The Secret Servant Page 30

  At 5:40, the five men slipped out of camera range. Then, ten minutes later, they returned with the final component of their weapon of mass murder—a man in a blue-and-white tracksuit, bound and trussed in packing tape, his face bloodied and swollen.

  “Please tell me he’s alive, Mikhail.”

  “He’s alive, Chiara.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “They wouldn’t be putting him in with the bomb if he was dead.”

  But the best evidence he was alive, Mikhail thought darkly, was his head. If Gabriel were dead, it wouldn’t still be attached to his shoulders. He didn’t share this observation with Chiara. She’d been through enough that night already.

  At 5:55, the four men in black stripped down to their street clothes. Three climbed into a Mercedes cargo truck and departed. The fourth climbed behind the wheel of the Vauxhall panel van, while the Egyptian-looking man with the burgundy sweater joined Gabriel in the back. At precisely six A.M., the van turned into West Dock Street and made its way toward the entrance of the A120. Four vehicles followed carefully after it. Yaakov took the first shift at the point, while Chiara and Mikhail brought up the rear on the BMW bike. Mikhail sat on the back. The gunner’s seat.

  Gabriel opened one eye, then, slowly, the other. He tried to move his limbs but could not. The crown of his head was pressing against something metallic. He was able to twist his neck just enough to see that the object was a steel drum. There were other drums, five more in fact, linked by a network of wires leading to a detonator switch on the console next to the driver. Ishaq was seated opposite Gabriel. His legs were crossed and a gun lay in his lap. He was smiling, as though proud of the clever way in which he had unveiled the method of Gabriel’s pending execution.

  “Where are we going?” Gabriel asked.

  “Paradise.”

  “Does your driver know the way, or is he just following his nose?”

  “He knows,” said Ishaq. “He’s been preparing for this ride for a very long time.”

  Gabriel twisted his head around and looked at him. He was several years younger than Ishaq, clean shaven, and had both hands on the wheel like a novice out for his first drive alone.

  “I want to sit up,” Gabriel said.

  “It’s probably better if you stay down. If you sit up, it’s going to hurt.”

  “I don’t care,” Gabriel said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He took hold of Gabriel’s shoulders and propped him carelessly against the passenger-side wall of the cargo hold. Ishaq was right. It did hurt to sit up. In fact, it hurt so damned much he nearly fainted. But at least now he could see out through a portion of the windshield. It was still dark out, but one side of the sky was gradually turning a deep, luminous blue—the first light, Gabriel reckoned, of Christmas morning. Judging from the modest speed they were making, and the absence of any other traffic noise, they were traveling on a B-road. He glimpsed a road sign as it flashed past: SHRUB END 3. Shrub End? Where in God’s name was Shrub End?

  He closed his eyes from the pain and heard an engine note not their own. It was high and tight, the sound of a high-performance motorcycle approaching from behind at considerable speed. He opened his eyes and watched as it flashed past in a cyclone of road spray. Then he looked at Ishaq again and for a second time asked where they were going. This time Ishaq only smiled. It was a martyr’s smile. Gabriel closed his eyes and thought of the motorcycle. Go for the kill shot, he thought. But then Mikhail knew no other kind.

  Uzi Navot lowered the handset of the radio and looked at Shamron.

  “Mikhail says they’re still in the same position that they were when they left the warehouse. One driving, one in the back with Gabriel. He says he can get the driver cleanly, but there’s no way he can get them both.”

  “You have to make them stop, Uzi—someplace where an explosion won’t take innocent life.”

  “And if they won’t stop?”

  “Have a backup plan ready.”…

  Gabriel tried not to think about them. He tried not to wonder how they had tracked him down, how long they had been watching and following, or how they planned to extract him. As far as Gabriel was concerned, they did not exist. They were nonpersons. Ghosts. Lies. He thought of anything else. The pain of his broken ribs. The burning numbness of his limbs. Shamron, leaning on his olive-wood cane. We move like shadows, strike like lightning, and then we vanish into thin air. Strike soon, Gabriel thought, because he feared he couldn’t keep his balance atop the bridge over Jahannam much longer.

