The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(39)
“The barbarians broke down the gates a long time ago, Adrian. They’re living among us now and devouring our children.” Gabriel sipped his coffee. “What is the position of the president?”
“It’s not one I’d wish on my worst enemy,” Carter replied. “As you know, he is a deeply religious man, and he takes his responsibilities as Elizabeth’s godfather very seriously. That said, he knows that if he complies with the demands of the kidnappers, no American diplomat anywhere in the world will ever be safe again. He also knows that if Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq is allowed to return to Egypt, the Mubarak government will find itself in a very precarious state. For all its problems, Egypt is still the most important country in the Arab world. If Egypt goes Islamic it will have a disastrous ripple effect across the entire region—disastrous for my country and yours. That means Elizabeth Halton is going to die one week from now, unless we can somehow find her and free her first.”
Carter walked over to the window and peered out toward the leafless trees along the river. “You’ve been in a position like this, Gabriel. What would you do if you were the president?”
“I’d tell my biggest, meanest sons of bitches to do whatever it takes to find her.”
“And if we can’t? Do we make a deal and save our child from the barbarians?”
Gabriel left the question unanswered. Carter gazed silently out the window for a moment. “My doctor says the stress of this job is bad for my heart. He says I need to get more exercise. Take a walk with me, Gabriel. It will do us both good.”
“It’s twenty degrees outside.”
“The cold air is good for you,” Carter said. “It lends clarity to one’s thoughts. It steels one’s resolve for the travails that lay ahead.”
They slipped from the OHB through a side exit and set out along a paved jogging trail through the trees overlooking the river. Carter was bundled in a thick toggle coat and wool hat. Gabriel had only the leather jacket he’d taken with him the previous morning to Cyprus and within a few moments he was numb with cold.
“All right,” Carter said. “No one’s listening now. How did you know they were going to strike in London?”
“No one’s listening?” Gabriel looked around at the trees. “This place is littered with cameras, motion sensors, and hidden microphones.”
“That’s true,” said Carter. “But answer the question anyway.”
Gabriel told him about the tip he had received from Ibrahim Fawaz, the photographs he discovered during his hasty search of Samir al-Masri’s apartment, and the lines on the legal pad he had correctly identified as a sketch of Hyde Park.
“Amazing,” said Carter with genuine admiration in his voice. “And what was the great Gabriel Allon doing in Amsterdam?”
“I’m afraid you don’t get to know that part of the story.”
Carter, a consummate professional, moved on without objection. “Ibrahim Fawaz sounds like exactly the sort of Muslim we’ve been looking for—a man who’s willing to expose the extremists and terrorists residing within his community and his mosque.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Unfortunately, there’s a catch. Inside that suitcase I brought with me is a substantial portion of the SSI’s dossier on the Sword of Allah. Guess whose file I found in there?”
“Your source is Sword of Allah?”
Gabriel nodded. “Before leaving Egypt, Dr. Ibrahim Fawaz served as a professor of economics at the University of Minya. According to his file, he was one of the group’s earliest organizers. He was arrested after Sadat’s assassination. The file is a bit vague on the reasons why, along with the duration of his detainment.”
“They usually are,” Carter said. “Why did he leave Egypt and come to Europe? And why did he tell you there was a plot being organized from within the al-Hijrah Mosque in west Amsterdam?”
“Obviously someone needs to put those very questions to him—and sooner rather than later. He lied to me or didn’t tell me the whole story. Either way, he was being deceptive. He’s hiding something, Adrian.”
They came to the intersection of two pathways. Carter guided Gabriel to the left, and together they set out through a stand of leafless trees. Carter dug a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his overcoat and slowly loaded the bowl. “They don’t let us smoke in the building anymore,” he said, pausing to ignite the tobacco with an elegant silver lighter.
“I wish we’d pass a similar rule.”
“Can you imagine Shamron without his Turkish cigarettes?” Carter started walking again, trailing a plume of maple-scented smoke behind him like a steam engine. “I suppose we have two options. Option one, we pass along your information about Fawaz to the Dutch police and allow them to bring him in for questioning, with the FBI in close attendance, of course.”
“Option number two?”
“We pick him up for an off-the-record chat, in a place where the usual rules of interrogation don’t apply.”
“You know which option I would vote for.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Carter said. “I think you should go to Amsterdam and personally supervise the operation.”
“Me?” Gabriel shook his head. “I’m afraid my role in this affair is officially over. Besides, it’s not as if the CIA doesn’t have experience in these kinds of operations.”