The Secret Servant Page 18

  Ibrahim gave a stoic nod of his head.

  “You lied to me,” Gabriel said. “You deceived me in order to save your son’s life.”

  “Any decent father would have done the same.”

  “No, Ibrahim, not when innocent human lives are at stake. More than three hundred people are dead because of you and your son. If you had told me the truth—the entire truth—we could have stopped the attack together. Instead you gave me crumbs, the same bread crumbs you gave the SSI twenty-five years ago when you tried to save your daughter’s life.”

  “And if I’d told you more that night? Where would I have ended up? The Americans would have assumed I was a terrorist. They would have placed me on a plane and shipped me back to Egypt to be tortured again.”

  “Did you know London was the target? Did you know they were planning to kidnap Elizabeth Halton and ransom her for your friend, Sheikh Abdullah?”

  “I knew nothing of their plans. These boys are extremely well trained. Someone highly skilled is pulling the strings.”

  “Someone is.” Gabriel hesitated. “Maybe that someone is you, Ibrahim. Maybe you’re the one who masterminded the entire operation. Maybe you’re the one they call the Sphinx.”

  “The willingness to believe outlandish things is an Arab disease, Mr. Allon, not a Zionist one. The more time you waste pursuing silly notions like that, the less time we have to find the ambassador’s daughter and bring her home alive.”

  Gabriel seized on a single word of Ibrahim’s last answer, the word we.

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “I believe Ishaq is one of the terrorists holding the American woman hostage.”

  Gabriel leaned forward in his chair. “Why would you think that?”

  “Ishaq left Copenhagen two weeks ago. He told Hanifah that he was going to the Middle East for a research trip on behalf of the Islamic Affairs Council. In order to maintain that fiction, he telephones the apartment every evening at Ahmed’s bedtime.”

  “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 Citroën 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.

  A civilian security agent was standing a few yards from the United Airlines check-in area examining tickets and passports. Behind him, several dozen travelers, mostly Americans, were waiting in line. Because the shaheed had no valid visa, he would be able to get no closer to his victims then the security agent. Their lives would not be spared, however. Along with a hundred pounds of high explosive, the suitcase was packed with thousands of ball bearings and nails. The infidels standing in line would soon be reduced to ribbons of blood-soaked flesh. It would be a beautiful sight, thought the shaheed. He only hoped that his soul might linger in the terminal for a moment after his death so that he might see it.

  The security agent finished examining the travel documents o
f an American woman traveling with two young children, then motioned the shaheed forward. He did as he was instructed and handed the security man his ticket and passport.

  “Egyptian?” the security agent asked with barely concealed suspicion.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “You have a valid visa for travel to the United States today?”

  “I was told I didn’t need a visa.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Allah,” he said.

  The security agent reached for his radio.

  The shaheed put his thumb on the detonator button. Twelve pounds of pressure. Paradise…

  Though he did not know it, the shaheed at Kloten Airport was not alone. Two other suicide bombers had been dispatched to European airports that morning—one to Madrid’s Barajas Airport and another to Schwechat in Vienna—and all had been instructed to hit their detonators at the same instant. The martyr in Madrid was one minute late, but his comrade in Vienna did not explode his weapon until 9:35 Central European time. Investigators in Austria would later determine that the martyr, for reasons known only to himself, had stopped in an airport café for one last Viennese coffee before blasting himself to Paradise.

  Yusuf Ramadan was made aware of the bombings at 9:38 while stuck in the midmorning traffic along the Seine. It was not Abu Musa who broke the news to him but the production assistant from France 2 who a few moments earlier had escorted him from the building. It seemed that the station was planning extensive coverage of the terrorist attacks and was wondering whether Ramadan would consider spending the day as a paid consultant and commentator. He immediately agreed without bothering to ask the fee and, ten minutes later, was taking his seat once more on the set.

  “Welcome back, Professor Ramadan. What do you think these latest attacks mean?”

  “They mean that the United States had better open a channel of communication to the Sword of Allah soon,” Ramadan said. “Otherwise I’m afraid a good deal more blood will be shed here in Europe.”

  29

  COPENHAGEN: 3:03 P.M., TUESDAY

  They decided a crash meeting was in order and settled on Copenhagen’s airport Hilton Hotel as a suitable site. Adrian Carter arrived first and was sitting in the lounge bar as Gabriel and Sarah strode into the lobby. He directed them toward the elevators with a weary glance, and a moment later they were huddled around the television in Carter’s junior executive suite. Carter turned up the volume very loud. The room had been swept by CIA security, but Carter was a traditionalist when it came to matters of tradecraft and, like Gabriel, regarded electronic gadgetry as a necessary but unfortunate corruption of a once-noble art.

  “Zurich, Paris, Vienna: three airport attacks, identical in design and perfectly coordinated.” Carter, staring at the images of carnage and destruction on the screen, shook his head slowly. “One hundred and twenty-nine people confirmed dead, five hundred injured, and Europe’s air transport system in tatters.”

  “And what about Europe’s politicians?” asked Gabriel.

  “Publicly, they’re saying all the right things: deplorable, barbaric, outrageous. Privately, they’re pleading with us to make a deal with the devil. They’re telling us to end this thing before more blood is shed on their soil. Even our close friend at Downing Street is beginning to wonder whether we should find some way of negotiating our way out of this. The Sphinx, whoever he might be, is a mass murderer and a ruthless bastard, but his timing is impeccable.”

