House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(25)

“So,” said Seymour finally, “how does it feel to be a member of the club?”

“Our chapter of the club isn’t as grand as yours,” said Gabriel, glancing around the magnificent office. “Nor as old.”

“Wasn’t it Moses who dispatched a team of agents to spy out the land of Canaan?”

“History’s first intelligence failure,” said Gabriel. “Imagine how things might have turned out for the Jewish people if Moses had chosen another plot of land.”

“And now that plot of land is yours to protect.”

“Which explains why my hair is growing grayer by the day. When I was a boy growing up in the Valley of Jezreel, I used to have nightmares about the country being overrun by our enemies. Now I have those dreams every night. And in my dreams,” said Gabriel, “it’s always my fault.”

“I’ve been having those dreams lately myself.” Seymour gazed across the river toward the West End. “And to think it would have been worse if a prominent London art dealer hadn’t spotted the terrorists entering the theater.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Actually,” said Seymour, “you might. Owns an Old Master gallery in St. James’s. He’s seventy-five in the shade but still runs around with younger women. In fact, he was supposed to have dinner with a girl half his age at the Ivy the night of the attack, but the girl stood him up. Best thing that ever happened to him.” Seymour looked at Gabriel. “He hasn’t mentioned any of this to you?”

“We try to keep our contact to a minimum.”

“You must have rubbed off on him. He acted like a real hero.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Julian Isherwood?”

Seymour smiled in spite of himself. “I have to hand it to your friend Saladin,” he said after a moment. “He ran a very tight operation. Thus far, we’ve been able to identify only one other individual directly linked to the plot, an operative in France who supplied the automatic rifles. I dispatched one of our officers to locate this operative, but unfortunately there was a small mishap.”

“What kind of mishap?”

“A fatality. Three, actually.”

“I see,” said Gabriel. “And the name of the operative?”

“Peter Marlowe. Did time in Northern Ireland. Used to work in the olive oil business on Corsica.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “consider yourself lucky that only three people died.”

“I doubt the French will see it that way.” Seymour paused, then added, “Which is why I need you to have a word with them on my behalf.”

“Why me?”

“Despite your rather abysmal track record on French soil, you’ve managed to make some important friends inside the French security service.”

“They won’t be my friends for long if I get mixed up in your bungled operation.”

Seymour said nothing.

“And if I agree to help you?” asked Gabriel. “What’s in it for me?”

“The everlasting gratitude of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.”

“Come now, Graham, you can do better than that.”

Seymour smiled. “I can, indeed.”



It was approaching dusk by the time Gabriel finally departed Vauxhall Cross. He did so not in the back of the Jaguar limousine but in the passenger seat of a small Ford hatchback piloted by Nigel Whitcombe. The young Englishman drove very fast and with the languid ease of someone who raced rally cars at the weekend. Gabriel balanced his secure attaché case on his knees and clung tightly to the armrest.

“Where’s he living now?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” answered Whitcombe without a trace of irony.

“Maybe I should wear a blindfold then.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Never mind, Nigel. But would you slow down a bit? I’d rather not be the first chief of the Office to die in the line of duty.”

“I thought you were dead,” said Whitcombe. “Died on the Brompton Road outside Harrods. That’s what they wrote in the Telegraph.”

Whitcombe eased off the throttle, but only slightly. He followed Grosvenor Road along the Thames and then headed north through Chelsea and Kensington to Queen’s Gate Terrace, where finally he drew to a stop outside a large Georgian house the color of clotted cream.

“Is all that his?” asked Gabriel.

“Only the bottom two floors. It was a steal at eight million.”

Gabriel checked the window on the first floor. The curtains were drawn and there appeared to be no light burning within. “Where do you suppose he is?”

“I’d rather not hazard a guess.”

“Try his mobile.”

“He’s still figuring out how to use it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll let him explain.”

Whitcombe dialed the number. It rang several times without answer. He dialed it a second time with the same result.

“Think there’s a key under the doormat?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to use mine instead.”

Gabriel climbed out of the car and descended the short flight of steps that led to the basement entrance of the maisonette. He tried the latch; it was locked. Whitcombe frowned.