The Secret Servant (Gabriel Allon #7)(80)

“What time?”

“Noon should be fine. Can you arrange it by then?”

“No problem,” Barnes said. “Is there anything I can draft for you?”

“No, I can handle this one without a text. I do need you to prepare the ground for me, though.”

“How so?”

“Do you have any contacts at al-Jazeera?”

Barnes said he did. He had taken al-Jazeera’s London bureau chief to lunch a couple times in a futile effort to get the network to stop broadcasting al-Qaeda propaganda messages.

“Give your friend a call now. Let it leak that I’m about to make an offer to the kidnappers.”

“What sort of offer?”

“One they can’t refuse.”

“Is there something else I should know, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I’m resigning my post, Steve. You can call me Bob.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”

Halton hung up the phone, then stood up and headed toward his bedroom to shower and change. He was no longer Ambassador Robert Halton, the desperate and broken American diplomat who had no choice but to watch his daughter die. He was once again Robert Carlyle Halton, multibillionaire and kingmaker, and he was going to get Elizabeth back, even if it took every penny he had.





44




AALBORG, DENMARK: 12:15 P.M., FRIDAY



Your chariot has arrived, Mr. Allon.”

Lars Mortensen lifted his hand and pointed toward the heavy gray sky. Gabriel looked up and watched a Gulf stream V sinking slowly toward the end of the runway at Aalborg Airport. The slight movement caused his head to begin throbbing again. It had taken eighteen sutures, administered by a sleepy Skagen doctor, to close the three wounds in his scalp. His face bore a crosshatched pattern of tiny cuts, inflicted by the exploding safety glass of the windshield. Somehow he had managed to shield his eyes at the instant of detonation, though he had no memory of doing it.

He could recall the events of the rest of the evening, however, with faultless clarity. Ordered by the kidnappers to relinquish his telephone in Funen, he had been forced to drive the crippled Audi with its blasted-out windshield three miles in order to find a public phone. He had rung Carter and Mortensen from the parking lot of a small market on the outskirts of Skagen and, in language fit for an insecure line, had told them what had transpired. Then he had driven back to the dunes and watched the cottage burn slowly to the ground. Twenty more minutes would elapse before he heard the distant scream of the sirens and saw the first police and firefighters stumble bewildered onto the scene. A uniformed policeman had peppered Gabriel with questions while an ambulance attendant wiped the blood from his face. Talk to Lars Mortensen of the PET, was all Gabriel said. Mortensen will explain everything.

“You’re sure about the body count in the cottage?” Gabriel asked Mortensen now.

“You’ve asked me that ten times.”

“Answer it again.”

“There were only three—the two terrorists and the old man. No Elizabeth Halton.” Mortensen fell silent as the Gulfstream set down on the runway and flashed past their position with the roar of reversing engines. “Not exactly the way the story of Abraham and Isaac turned out in the Bible. I still can’t quite believe he actually set up his own father to be killed.”

“It’s the al-Qaeda version,” said Gabriel. “Murder anyone who dares to oppose you, even your own flesh and blood.”

The Gulfstream had reached the end of the runway and was now taxiing back toward their position on the tarmac.

“You’ll do your best to keep my role in this affair a secret?” Gabriel asked.

“There’s always a chance it could leak out up here. Unfortunately, you came in contact with many people last night. But as far as my service is concerned, you and your team were never here.”

Gabriel zipped his leather jacket and extended his hand. “Then it was a pleasure not meeting you.”

“The pleasure was mine.” Mortensen gave Gabriel’s hand an admonitory squeeze. “But the next time you come to Denmark, do me the courtesy of telling me first. We’ll have lunch. Who knows? Maybe we’ll actually have something pleasant to talk about.”

“I suppose anything’s possible.” Gabriel climbed out of the car, then peered at Mortensen through the open door. “I nearly forget something.”

“What’s that?”

He told him about the Beretta he had been forced to leave at the rest stop on Funen. Mortensen frowned and murmured something in Danish under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said. “It slipped my mind.”

“I don’t suppose you removed the bullets before throwing it into that rubbish bin.”

“Actually, it was quite loaded.”

“If I were you, I’d get on that plane before I change my mind about covering up your hand in this mess.”

Gabriel set out across the tarmac toward the Gulfstream. The airstair had been lowered; Sarah was leaning against the side of the open doorway, hands in the pockets of her jeans, legs crossed at the ankles. Carter was seated at the front of the cabin and was deep in conversation on the telephone. He nodded Gabriel into the opposite seat, then hung up and regarded him speculatively as the plane rose once more into the slate gray sky.