The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(37)

The operator made it clear that she did indeed understand and politely asked the caller to stand by. Two seconds later, O’Donnell’s phone sounded in the ops center. He snatched the red receiver from the cradle and brought it quickly to his ear. “This is John O’Donnell of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said crisply. “How can I help you?”

“The beach at Beacon Point,” the electronically altered voice said. “Look beneath the overturned rowboat. This will be our first and only contact.”

The line went dead.

O’Donnell hung up the phone and listened to the call again on his recorder, then picked up the receiver of a separate dedicated line that rang automatically at Scotland Yard.

“That sounded legit to me,” O’Donnell said.

“I concur,” said the Met officer at the other end of the line.

“Did you get a trace?”

“It was placed with a mobile phone. Something tells me we’re not going to catch this one. He sounded like a real pro.”

“Where’s Beacon Point?”

“The south coast, about ten miles east of Plymouth.”

“How far from central London?”

“About a hundred and fifty miles.”

“I want to be on site for the retrieval—whatever it is.”

“The Royal Navy has been kind enough to leave a Sea King at the London Heliport for just this kind of scenario.”

“Where’s the heliport?”

“South bank of the Thames between the Battersea and Wandsworth bridges.”

“Tell them to warm up the engines. Can you give me a lift through town?”

“I’ll have a pair of patrol cars outside the embassy in two minutes.”

“Send them to Upper Brook Street,” O’Donnell said. “There are no reporters back there.”

“Right.”





The flight to the south coast was ninety minutes in duration and thoroughly unpleasant because of high winds swirling ahead of a strong Atlantic storm front. As the Sea King swooped down toward Beacon Point, O’Donnell looked out his window and saw arc lamps blazing away on the little sand beach and blue police lights flashing along roads linking the surrounding villages of Kingston, Houghton, and Ringmore. The landing zone was a small patch of moorland behind the beach. O’Donnell was met there by the officer in charge, a stubby deputy chief constable from the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary aptly named Blunt. He briefed the FBI man as they walked down a sandy pathway to the beach.

“We’ve determined that the beach and surrounding grounds are free of bombs or any other weaponry,” he said. “About twenty minutes ago we used a remote-control robotic device to have a look under the overturned boat.”

“Anything there?” O’Donnell asked.

“Nothing that we could see with the camera, but it’s possible something could be buried beneath it. We decided to wait until you arrived before moving the boat.”

They clambered out of the dunes and stopped about twenty yards from the boat. An eight-foot dinghy with peeling gray and white paint, it was surrounded by a half-dozen policemen in blast-protection suits and visors. With a terse nod, Blunt spurred them into action, and the boat was soon resting on its hull. Taped to the seat in the stern was a DVD in a clear plastic case. Blunt retrieved it and immediately handed it to O’Donnell, who carried it back to the helicopter and inserted it into a laptop computer. As the image flickered to life on the screen, O’Donnell swore beneath his breath and looked at the British police official.

“I need a favor from you.”

“Anything,” said Blunt, his tone grave.

“Tell your men it was just a hoax. Apologize to them for the inconvenience, and thank them on behalf of the American people and Ambassador Halton for their fine work tonight.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. O’Donnell.”

O’Donnell glanced at the screen. “This DVD does not exist. Now do you understand?”

Blunt nodded. He understood perfectly.





18




ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE: 7:12 A.M., SATURDAY



The Gulfstream V executive jet touched down at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington and taxied to a secure hangar with floors as smooth as polished marble. Gabriel descended the airstair, Samsonite bag in hand, and headed toward a waiting Suburban with Virginia license plates. The two CIA security men inside did not speak as he tossed the suitcase into the backseat and climbed in after it. Gabriel was used to this sort of behavior by the Americans. They were trained by their counter-intelligence people to believe that Office agents viewed every encounter with Agency personnel, no matter how mundane, as an opportunity for intelligence gathering. He was tempted to pose an inappropriate question or two, just to keep the myth alive. Instead he asked only where they were taking him.

“Headquarters,” said the man in the passenger seat.

“I don’t want to go to Headquarters.”

“You’ll go into the building black. No one will know you’re there.”

“Why can’t we meet in a safe house, the way we usually do?”

“Your contact doesn’t have time to leave the building today. I’m sure you can understand that.”