The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(18)
“Don’t worry—it will be a very quiet word.”
“My plane arrives in Amsterdam in the early afternoon. If Eli and I work through the night, we should be finished by morning.”
“I’m afraid Eli will have to finish the job without you. You’re not going back to Amsterdam.”
“Where am I going?”
“Home,” said Shamron. “A bodel will collect you in an hour and take you to Heathrow. And don’t get off the plane looking like something the cat dragged in, the way you usually do. We’re having dinner together tonight at Kaplan Street.”
Kaplan Street was the address of the Prime Minister’s Office.
“Why are we having dinner there?”
“If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not discuss our highest affairs of state and intelligence while the eavesdroppers of MI5 and GCHQ are trying to listen in.”
“It’s a secure phone.”
“There’s no such thing,” Shamron said. “Just make sure you’re on that plane. If you get stuck in traffic, call me from the car. I’ll have El Al hold the plane for you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The line went dead. Gabriel placed the receiver back in the cradle. We’re having dinner together tonight at Kaplan Street… He supposed he knew what the topic of conversation would be. Apparently Amos didn’t have long to live. He looked at the television screen. Three telegenic young people were engaged in a deeply serious discussion about the sexual antics of Britain’s most famous footballer. Gabriel groped for the remote control and instead found Samir’s legal pad. Then he remembered waking in the middle of the night and gazing at the image—not the pine trees and the sand dunes but the pattern of crisscrossing lines.
He looked at it again now. Gabriel had been blessed with near-perfect visual recall, a skill enhanced by his study of art history and his work as a restorer. He had hundreds of thousands of paintings stored in the file rooms of his memory and could authenticate a work simply by examining a few brushstrokes. He was convinced the lines were not random but part of a pattern—and he was certain he had seen the pattern somewhere before.
He went into the kitchen and made coffee, then carried his cup over to the window. It was beginning to get light, and the London morning rush was in full force. A woman who looked too much like his former wife was standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. When it did, she crossed the Bayswater Road and disappeared into Hyde Park.
Hyde Park…
He looked at the notepad, then looked out the window again.
Was it possible?
He walked over to the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside was a London A–Z street atlas. He took it out and opened it to map number 82. It showed the northeast corner of Hyde Park and the surrounding streets of Mayfair, Marylebone, Bayswater, and St. John’s Wood. The footpaths of the park were represented with dotted lines. Gabriel compared the pattern to Samir’s markings on the legal pad.
They matched perfectly.
Hyde Park…
But why would a terrorist want to attack a park?
He thought of the pictures he’d found in Samir’s flat: Samir in Trafalgar Square. Samir with a member of the Queen’s Life Guard outside Buckingham Palace. Samir riding the Millennium Wheel. Samir outside the Houses of Parliament. Samir with four friends posing in front of the American embassy in Grosvenor Square…
He looked at the map in the London A–Z again. Grosvenor Square was two blocks east of the park in Mayfair. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Graham Seymour.”
“I want you to warn the Americans about the Amsterdam cell.”
“What Amsterdam cell?”
“Come on, Graham—there isn’t time.”
“Immigration spent the night looking for them. So far they’ve come up with no evidence to suggest any of the men whose names you gave me are even in the country.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not here.”
“Why do you think they’re going to go after the Americans?”
Gabriel told him.
“You want me to sound the alarm at Grosvenor Square because of some lines on a legal pad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to do that. There’s not enough evidence to support making a call like that. Besides, have you been to Grosvenor Square lately? It’s an American fortress now. A terrorist can’t get close to that building.”
“Call them, Graham. If you don’t, I will.”
“Listen to me, Allon, and listen very carefully. If you make a mess of my town, so help me God, I’ll—”
Gabriel severed the connection and dialed another number.
9
GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON: 7:13 A.M., FRIDAY
The streets at the northern end of posh Mayfair have a distinctly American flavor. Tucked amid the stately Georgian buildings one can find the headquarters of the American Chamber of Commerce, the American Club, the American Church, the American Society, and the Society of American Women. Along the northern side of Grosvenor Square is the U.S. Navy building, and on the western side stands the American embassy. Nine stories in height and adorned by a monstrous gilded eagle, it is one of the largest American diplomatic missions in the world and the only one to reside on land not owned by the federal government. The Duke of Westminster, who owns most of Mayfair, leases the property to the American government for the very reasonable sum of a single peppercorn a year. There is little danger the Americans will be evicted from their patch of Mayfair any time soon, since the lease on the property does not expire until Christmas Day in the year 2953.