The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(63)
“Because the Muslim communities across Europe are under siege at the moment. Because we are being rounded up and brought in for questioning simply because we happen to speak Arabic or pray toward Mecca.”
“No one’s being rounded up in Copenhagen.”
“Not yet.”
“When does this conference of yours end, Ishaq? When are you coming home?”
“Actually, you’re coming here. Not Istanbul. Some place better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I left an envelope for you there.”
“I don’t feel like playing games, Ishaq. I’m tired.”
“Just do as I tell you, Hanifah. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”
Hanifah gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the receiver down next to the telephone so hard that the sound caused Gabriel’s eardrums to vibrate like a snare drum. The next sounds he heard were distant: the patter of slippered feet, a drawer being yanked open, the rustle of crisp paper. Then, a few seconds later, Hanifah’s startled voice.
“Where did you get this money?”
“Never mind where I got it. Do you have the tickets?”
“Beirut? Why are we going to Beirut?”
“For a holiday.”
“The plane leaves Friday morning. How am I supposed to be ready that soon?”
“Just throw a few things in a bag. I’ll have someone from the Council take you to the airport. A colleague of mine from Beirut will meet you at the airport and take you and Ahmed to an apartment that we’ve been given use of. I’ll come from Istanbul in a couple of days.”
“This is crazy, Ishaq. Why didn’t you tell me until now?”
“Just do as I say, Hanifah. I have to go now.”
“When am I going to hear from you again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? You tell me to get on a plane to Beirut and that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. You’re my wife. You do as I say.”
“No, Ishaq. Tell me when I’m going to hear from you again or I’m not getting on that plane.”
“I’ll call tomorrow night.”
“When?”
“When it’s convenient.”
“No, not when it’s convenient. I want to know when you’re going to call.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Whose time, yours or mine?”
“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”
“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”
“I have to go now, Hanifah.”
“Ishaq, wait.”
“I love you, Hanifah.”
“Ishaq—”
Click.
“What have you done, Ishaq? My God, what have you done?”
STOP. REWIND. PLAY.
“I want to know when you’re going to call.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Who’s time, yours or mine?”
“Nine-thirty Copenhagen time.”
“At nine thirty-one, I stop answering the phone. Do you understand me, Ishaq?”
STOP.
Gabriel looked at Mordecai. “I’m going to listen to the spot where Ishaq asks Hanifah to go get the tickets and money. Can you turn down the room coverage so I can hear only Ishaq?”
Mordecai nodded and did as Gabriel asked. The interlude was twenty-three seconds. Gabriel listened to it three times, then removed his headphones and looked at Sarah.
“Tell Adrian not to wait for NSA,” he said. “Tell him that Ishaq is calling from a highway rest stop in Germany—the northwest, judging by the accents of the people I can hear in the background. Tell him he’s traveling with at least one other man. They’re moving her around in a cargo truck or a transit van. He won’t be stopping again for several hours. He just filled the tank with gas.”
34
ABOVE COLORADO: 3:28 P.M., TUESDAY
The Falcon 2000 executive jet began to pitch as it sank into the storm clouds above the plains of eastern Colorado. Lawrence Strauss removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. One of Washington’s most powerful lawyers, he was a nervous flier by nature and avoided planes whenever he could—especially private planes, which he regarded as little more than death traps with wings. Given the nature of his current case, Strauss’s client had mandated he fly from Washington, D.C., to Colorado on a borrowed jet under conditions of extreme secrecy. Usually Lawrence Strauss didn’t permit clients to dictate his personal schedule or method of travel, but in this case he had made an exception. The client was a personal friend who also happened to be the president of the United States—and the mission he had given Strauss was so sensitive that only the president and his attorney general knew it existed.
The Falcon came out of the clouds and settled into a stratum of smoother air. Strauss slipped his glasses back on and looked down at the file open on the worktable in front of him: The United States v. Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq. It had been given to him late the previous evening inside the White House by the president himself. Strauss had learned much by reading the government’s case against the Egyptian cleric, mainly that it had been a house of cards. In the hands of a good defense lawyer, it could have been toppled with the flick of a well-presented motion to dismiss. But the sheikh hadn’t had a good defense lawyer; instead he had enlisted the services of a grandstanding civil rights warrior from Manhattan who had walked straight into the prosecutor’s trap. If Lawrence Strauss had been the sheikh’s lawyer, the case would never have gone to trial. Abdullah would have pleaded down to a much less serious offense or, in all likelihood, walked out of the courtroom a free man.