  He made a clock in his head and watched the second hand go round. He listened for other vehicles and read the road signs as they flashed past: HECKFORDBRIDGE…BIRCH…SMYTH’S GREEN…TIP-TREE…GREAT BRAXTED…Even Gabriel, Office-trained expert in European geography, could not place their whereabouts. Finally, he saw a sign for Chelmsford and realized they were heading toward London from the northeast, along the route of the ancient Roman road. As they were approaching a village called Langford, the driver slowed suddenly. Ishaq seized hold of his pistol and brought it up near his chest in a defensive position. Then he looked quickly at the driver.

  “What’s wrong?” he murmured in Arabic.

  “There’s an accident ahead. They’re waving for me to stop.”

  “Police?”

  “No, just the drivers.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “It’s blocking the road.”

  “Go around,” snapped Ishaq.

  The driver turned the wheel hard to the left. The van heeled a few degrees to port as it tipped onto the shoulder and the machine-gun thumping of the tires over the rumble strips sent shock waves of pain through Gabriel’s body. As they shot past the wreck, he saw a tall balding man in his forties waving his arms plaintively and pleading for the van to stop. A man with pockmarked cheeks was standing next to him, gazing at his smashed headlight as though trying to concoct a suitable story for his wife. Gabriel looked at Ishaq as the van lurched back onto the road and sped on toward London.

  “It’s Christmas, Ishaq. What kind of person leaves two motorists stranded on the road on Christmas morning?”

  Ishaq responded by shoving Gabriel hard to the floor. Gabriel’s view was now limited to the soles of Ishaq’s shoes—and the base of the six barrels filled with explosives—and the wiring leading to the detonator switch on the console. Ishaq, in his rush to reach London on schedule, had inadvertently thwarted the first rescue attempt. The second, Gabriel knew, would involve no subterfuge. He closed his eyes and listened for the sound of the motorcycle.

  Navot ordered Yossi and Yaakov back into the smashed cars and looked one final time at Shamron for guidance. “I’m afraid this has gone on long enough,” Shamron said. “Put them down in a field where no one else gets hurt. And get him out in one piece.”

  Ishaq was reading quietly from a copy of the Quran when Gabriel heard the drone of the approaching bike. He focused his gaze on the gun, which lay in Ishaq’s lap, and coiled his bound legs for a single strike. The engine note rose steadily in volume for several more seconds, then went suddenly silent. Ishaq looked up from his Quran and peered out the windshield. When the bike didn’t appear, he looked at Gabriel in alarm, as though he had a premonition of what would come next. As he grabbed for the gun, there was an explosion of glass and blood in the front seat. The driver, hit several times in the head, slumped to the left and with a spasm of his lifeless hand took the wheel with him. Ishaq tried to level the gun at Gabriel as the van hurtled from the roadway, but Gabriel lifted his bound legs and kicked the weapon from Ishaq’s grasp. Ishaq made one last desperate lunge for it. And then the van began to roll.

  56

  He came to rest in wet earth, blinded with pain, struggling for breath. A woman was shouting into his face and pulling at the packing tape that bound him. Her voice was muffled by the helmet and her face invisible behind the dark visor. “Are you all right, Gabriel?” she was saying. “Can you hear me? Answer me, Gabriel! Can you
hear me? Damn you, Gabriel! You promised me you wouldn’t die! Don’t die!”

  57

  RUNSELL GREEN, ENGLAND: 6:42 A.M., CHRISTMAS DAY

  There had been a fine old hedgerow along the side of the road. They had burst through it, like the tip of a pencil through tissue paper, and plunged into a farmer’s field. The van had come to rest on its roof and its contents were now strewn over the muddy ground like children’s toys on the floor of a nursery. Not fifty yards away from the van’s final resting spot, a gathering of fat pheasant were pulling at the earth as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At the edge of the field, lights were coming on in a limestone cottage, the first moments of a Christmas morning the occupants would not soon forget.

  “Where’s Ishaq?” asked Gabriel as Chiara cut away the last of the packing tape.

  “Inside the van.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Barely,” she said. “You were thrown from the van early. He wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Put me on my feet.”

  “Just stay down, Gabriel. You’re hurt badly.”

  “Do what I say, Chiara. Put me on my feet.”

  Gabriel groaned in pain as she lifted him upright. He took a step forward and staggered. Chiara seized hold of his arm and kept him from falling.

  “Lie down, Gabriel. Wait for the ambulance.”

  “No ambulances. Help me walk.”

