The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(78)

She spoke very calmly. Gabriel did as he was told.

“Where’s Ishaq?”

“Ishaq who?” she asked.

“Let’s not play any more games. It’s been a long cold night.” He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Just tell us where we can find Elizabeth Halton and we’ll be on our way.”

“You are the Israeli, yes? The Zionist pig who killed our comrades in Hyde Park?”

“No, I’m an American pig.”

“You speak very good Arabic for an American pig.”

“My father was a diplomat. I grew up in Beirut.”

“Really? Then speak English for me, American pig.”

Gabriel hesitated. The girl leveled the gun at the back of Ibrahim’s head.

“You’ve made your point,” Gabriel said.

She pointed the gun at Gabriel. “I should kill you now,” she said. “But you’re fortunate. You won’t be dying tonight. Others have already laid claim to your life.”

“Lucky me.”

She hit him in the back of the head with the gun, hard enough for Gabriel to see a burst of fireworks before his eyes. When he reached reflexively toward the wound, she hit him again, harder still, and commanded him to put his hands back on the wheel. A moment later he could feel something warm and sticky running along the back of his right ear.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said sincerely.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Turn the car around,” the woman said. “Slowly.”

Gabriel eased the car into gear, executed a careful three-point turn, and headed inland.

“Make the first left into the dunes,” the woman said. “Then follow the tire tracks.”

He did as she instructed. The road was wide enough for only a single car and led to a colony of cottages tucked within the dunes. The cottages were small and wooden and abandoned to the winter. Some were painted Skagen yellow; others inexplicably had grass growing on the roof. Gabriel navigated only by the amber light of the parking lamps. The blood was now running freely down the side of his neck into his shirt collar.

He followed the tracks up a small humpbacked hill, then plunged down the other side and saw another knoll ahead. Fearful of becoming lodged in the snow, he kept his foot on the gas and heard a loud crunching sound when the car ran aground at the bottom of the dip. He gunned it hard up the next hill and swerved to the left, then glided down the other side into the drive of the farthest cottage. A silver LDV Maxus transit van was parked outside, lights doused. Gabriel came to a stop and looked into the rearview mirror for instructions. The woman jabbed Ibrahim in the back with the barrel of the Makarov and told him to open the door. When Gabriel reached for his own latch, she hit him in the back of the head for a third time.

“You stay here in the car!” she snapped. “We’ll give the woman only to Ibrahim—not you, Zionist pig.”

Ibrahim unclasped his safety belt and opened the door. The overhead light burst suddenly on. Gabriel put a hand atop Ibrahim’s forearm and squeezed.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Stay in the car.”

Ibrahim looked at him incredulously. “What are you talking about, my friend? We’ve come all this way.”

“It was all just a game to run out the clock. She’s not here. Your son has lured you here in order to kill you.”

“Why would my son kill me?”

“Because you betrayed him to the Crusaders and the Jews,” Gabriel said. “Because he is a takfiri Muslim and, in his eyes, you are now an apostate worthy only of death. You are worse than a Crusader—even worse than a Jew—because you were once a devout Islamist who has now renounced the path of jihad. The woman is taking you inside to be killed, Ibrahim. Don’t go with her.”

“My son would never harm me.”

“He’s not your son anymore.”

Ibrahim smiled and removed Gabriel’s hand from his arm. “You must have faith, my friend. Let me go. I’ll bring the girl out to you, just as I promised.”

Gabriel felt the barrel of the Makarov pressing against the base of his skull. “Listen to Ibrahim, Zionist pig. He speaks the truth. We do not kill our parents. You are the murderers, not us. Let him bring you the girl, so you can be on your way.”

Ibrahim climbed out of the car before Gabriel could stop him and started toward the cottage. The woman waited until he was several yards away before lowering the gun from Gabriel’s head and setting off after him. As they neared the entrance, a man appeared in the doorway. In the snow and darkness Gabriel could discern little of his appearance—only that his hair had been dyed platinum blond. He greeted Ibrahim formally, with kisses on both cheeks and a hand reverentially over his heart, and led him inside. Then the woman closed the door and the windshield exploded in Gabriel’s face.





PART FOUR





THE BRIDGE OVER JAHANNAM





43




WINFIELD HOUSE, LONDON: 7:05 A.M., FRIDAY



It would be nearly an hour before word of the disaster in northern Denmark reached Washington, and another thirty minutes would elapse before the first news reached Winfield House, the official residence of the American ambassador to the United Kingdom. Despite the lateness of the hour—it was 3:15 A.M. in London and 10:15 P.M. in Washington—Robert Halton was seated at the desk in his private study, where he had remained throughout that long night, waiting for word from the White House Situation Room. Though he had been expecting a call for many hours, the sound of the ringing telephone caused him to recoil involuntarily, as though from a nearby gunshot. As he snatched the receiver from the cradle, he thought for an instant that he could hear the sound of Elizabeth weeping. It must have been a burst of interference on the line—or a hallucination, he would think later—for the voice he heard when he brought the phone to his ear belonged not to his daughter but to Cyrus Mansfield, the president’s national security advisor.