House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(24)
“I ate five hours ago.”
“Have a little something so I don’t feel like a complete cad.”
She picked up a slice of bruschetta smeared with chopped olives and Italian parsley and nibbled at the edge. “How was work?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug and twirled his fork in the tagliatelle.
“Don’t even,” she warned. “You’re my only contact with the real world.”
“The Office isn’t exactly the real world.”
“The Office,” she countered, “is as real as it gets. Everything else is make-believe.”
He gave her a declassified, white-paper version of that evening’s strike on the convoy, but Chiara’s beautiful eyes soon became bored. She much preferred Office gossip to the details of Office operations. The politics, the internecine battles, the romantic affairs. It had been many years since she had left active service, and yet, if given the chance, she would have returned to the field in a heartbeat. Gabriel had far too many enemies for that, enemies who had targeted his family before. And so Chiara had to be content playing the role of first lady. Unlike the previous chief’s wife, the conniving Bella Navot, she was much beloved by the troops.
“Is this the way it’s going to be for the next six years?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“Midnight dinners. You eating, me watching.”
“We knew it was going to be difficult.”
“Yes,” she said vaguely.
“It’s too late for second thoughts, Chiara.”
“No second thoughts. I just miss my husband.”
“I miss you, too. But there’s nothing—”
“The Shamrons have invited us to dinner tomorrow night,” she said suddenly.
“Tomorrow night is bad.” He didn’t explain why.
“Maybe we can drive up to Tiberias on Saturday.”
“Maybe,” he said without conviction.
A heavy silence fell between them.
“You know, Gabriel, God was not always kind to you.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“But he gave you a second chance to be a father. Don’t let it go to waste. Don’t be a man who comes and goes in darkness. That’s all they’ll remember. And don’t try to justify it by telling yourself you’re keeping them safe from harm. It’s not enough.”
Just then, his mobile phone flared. Hesitantly, he punched in his password and read the text message.
“The prime minister?” asked Chiara.
“Graham Seymour.”
“What does he want?”
“A word in private.”
“Here or there?”
“There,” said Gabriel.
Without another word, he rang King Saul Boulevard and ordered Travel to make the necessary arrangements for what would be his first foreign trip as chief of the Office. There was a flight leaving Ben Gurion at seven, arriving in London at half past ten. Space would be made in first class for Gabriel and his detail. The British would handle security at their end.
With his itinerary complete, he killed the connection and, looking up, saw that Chiara had gone. Alone, he placed a second call to Uzi Navot and told him of his travel plans. Then he switched on the television and finished his dinner. With a bit of luck, he thought, he might get an hour or two of sleep. He would leave his children in darkness, he thought, and in darkness he would return. He would keep them safe from harm. And for his reward they might someday remember the midnight touch of his hand.
14
Jerusalem—London
And so it was that Gabriel Allon, having slept fitfully if at all, slipped from his bed and into the womb of his armored SUV. He arrived at Ben Gurion Airport a few minutes before his flight’s departure and, accompanied by two bodyguards, boarded planeside on the tarmac. He had no ticket, his name appeared on no manifest. As a rule, the ramsad, the chief of the Office, never traveled internationally under his real name, even to a reasonably friendly destination like the United Kingdom. Hostile actors such as the Iranians and the Russians had access to airline records, too. So did the Americans.
He passed the five-hour flight reading the newspapers, a rather pointless exercise for a man who knew too much, and upon arrival at Heathrow placed himself in the care of an MI6 reception team. Riding into central London in the back of a Jaguar limousine, he briefly regretted he had not tossed a necktie into his attaché case. Mainly, he stared out the window and recalled the many times he had crept into this city under different names, flying different flags, fighting different wars. The geography of London was for Gabriel a battlefield. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey, Covent Garden, the Brompton Road . . . He had bled in London, grieved in London, and in an Office safe flat on the Bayswater Road he had once recited secret marriage vows to Chiara because he feared he would not survive the day to come. His debt to the British secret services was profound. Britain had granted him sanctuary at the darkest times of his life, and protected him when another country might have thrown him to the wolves. In return, he had dealt with his fair share of problems on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government. By Gabriel’s calculation, the balance sheet was now roughly even.
At last, the car turned onto Vauxhall Bridge and sped across the Thames, toward the temple of espionage on the opposite embankment. On the uppermost floor Gabriel crossed an English garden of an atrium and entered the finest office in all of spydom, where Graham Seymour, surrounded by several members of his executive staff, waited to receive him. A round of introductions followed, brief, perfunctory. Then the senior staff filed slowly out, and Seymour and Gabriel were alone. For a long moment they appraised one another in silence. They were as different as two men could be—in size and shape, in upbringing, in religious faith—but their bond was unbreakable. It had been forged during numerous joint operations, waged against a diverse cast of enemies and targets. Jihadist terrorists, the Iranian nuclear program, a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov. They distrusted one another only a little. In the espionage trade, that made them the best of friends.