The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(104)

“Any word about Rebecca Manning?”

“You mean Philby?” Payne shook his head bitterly. “When were you going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place, Morris.”

“Apparently, she’s hanging on by a thread.”

“I told her not to go back.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“In the Netherlands,” said Gabriel. “We had to arrange an exchange of prisoners.”

“Dragunov for the girl?” Payne rubbed his lantern jaw thoughtfully. “Do you remember our recent dinner?”

“With considerable fondness.”

“When I suggested you might want to think about moving aside Abdullah for the good of the region, you looked at me as though I’d just told you to bump off Mother Teresa.”

Gabriel said nothing.

“Why didn’t you include us?”

“Too many cooks.”

“Saudi Arabia is our ally.”

“And thanks to me, that’s still the case. All you have to do now is send a signal to Riyadh that Washington would look favorably on Khalid’s reappointment as crown prince.”

“From what we hear, he won’t be crown prince for long.”

“Probably not.”

“Is he ready?”

“He’ll be different, Morris.”

Payne didn’t seem so sure. He abruptly tacked, a conversational habit of his. “I hear the Russians gave her a pretty good going-over.”

“Sarah?”

Payne nodded.

“Under the circumstances,” said Gabriel, “it could have been worse.”

“How did she hold up in the field?”

“She’s a natural, Morris.”

“So why is she working in a museum in New York?”

“Read her file.”

“I just did.” There was a copy on Payne’s desk. “Any chance you could convince her to come back to the Agency?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“I could be wrong,” said Gabriel, “but I believe she’s already spoken for.”



Gabriel left Langley in time to make the three o’clock train to New York. A car from the Israeli consulate met him at Penn Station and took him through the warm spring evening to the corner of Second Avenue and East Sixty-Fourth Street. The restaurant he entered was Italian, old-fashioned, and very noisy. He squeezed past the crowd at the bar and made his way to the table where Sarah, in a dark business suit, was sipping a three-olive martini. As Gabriel approached, she smiled and lifted her face to be kissed. It bore no trace of her night journey across the North Sea with the Russian assassin named Nikolai. In fact, thought Gabriel as he took his seat, Sarah looked more radiant than ever.

“Have one of these,” she said, clicking a polished nail on the edge of the glass. “I promise it will take care of that pain in your back.”

Gabriel ordered Italian sauvignon blanc and promptly took delivery of the largest glass of wine he had ever seen.

Sarah raised her martini a fraction of an inch. “To the secret world.” She looked around the crowded room. “No little friends?”

“I couldn’t get them a reservation.”

“You mean I have you all to myself? Let’s do something positively scandalous.” Sarah smiled wickedly and sipped her drink. She had a voice and manner from a different age. As always, Gabriel felt as though he were conversing with a character from a Fitzgerald novel. “How was Langley?” she asked.

“Morris couldn’t stop talking about you.”

“Do they miss me?”

Gabriel smiled. “The whole town is desolate. Morris would do anything to have you back.”

“What’s done cannot be undone.” She lowered her voice to a confiding murmur. “Except where Khalid is concerned. You prevented our tragic hero from destroying himself.” She smiled. “He’s restored.”

“Literally,” said Gabriel.

“Morris green-lit Khalid’s return?”

Gabriel nodded. “So did the White House. Season two of the Khalid show is about to begin production.”

“Let’s hope it’s a little less exciting than season one.”

A waiter appeared. Sarah ordered insalata Caprese and sautéed veal. Gabriel had the same.

“How’s work?” he asked.

“It seems the Nadia al-Bakari Collection did not fall from the walls of the Museum of Modern Art while I was away. In fact, my staff barely noticed my absence.”

“What are your plans?”

“A change of scenery, I think.”

This time it was Gabriel who surveyed the room. “It’s rather nice here, Sarah.”

“The Upper East Side? It has its charms, but I’ve always preferred London. Kensington, especially.”

“Sarah . . .”

“I know, I know.”

“Have you been back to London to see him?”

“Last weekend. It was almost as good as this martini. I must say, his maisonette is divine, even without furniture.”

“Did he tell you where he got the money to buy it?”

“He mentioned something about a certain Don Orsati from the island of Corsica. He has a home there, too, you know.”