The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(61)
“Don’t play the wounded martyr, Gabriel. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I didn’t appreciate some of the things that were said about me in Washington today.”
“Washington is a town without pity.”
“So is Jerusalem.”
“Then you’re going to need a thicker skin when you become the chief of the Office.” She gave him a mischievous sideways glance over the top of her collar. “Adrian says it’s just a rumor, but, judging from your reaction, it’s true.” She raised her glass. “Mazel tov.”
“Condolences would be more appropriate.”
“You don’t want the job?”
“Some men have greatness thrust upon them.”
“You’re in a fine mood tonight.”
“Forgive me, Sarah. Talk of genocide and extermination tends to spoil the evening for me.”
“Oh, that.” She sipped her beer and fought off a shiver. “You know, this restaurant does have an indoor section.”
“Yes, but it’s harder for me to tell whether we’re being watched.”
“Are we?”
“You’re trained in countersurveillance. You tell me.”
“There was a man drinking in the bar when we left the hotel,” she said. “He’s now standing on the other side of the canal with a woman who’s at least fifteen years older than he is.”
“Is he Danish security?”
“He was speaking German in the bar.”
“So.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think he’s Danish security. What do you think?”
“I think he’s a German gigolo who’s going to take that poor woman for every penny she has.”
“Should we warn her?”
“I’m afraid we have enough to worry about tonight.”
“Are you always such a charming date?”
“I didn’t realize this was a date.”
“It’s the closest thing to a date I’ve had in a long time.”
Gabriel gave her a disbelieving look and popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “Do you really expect me to believe you have difficulty attracting men?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but at the moment I’m living under an assumed identity because of my role in the al-Bakari operation. It makes it rather difficult to meet men. Even my coworkers in the CTC don’t know my real name or anything about my past. I suppose it’s for the best. Anyone I met now wouldn’t stand a chance anyway. I’m afraid my heart has been taken hostage by someone else.” She peered at him over her glass. “Now is the time you’re supposed to bashfully ask me the name of the man who’s kidnapped my heart.”
“Some questions are better left unasked, Sarah.”
“You’re such a stoic, aren’t you, Gabriel?” She took a drink of her beer and resumed her appraisal of the canal houses. “But your heart is spoken for, too, isn’t it?”
“Trust me, Sarah—you can do far better than a fifty-something misanthrope from the Valley of Jezreel.”
“I’ve always been attracted to misanthropic men, especially gifted ones. But I’m afraid my timing has always been lousy. It’s why I studied art instead of music.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “It’s Chiara, isn’t it?”
Gabriel nodded his head slowly.
“I could always tell,” Sarah said. “She’s a very lucky girl.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“She’s far too young for you, you know.”
“She’s older than you, but thanks for the reminder anyway.”
“If she ever throws you over for a younger man…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, you know where to find me. I’ll be the lonely former museum curator working the graveyard shift on the Saudi Arabia desk of the Counterterrorism Center.”
Gabriel reached out and touched her face. The cold had added a dab of crimson to her alabaster cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“We should have never used you. We should have found someone else.”
“There is no one else like me,” she said. “But I guess you already know that.”
A band of Chinese tourists, Europe’s newest packaged invaders, were posing for pictures in the center of the King’s New Square. Gabriel took Sarah by the arm and led her the long way round, while privately he waxed poetic on the splendid irony of a people on the march vacationing in the shrines of a civilization in twilight. They entered the lobby of the d’Angleterre under the admiring gaze of the concierge and climbed the stairs to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon. Mordecai was pacing nervously as they slipped quietly into the room. He pressed a pair of headphones into Gabriel’s hand and led him over to the recorders. “He called,” he whispered. “He actually called. We’ve got him, Gabriel. You’ve done it.”
32
CAIRO: 10:19 P.M., TUESDAY
The truth had come out in Interrogation Room 4 of the Scorpion, but then it always did. Just as Wazir al-Zayyat had suspected, Hussein Mandali was no ordinary middle school teacher. He was a senior operative of the Sword of Allah and commander of an important cell based in Imbaba. He had also confessed to being present when Sheikh Tayyib recorded his sermon calling for an uprising against the regime, a recording session that had taken place Sunday morning in Apartment 2408 of the Ramses Towers, a luxury block north of the Gezira Sporting Club filled with foreigners, film stars, and newly rich friends of the regime. A quick check of the files had revealed that the apartment in question was owned by a company called Nejad Holdings, and a second check had confirmed that Nejad Holdings was controlled by one Prince Rashid bin Sultan al-Saud.