Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“Why not?”

“Have you ever lost someone close to you?”

The dark look that came suddenly over his face, combined with Carter’s restless shifting in his chair, alerted her that she had strayed into some forbidden zone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t-”

“It’s Ben, I take it? Ben is the reason you’re not involved with anyone?”

“Yes, it’s Ben. Of course it’s Ben. ”

“Tell me about him.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “You don’t get to know about Ben. Ben is mine. Ben isn’t part of the deal.”

“How long did you date?”

“I told you-”

“How long did you see him, Sarah? It’s important, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

“About nine months.”

“And then it ended?”

“Yes, it ended. ”

“You ended it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Ben was in love with you. Ben wanted to marry you.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t feel the same way. You weren’t interested in marriage. Maybe you weren’t interested in Ben.”

“I cared about him very much…”

“But?”

“But I wasn’t in love with him.”

“Tell me about his death.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“I don’t talk about his death. I never talk about Ben’s death. Besides, you know how Ben died. He died at nine-oh-three A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, live on television. Everyone in the world watched Ben die. Did you?”

“Some of the passengers from Flight 175 managed to make phone calls.”

“That’s correct.”

“Was Ben one of them?”

“Yes.”

“Did he call his father?”

“No.”

“Did he call his mother?”

“No.”

“His brother? His sister?”

“No.”

“Who did he call, Sarah?”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“He called me , you son of a bitch.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me the plane had been hijacked. He told me they’d killed the flight attendants. He told me the plane was making wild movements. He told me he loved me and that he was sorry. He was about to die, and he told me he was sorry. And then we lost the connection.”

“What did you do?”

“I turned on the television and saw the smoke pouring from the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was a few minutes after Flight 11 struck. No one was really sure then what had happened. I called the FAA and told them about Ben’s call. I called the FBI. I called the Boston police. I felt so utterly fucking helpless.”

“And then?”

“I watched television. I waited for the phone to ring again. It never did. At 9:03 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, the second plane hit the World Trade Center. The South Tower was burning. Ben was burning.”

A single tear spilled onto her cheek. She punched it away and glared at him.

“Are you satisfied?”

He was silent.

“Now it’s my turn to ask a question, and you’d better answer it truthfully, or I’m leaving.”

“Ask me anything you like, Sarah.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We want you to quit your job at the Phillips Collection and go to work for Jihad Incorporated. Are you still interested?”

IT WAS LEFT to Carter to place the contract in front of her. Carter with his Puritan righteousness and corduroy blazer. Carter with his therapeutic demeanor and American-accented English. Gabriel slipped out like a night thief and crossed the street to Carter’s battered Volvo. He knew what Sarah’s answer would be. She had given it to him already. The South Tower was burning, she had said. Ben was burning. And so Gabriel was not concerned by the gallows expression on her face, twenty minutes later, when she emerged stoically from the town house and descended the steps to the waiting Suburban. Nor was he disturbed by the sight of Carter, five minutes after that, ambling morosely across the street like a pallbearer making for the casket. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “We have a plane at Andrews waiting to take you back to Israel,” he said. “We need to make one stop along the way. There’s someone who’d like a word with you before you leave.”

IT WAS AFTER midnight; K Street had been abandoned to the overnight delivery trucks and the taxicabs. Carter was driving at a faster pace than usual and making repeated glances at his wristwatch. “She doesn’t come for free, you know. There’ll be costs to using her. She’ll have to be resettled when this is over and protected for a long time.”

“But you’ll handle that, won’t you, Adrian? You’re the one with all the money. The budget for the American intelligence community alone is far more than the budget of our entire country.”

“Have you forgotten that this operation does not exist? Besides, you’re going to walk away with a great deal of Zizi’s money.”

“Fine,” said Gabriel. “You can be the one to tell Sarah Bancroft that she’s going to spend the next ten years living on a kibbutz in the Galilee hiding from the forces of global jihad.”

“All right, we’ll pay for her resettlement.”

Carter made a series of turns. For a moment Gabriel lost track of what street they were on. They passed the façade of a large neoclassical building, then turned into an official-looking driveway. On the left was a fortified guardhouse with bulletproof glass. Carter lowered his window and handed over his badge to the guard.

“We’re expected.”

The guard consulted a clipboard, then handed back Carter’s ID.

“Pull through, then stop in front of the barricade on the left. The dogs will give the car the once-over, then you can head on in.”

Carter nodded and raised his window. Gabriel said, “Where are we?”

Carter wound his way through the barricades and stopped where he’d been told. “The back door of the White House,” he said.

“Who are we seeing?” Gabriel asked, but Carter was now speaking to another officer, this one struggling to control a large German shepherd straining at a thick leather leash. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary within the Office, sat motionless while the animal prowled the perimeter of the Volvo, searching for concealed explosives. A moment later they were directed through another security gate. Carter pulled into an empty parking space on East Executive Drive and shut down the engine.

“This is as far as I go.”

“Who am I seeing, Adrian?”

“Go through that gate over there and walk up the drive toward the house. He’ll be out in a minute.”

THE DOGS came first, two coal-black terriers that shot from the Diplomatic Entrance like bullets from a gun barrel and launched a preemptive strike on Gabriel’s trousers. The president emerged a few seconds later. He advanced on Gabriel with one hand out while the other was gesturing for the terriers to break off their onslaught. The two men shook hands briefly, then set off along the footpath that ran around the periphery of the South Lawn. The terriers launched one more sortie against Gabriel’s ankles. Carter watched as Gabriel turned and murmured something in Hebrew that sent the dogs scurrying toward the protection of a Secret Service agent.

Their conversation lasted just five minutes, and to Carter it seemed the president did most of the talking. They moved at a brisk pace, stopping only once in order to settle what appeared to be a minor disagreement. Gabriel removed his hands from his coat pockets and used them to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. The president appeared unconvinced at first, then he nodded and clapped Gabriel hard on the shoulders.

They completed their circuit and parted at the Diplomatic Entrance. As Gabriel started back toward East Executive Drive the dogs trotted after him, then turned and darted into the White House after their master. Gabriel slipped through the open gate and climbed into Carter’s car.