Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Sure you have,” Carter said, and Sarah, for the second time, saw her grief counselor, sitting in his floral wingchair with his ceramic mug balanced on his knee, dully prodding her to visit places she’d rather not go. “Come on, Sarah,” Carter was saying. “Give me just one example of when you believe it’s all right to take sides.”

“I believe in right and wrong,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “Which probably explains why I flunked your little tests. Your world is shades of gray. I tend to be a bit too black and white.”

“Is that what your father told you?”

No, she thought, it was Ben who accused her of that failing.

“What’s this all about?” she asked. “Why am I here?”

But Carter was still turning over the implications of her last response. “And what about the terrorists?” he asked, and once again it seemed to Sarah as if the thought had just popped into his head. “That’s what I’m wondering about. How do they fit into Sarah Bancroft’s world of right and wrong? Are they evil, or is their cause legitimate? Are we the innocent victims, or have we brought this calamity upon ourselves? Must we sit back and take it, or do we have the right to resist them with all the force and anger we can muster?”

“I’m an assistant curator at the Phillips Collection,” she said. “Do you really want me to wax lyrical on the morals of counterterrorism?”

“Let’s narrow the focus of our question then. I always find that helpful. Let’s take for an example the man who drove Ben’s plane into the World Trade Center.” Carter paused. “Remind me, Sarah, which plane was Ben on?”

“You know which plane he was on,” she said. “He was on United Flight 175.”

“Which was piloted by…”

“Marwan al-Shehhi.”

“Suppose for a moment that Marwan al-Shehhi had managed somehow to survive. I know it’s crazy, Sarah, but play along with me for argument’s sake. Suppose he managed to make his way back to Afghanistan or Pakistan or some other terrorist sanctuary. Suppose we knew where he was. Should we send the FBI with a warrant for his arrest, or should we deal with him in a more efficient manner? Men in black? Special forces? A Hellfire missile fired from a plane without a pilot?”

“I think you know what I would do to him.”

“Suppose I’m interested in hearing it from your own lips before we go further.”

“The terrorists have declared war on us,” she said. “They’ve attacked our cities, killed our citizens, and tried to disrupt the continuity of our government.”

“So what should be done to them?”

“They should be dealt with harshly.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Men in black. Special forces. A Hellfire missile fired from a plane without a pilot.”

“And what about a man who gives them money? Is he guilty, too? And if so, to what degree?”

“I suppose it depends on whether he knew what the money would be used for.”

“And if he knew damned well what it would be used for?”

“Then he’s as guilty as the man who flew the plane into the building.”

“Would you feel comfortable-indeed justified-in operating against such an individual?”

“I offered to help you five years ago,” she said contentiously. “You told me I wasn’t qualified. You told me I wasn’t suited for this sort of work. And now you want my help?”

Carter appeared unmoved by her protest. Sarah felt a sudden empathy for his wife.

“You offered to help us, and we treated you shabbily. I’m afraid that’s what we do best. I suppose I could go on about how we were wrong. Perhaps I might try to soothe your feelings with an insincere apology. But frankly, Miss Bancroft, there isn’t time.” His voice contained an edge that had been absent before. “So I suppose what I need now is a straight answer. Do you still feel like helping us? Do you want to fight the terrorists, or would you prefer to go on with your life and hope it never happens again?”

“Fight?” she asked. “I’m sure you can find people better suited for that than me.”

“There are different ways to fight them, Sarah.”

She hesitated. Carter filled the sudden silence by engaging in a prolonged study of his own hands. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked things twice. In that regard he was very much like her father. “Yes,” she said finally. “I’d be willing.”

“And what if it involved working with an intelligence service other than the Central Intelligence Agency?” he asked, as though discussing an abstract theory. “An intelligence service that is closely allied with us in this fight against the Islamic terrorists?”

“And who might that be?”

Carter was good at evading questions. He proved it again now.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s a serious chap. A little rough around the edges. He’s going to ask you a few questions. Actually, he’s going to put you under the lights for the next few hours. It’s going to get rather personal at times. If he likes what he sees, he’s going to ask you to help us in a very important endeavor. This endeavor is not without risk, but it is critical to the security of the United States, and it has the Agency’s full support. If you’re interested, remain where you are. If not, walk out the door, and we’ll pretend you stumbled in here by mistake.”

SARAH WOULD NEVER be sure how Carter had summoned him or from where he came. He was small and spare, with short-cropped hair and gray temples. His eyes were the greenest Sarah had ever seen. His handshake, like Carter’s, was fleeting but probing as a doctor’s touch. His English was fluent but heavily accented. If he had a name, it wasn’t yet relevant.

They settled at the long table in the formal dining room, Carter and his nameless collaborator on one side and Sarah on the other like a suspect in an interrogation room. The collaborator was now in possession of her CIA file. He was leafing slowly through the pages as if seeing them for the first time, which she doubted was the case. His first question was put to her as a mild accusation.

“You wrote your doctoral dissertation at Harvard on the German Expressionists.”

It seemed a peculiar place to begin. She was tempted to ask why he was interested in the topic of her dissertation, but instead she simply nodded her head and said, “Yes, that’s correct.”

“In your research did you ever come across a man named Viktor Frankel?”

“He was a disciple of Max Beckmann,” she said. “Frankel is little known today, but at the time he was considered extremely influential and was highly regarded by his contemporaries. In 1936 the Nazis declared his work degenerate, and he was forbidden to continue painting. Unfortunately, he decided to remain in Germany. By the time he decided to leave, it was too late. He was deported to Auschwitz in 1942, along with his wife and teenaged daughter, Irene. Only Irene survived. She went to Israel after the war and was one of the country’s most influential artists in the fifties and sixties. I believe she died several years ago.”

“That’s correct,” said Carter’s collaborator, his eyes still on Sarah’s file.

“Why are you interested in whether I knew about Viktor Frankel?”

“Because he was my grandfather.”

“You’re Irene’s son?”

“Yes,” he said. “Irene was my mother.”

She looked at Carter, who was gazing at his own hands. “I guess I know who’s running this endeavor of yours.” She looked back at the man with gray temples and green eyes. “You’re Israeli.”

“Guilty as charged. Shall we continue, Sarah, or would you like me to leave now?”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Do I get a name, or are names forbidden?”