The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(56)

“How do you know?”

“Because Hanifah has told me so.”

“Have you spoken to him yourself?”

“I’ve left messages for him, but he never calls me.”

Gabriel placed a notepad and pen on the table and slid them toward Ibrahim.

“I need the address of the apartment in Copenhagen. And I need the telephone number.”

“Hanifah and Ahmed have nothing to do with this.”

“Then they have nothing to fear.”

“I want you to promise me that no harm will come to them.”

“You’re in no position to ask for anything, Ibrahim.”

“Promise me, Mr. Allon. Promise me you won’t harm them.”

Gabriel nodded once. Ibrahim wrote down the information, then pushed the pad toward Gabriel and recited two lines from the twenty-second chapter of Genesis:

“‘So early the next morning, Abraham saddled his ass and took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac. He split the wood for the burnt offering, and he set out for the place of which God had told him.’”

“You know your Hebrew scripture,” said Gabriel. “But he’s no longer your son, Ibrahim. He’s infected with the virus of jihad. He’s a monster.”

“Perhaps, but he’ll always be my son.” He looked down at the notepad in shame. “If I remember correctly, the Jews believe that Abraham went to Beersheba after passing God’s test. But what will happen to me? Will I be shipped to Egypt for further questioning or do I remain here?” He looked around the room. “Wherever here is.”

“I suppose that depends on the Americans.”

The disdainful look in Ibrahim’s eyes made it clear how he felt about Americans. “I suggest leaving the Americans out of this,” he said. “It would be better for you and I to cross the bridge over Jahannam alone. Whatever you decide, do it quickly. The ambassador’s daughter is in the hands of a young man whose sister was murdered by Pharaoh’s henchman. If he is ordered to kill her, he will not hesitate.”





28




PARIS: 9:25 A.M., TUESDAY



The interviewer from France 2 was shuffling his note cards, a sign that time was rapidly dwindling. Yusuf Ramadan, professor of Near Eastern history from the American University in Cairo, resident scholar at the Institute of Islamic Studies in Paris, and terror mastermind from the Sword of Allah, knew he would have to make his final point quickly.

“…And so I think the greatest danger of this crisis is not here in Europe but in Egypt itself,” he said in his faultless French. “It is my understanding that the security services of the Egyptian regime have responded with a rather heavy hand, and if this behavior continues, it is likely to provoke a backlash that might very well threaten the stability of the regime itself.”

The interviewer, intrigued by Ramadan’s comment, ignored the instructions of the floor director to conclude the segment. “Are you accusing the government of Egypt of torture, Professor Ramadan?”

“The methods of the Egyptian police and security services are well known,” Ramadan said. “You can be sure they are using torture and other unsavory methods in order to help the Americans find the ambassador’s daughter.”

“Thought-provoking as always, Professor Ramadan. I hope you’ll join us again to help us analyze this ongoing crisis.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Ramadan, smiling warmly for the camera.

The interviewer informed the audience that France 2’s coverage of the crisis would continue after a commercial break, then he extended his hand toward Ramadan and thanked him privately for agreeing to appear on the program. Ramadan rose from his seat and was escorted off the set by a youthful female production assistant. Five minutes later, he was climbing into a Citro?n car waiting outside in the esplanade Henri de France. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 9:25. The men and women of France 2 did not know it but their morning was about to get a good deal more hectic.





At that same moment in Zurich, a black Mercedes-Benz S600 sedan pulled sedately to the curb on the arrivals level of Kloten Airport. The man who emerged from the backseat looked a great deal like the vehicle itself, narrow at the head and a bit wide in the midsection for added stability. His suit was Italian, his overcoat cashmere, his leather suitcase large and expensive-looking. A Swiss policeman was standing watch at the entrance to the terminal with an automatic weapon across his chest. The well-dressed man nodded politely to him, then brushed past and went inside.

He paused for a moment and gazed up at the departure board. The ticket in his breast pocket was for that morning’s United Airlines flight to Dulles Airport. He had purchased the ticket despite the fact that he had no valid visa. It didn’t matter—he wasn’t planning to go to America, let alone board the airplane. He was a shaheed, a martyr, and the journey he was about to take had nothing to do with air travel.

After determining the check-in counters for the flight, the shaheed set out across the glistening modern terminal, towing his suitcase behind him. It had undergone several modifications to suit his specific needs. The sides and wheels had been reinforced to accommodate a larger payload, and the button on the collapsible handle was a detonator. Twelve pounds of pressure, the engineer had said. Just a little push—that’s all it would take to start his journey.