House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(42)

“Clever.”

“He is, actually. Bill does quite well for himself. I use him for jobs that require a bit of extra discretion.”

“I thought you used me for those kinds of jobs.”

“Bill and his men are down and dirty,” explained Carter. “I save you for the ones that demand a little finesse.”

“It’s nice to have one’s work appreciated.”

They walked in silence for a moment. All around them the city groaned and stirred.

“Bill’s been pestering me for years to come in with him,” said Carter at last. “Says he’d pay me seven figures the first year. Apparently, I wouldn’t have to do much. Bill wants to use me as a rainmaker to guarantee that the lucrative contracts keep flowing his way. The global war on terror has been very profitable for a lot of people in this town. I’m the only idiot who hasn’t cashed in.”

“You’ve earned it, Adrian.”

“Would you take a job like that?”

“Not in a million years.”

“Neither would I. Besides, I have more important things to do before they show me the door at Langley.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting the man who did that.”

Carter raised his eyes toward the Kennedy Center. A few minutes after the attack on the Lincoln Memorial, a suicide bomber had detonated his device in the Hall of States. Then three more terrorists had moved methodically through the rest of the complex—the Eisenhower Theater, the Opera House, the Concert Hall—slaughtering all those they encountered.

“I knew two of the victims,” said Carter. “A young couple who lived around the corner from me out in Herndon. He did something in tech, she was a financial planner. They had life by the tail. Good careers, a mortgage, two beautiful kids. The house is for sale now and the kids live with their aunt in Baltimore. That’s what happens when people like us make mistakes. People die. Lots of people.”

“We did everything we could to stop the attacks, Adrian.”

“My new director doesn’t see it that way. He’s a real hard-ass, a true believer. Personally, I’ve always thought it was dangerous to mix ideology and intelligence,” said Carter. “It clouds one’s thinking and makes one see exactly what one wants to see. My new director begs to differ. So do the earnest young men he’s brought with him to the Agency. They think of me as a loser, which in their world is the worst thing a man can be. When I urge operational caution, they accuse me of weakness. And when I offer an assessment that’s at variance with their worldview, they accuse me of disloyalty.”

“Elections have consequences,” said Gabriel.

“So do successful terrorist attacks on American soil. Apparently, it’s all my fault despite the fact that I told anyone who would listen that ISIS was plotting to hit us with something big. According to the rumor mill, I’m yesterday’s man.”

“How long have you got?”

“A few weeks, maybe less. Unless,” added Carter quietly, “I can do something to dramatically change the landscape.”

At once, Gabriel understood why Adrian Carter had brought him to Washington aboard a private Gulfstream owned by an intelligence contractor named Bill Blackburn.

“Does your director know I’m in town?”

“I might have forgotten to mention it,” said Carter.

They had reached the Thompson Boat Center. They crossed a footbridge spanning Rock Creek and made their way past the Swedish Embassy to Harbor Place. Perhaps not coincidentally, it was the same route three ISIS gunmen had taken that night after leaving the Kennedy Center. Here their deadly handiwork was still in evidence. Nick’s Riverside Grill, a popular tourist spot, was boarded up and closed for business until further notice. So were the more upscale Sequoia and Fiola Mare.

“How’s your back holding up?” asked Carter as they walked along K Street beneath the Whitehurst Freeway.

“That depends on how much farther you intend to make me walk.”

“Not far. There’s just one more thing I’d like you to see.”

They turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and climbed the slope of the hill to M Street. A block to the north was Prospect Street. They rounded the corner and after a few paces paused outside the entrance of Café Milano. Like the restaurants of Harbor Place, it was closed until further notice. Forty-nine people had died there. Still, the toll would have been far higher were it not for Mikhail Abramov, who had single-handedly killed four ISIS terrorists. The restaurant was noteworthy for another reason. It was the only target where Saladin had made a personal appearance.

“A rather tragic symbol of our enduring partnership,” said Carter. “Mikhail saved a great many lives that night. But it might never have happened if I’d heeded your warning about the man you bumped into in the lobby of the Four Seasons.”

“You know what they say about hindsight, Adrian.”

“I do. And I’ve always found it to be an excuse for failure.”

Carter turned without another word and led Gabriel into the heart of residential Georgetown. The neighborhood was beginning to awaken. Lights burned in kitchen windows; dogs led sleepy masters along redbrick sidewalks. At last, they arrived at the curved front steps of a large Federal-style townhouse on N Street, the Agency’s most exclusive safe property. Inside, the stately old house was like a walk-in refrigerator, more evidence that Gabriel’s visit to Washington was private in nature.