  “Any chance that the president is going to bend?”

  “Not after this. In fact, he’s more determined than ever that this affair end without a negotiated settlement. That means we have no option but to find Elizabeth Halton before the deadline.” Carter’s gaze moved from the screen to Gabriel. “And as of this moment, your Joe appears to be our best and only hope.”

  “He’s not my Joe, Adrian.”

  “He is now, at least as far as official Washington is concerned.” Carter lowered the volume a decibel or two. “You caused quite a storm in Washington last night, Gabriel. Your interrogation with Ibrahim Fawaz is now required listening from Langley to the J. Edgar Hoover Building to the National Security Council.”

  “How were the reviews?”

  “Mixed,” said Carter. “Expert opinion is divided over whether Ibrahim was being truthful or whether he was having you on for a second time. Expert opinion thinks you may have hitched your star to him too quickly. Expert opinion also fears you may have treated him far too gingerly.”

  “What does expert opinion have in mind?”

  “A second interrogation,” said Carter.

  “Conducted by whom?”

  “By Agency men with proper Christian names instead of an Israeli assassin.”

  “So you’re telling me that I’m being fired?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “You didn’t have to come all the way to Copenhagen to fire me, Adrian. A secure phone call would have sufficed.”

  “I felt I owed it to you. After all, I was the one who roped you into this.”

  “How decent of you. But tell me something, Adrian. Tell me exactly what your Agency interrogators think they’re going to get from Ibrahim that I didn’t get from him.”

  “Full and forthright answers, for starters. Expert opinion believes he was being highly deceptive and evasive in his answers.”

  “Oh, really? Did they come up with this on their own, or did the computers do it for them?”

  “It was a combination of the two, actually.”

  “How much more forthright would you like Ibrahim to be? He’s agreed to help us find Elizabeth Halton, and he’s given us the number of a telephone in Copenhagen that his son is calling every evening.”

  “No, he’s given us a number he says his son is calling.”

  “And tonight we’ll find out whether he’s telling the truth.”

  “Higher authority isn’t willing to wait that long. They want Ibrahim chained to a wall now.”

  “Where do they think they’re going to conduct this interrogation?”

  “They were wondering whether they could borrow your facility in Germany.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. In that case, we have two other options. We could take him to one of our facilities in eastern Europe, or we could put him on a plane to Egypt.”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Ibrahim’s not going to eastern Europe, Adrian, and he’s not going back to Cairo. No one’s strapping him to any water boards and no one’s chaining him to any more walls.”

  “Now you’re being unreasonable.” Carter looked at Sarah, as though she might be able to talk some sense into him. “Where exactly is Ibrahim at the moment?”

  Gabriel made no response. When Carter repeated the question, there was an edge to his voice that Gabriel had never heard before.

  “He’s back in Amsterdam,” Gabriel said. “In his apartment in the August Allebéplein.”

  “Why on earth did you send him back?”

  “We had no choice but to put him back,” Gabriel said. “If Ibrahim had vanished from the face of the earth, his wife would have called the Dutch police, and we both would have been faced with a force-ten scandal in Holland.”

  “Avoiding a scandal in Holland is not high on our list of priorities at the moment,” Carter said. “We want him, and we want him now. I assume he’s under watch.”

  “No, Adrian, that slipped our mind.”

  “Do try to control your fatalistic Israeli sense of humor for a few moments.”

  “Of course he’s under watch.”

  “Then I assume you would have no trouble delivering him into our hands.”

  “No trouble at all,” Gabriel said. “But you can’t have him.”

  “Be reasonable, Gabriel.”

  “I’m the only one who is being reasonable, Adrian. And if your goons go anywhere near him, they’re going to get hurt.”

/>   Carter exhaled heavily. “It appears we have reached an impasse.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “I suppose you have an alternative plan,” Carter said. “I also suppose I have no choice but to listen to it.”

  “My advice to you is be patient, Adrian.”

  “Elizabeth Halton dies at six o’clock Friday night. We don’t have time to be patient.”

  “I’ve given you the location and number of a telephone that one of her captors is calling on a regular basis. You have in your arsenal the National Security Agency, the largest and most sophisticated electronic intelligence service in the world, a service that is capable of vacuuming up every fax, phone call, and Internet communication in the world, every second of the day. Give Ishaq’s number in Copenhagen to NSA, and tonight, when Ishaq calls, tell NSA to bring all their considerable resources to bear on answering a single question: Where is he?”

  Carter stood up and ambled over to the minibar. He selected a soft drink, then, after consulting the price list, thought better of it. “To do this job right, you need to put a bug on the telephone in that apartment and a full-time surveillance team on Ishaq’s wife and son.”

  “What do you think we’ve been doing all day, Adrian? Watching movies in our hotel room?” Gabriel looked at Sarah. “You’re the liaison officer, Sarah. Please give your superior an update on our activities today.”

  “Hanifah and Ahmed Fawaz live in a section of Copenhagen called Nørrebro,” Sarah said. “Their apartment is located in a large turn-of-the-century block, almost a city within a city. Each apartment can be accessed by a front door and a rear service door. Late this morning, when Hanifah took Ahmed out for a stroll and some shopping, we slipped in the back door and put a—” She looked at Gabriel. “What was the device called that we put on their phone?”

  “It’s called a glass,” said Gabriel. “It provides room coverage along with coverage of any conversations conducted over the telephone.”