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Gabriel heard her voice briefly as she passed. Low, sophisticated, a trace of an English accent-a remnant, no doubt, of her time at the Courtauld and a childhood spent in international schools abroad.

“What do you think?” asked Carter.

“I’ll let you know in a minute.”

She came to the corner of Q Street and 20th Street. On the opposite corner was an esplanade filled with sidewalk vendors and a pair of escalators leading to the Dupont Circle Metro station. The traffic light in Sarah’s direction was red. Without stopping she stepped from the curb and started across. When a taxi driver sounded his car horn in protest, she shot him a look that could melt ice and carried on with her conversation. Then she continued slowly across the intersection and stepped onto the down escalator. Gabriel watched with admiration as she sank slowly from view.

“Do you have two more just like her?”

Carter fished a mobile phone from his pocket and dialed. “We’re on,” he said. A moment later a large black Suburban rounded the corner and parked illegally on Q Street adjacent to the escalators. Five minutes after that Gabriel saw her again, this time rising slowly out of the depths of the Metro station. She was no longer speaking into her telephone, nor was she alone. Two of Carter’s agents were with her, a man and a woman, one on each arm, in case she had a sudden change of heart. The back door of the Suburban swung open, and Sarah Bancroft vanished from sight. Carter started the engine and headed back to Georgetown.

THE BLACK SUBURBAN CAME to a stop fifteen minutes later outside a large Federal-style town house on N Street. As Sarah mounted the curved redbrick steps, the door opened suddenly and a figure appeared in the shadows of the portico. He wore creaseless khaki trousers and a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbow. His gaze had a curious clinical detachment that reminded Sarah of the grief counselor she’d seen after Ben’s death. “I’m Carter,” he said, as if the thought had occurred to him suddenly. He didn’t say whether it was his first name or his last, only that it was genuine. “I don’t do funny names anymore,” he said. “I’m Headquarters now.”

He smiled. It was an ersatz smile, like his brief ersatz handshake. He suggested she come inside and once again managed to leave the impression of sudden inspiration. “And you’re Sarah,” he informed her, as he conveyed her down the wide center hall. “Sarah Bancroft, a curator at the well-regarded Phillips Collection. Sarah Bancroft who courageously offered us her services after 9/11 but was turned away and told she wasn’t needed. How’s your father?”

She was taken aback by the sudden change in course. “Do you know my father?”

“Never met him actually. Works for Citicorp, doesn’t he?”

“You know exactly who he works for. Why are you asking about my father?”

“Where is he these days? London? Brussels? Hong Kong?”

“ Paris,” she said. “It’s his last post. He’s retiring next year.”

“And then he’s coming home?”

She shook her head. “He’s staying in Paris. With his new wife. My parents divorced two years ago. My father remarried right away. He’s a time-is-money sort of man.”

“And your mother? Where is she?”

“ Manhattan.”

“See your father much?”

“Holidays. Weddings. The occasional awkward lunch when he’s in town. My parents divorced badly. Everyone took sides, the children included. Why are you asking me these questions? What do you want from-”

“You believe in that?” he asked, cutting her off.

“Believe in what?”

“Taking sides.”

“Depends on the circumstances, I suppose. Is this part of the test? I thought I failed your tests.”

“You did,” said Carter. “With flying colors.”

They entered the sitting room. It was furnished with the formal but anonymous elegance usually reserved for hotel hospitality suites. Carter helped her off with her coat and invited her to sit.

“So why am I back?”

“It’s a fluid world, Sarah. Things change. So tell me something. Under what circumstances do you think it’s right to take sides?”