House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(119)

At nine o’clock London time, the American president and CIA Director Morris Payne strode into the White House Briefing Room to announce that the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin had been killed overnight in a clandestine U.S. operation in the Middle Atlas Mountains of Morocco. It seemed his death was the result of a painstaking American effort to deliver justice to the man who had perpetrated the attack on Washington, and was evidence of the new administration’s determination to wipe out radical Islamic terrorism once and for all. The Moroccans had known of the operation in advance and had provided valuable assistance, but otherwise it was an American undertaking from beginning to end. “And the results,” boasted the president, “speak for themselves.”

“No regrets?” asked Seymour.

“No,” answered Gabriel. “I prefer to come and go without being seen.”

When the president and his CIA director were finished, the reporters and the rented terrorism experts quickly tried to fill in the many gaps in the official account. Unfortunately for them, most of their information came directly from Adrian Carter and his staff, which meant little of it bore even a passing resemblance to the truth. By half past ten, Gabriel and Keller had had enough. Exhausted, they climbed into the Jaguar limousine and headed across the river to West London. Keller went to his opulent home in Kensington; Gabriel, to the old Office safe flat on Bayswater Road overlooking Hyde Park. Entering, he heard a woman singing softly to herself in Italian. He closed the door and smiled. Chiara always sang when she was happy.





67





Bayswater, London



“Where are the children?”

“Who?”

“The children,” Gabriel repeated deliberately. “Irene and Raphael. Our children.”

“I left them with the Shamrons.”

“You mean you left them with Gilah. Ari can barely look after himself.”

“They’ll be fine.”

Gabriel accepted a glass of chilled Gavi and sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter. Chiara washed and dried a packet of mushrooms, and with a few deft movements of her knife reduced them to rows of perfect slices.

“Don’t cook,” said Gabriel. “It’s too late to eat.”

“It’s never too late to eat, darling. Besides, you look like you can use some food.” She wrinkled her nose. “And a shower.”

“Hamid and Tarek said if I showered, I would disturb the jinns.”

“Who are Hamid and Tarek?”

“Unwitting employees of Israeli intelligence.”

“And the jinns?”

Gabriel explained.

“I wish I could have been there with you.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.”

Chiara tossed the mushrooms into a sauté pan and a moment later the smell of warm olive oil filled the air. Gabriel drank some of the Gavi.

“How did you know we were coming to London?”

“A contact inside the Office.”

“Does this contact of yours have a name?”

“He prefers to remain anonymous.”

“Of course.”

“He’s a former chief. Very important.” She gave the pan a shake, and the mushrooms began to sizzle. “When I heard you and the team were making a run for Gibraltar, I stowed away on a flight to London. Housekeeping was kind enough to put a few things in the fridge.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell the current chief about this?”

“I asked them not to. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She smiled. “Didn’t you notice my bodyguards down on Bayswater Road?”

“I was too tired to look.”

“Your tradecraft is starting to slip, darling. They say it happens to those who spend too much time behind a desk.”

“I doubt Saladin would agree with you.”

“Really?” Chiara glanced at the television playing silently on the counter. “Because the BBC says it was all an American operation.”

“The Americans,” said Gabriel, “were very helpful. But we were the ones who got him, with significant help from Christopher Keller.”

“And to think he tried to kill you once.” She drank some of Gabriel’s wine.

“How much did Uzi tell you about what happened?”

“Very little, actually. I know the drone strike didn’t go as planned and that you managed to track Saladin to a compound up in the mountains. After that, things get a little fuzzy.”

“For me, too,” said Gabriel.

“Were you there?”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Were you the one who—”

“Does it matter?”

She said nothing.

“Yes,” said Gabriel, “it was me. I was the one who killed him.”

And then he told her the rest of it. The woman who had detonated herself on the stairwell. The roomful of phones and computers in which Saladin had spent his last hours. The final text message.

Inshallah, it will be done . . .

“It was probably just talk,” said Chiara.

“From a man who nearly managed to smuggle a shipment of cesium chloride into France. Enough cesium chloride to build several dirty bombs. Bombs that would make the center of a city uninhabitable for years.” He paused, then added, “You see my point.”