  Mikhail came over at an awkward trot, gun still in his hand, and together with Chiara helped Gabriel slowly toward the van. The driver hung upside down from his seat belt, blood flowing freely from his burst skull. Ishaq lay in the back, bleeding from his nose and mouth, left leg snapped above the knee like a broken matchstick. Gabriel looked at Mikhail.

  “Pull him out by the leg,” he said in Hebrew. “The broken leg.”

  “Don’t do this,” Chiara said.

  “Walk away.” Gabriel looked at Mikhail. “Do what I tell you or I’ll do it myself.”

  Mikhail ducked into the van through the open cargo doors and seized hold of the shattered leg. A moment later Ishaq lay writhing on the ground at Gabriel’s feet. Chiara, unable to bear the sight, walked away across the field. Gabriel looked down at Ishaq and asked, “Where’s my girl?”

  “She’s already dead,” Ishaq spat through the blood.

  Gabriel held out his hand to Mikhail. “Give me your gun.”

  Mikhail handed it over. Gabriel pointed it toward the broken leg and fired once. Ishaq’s screams echoed over the flat landscape and his fingers clawed at the sodden earth. The pheasants took flight and circled above Gabriel’s head.

  “Where’s my girl?” Gabriel repeated calmly.

  “She’s dead!”

  Another shot. Another scream of agony.

  “Where’s my girl, Ishaq?”

  “She’s already—”

  Pop.

  “Where’s my girl, Ishaq?”

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Pop.

  “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Pop. Pop.

  “Tell me where she is, Ishaq.”

  He leveled the gun and prepared to fire again. This time a hand went up, and Ishaq, between cries of pain, began hurling information at Gabriel like stones. Number 17 Ambler Road. Two martyrs. Westminster Abbey. Ten o’clock. God is Great.

  58

  FINSBURY PARK, LONDON: 7:30 A.M., SUNDAY

  They barged into her cell with a demeanor she had never seen before. Cain spoke to her for the first time in more than two weeks. “You’re going to be released,” he blurted. “You have twenty minutes to prepare yourself. If you are not ready in twenty minutes, you will be killed.” And then he was gone.

  Abel appeared next, bearing a plastic bucket of warm water, a bar of soap, a washcloth and towel, a parcel of clean clothing, and a blond wig. He placed the bucket on the floor and the rest of the things on her cot, then removed her handcuffs and shackles. “Wash carefully and take your time dressing,” he explained calmly. “We brought you something nice to wear. We don’t want the world to think we mistreated you.”

  He went out and closed the door. She wanted to scream for joy. She wanted to weep with relief. Instead, model prisoner to the end, she did exactly what they told her to do. She used only fifteen minutes of her allotted time and was seated on the edge of her cot, knees together and trembling, when they entered her cell again.

  “You are ready?” Cain asked.

  “Yes,” she replied in a low, evenly modulated voice.

  “Come, then,” he said.

  She stood and followed them slowly up a flight of darkened stairs.

  Word of Gabriel’s successful extraction arrived at the Israeli embassy in Old Court Place at 7:48 A.M. It was transmitted via ordinary cell phone by Chiara, who was at that moment seated next to Gabriel in the back of a Volkswagen Passat with a smashed headlamp and crumpled fender. The call was taken by Shamron, who, upon hearing the news, covered his face with his hands and wept. So deep was Shamron’s emotion that for several seconds those gathered around were uncertain whether Gabriel was alive or dead. When it became clear that he was indeed alive and back in their hands, a great roar went up in the room. The brief celebration that followed was intercepted and recorded by the British eavesdroppers at GCHQ—which had monitored all Israeli communications that night—as were Shamron’s pleas for quiet as he listened to the next part of Chiara’s report. Shamron immediately placed two calls, the first to Adrian Carter in the American ops center beneath Grosvenor Square and the second to Graham Seymour, who was with the prime minister and the COBRA committee at Downing Street. Seymour quickly arranged for a police escort to bring Gabriel and the remnants of his team safely into London; then he rushed to the American embassy, as did Shamron. The two men were standing next to Adrian Carter as the battered Passat and its police escorts screeched to a stop at the North Gate.

  The car was immediately surrounded by two dozen of the uniformed Met officers standing guard outside the embassy grounds. Shamron’s view was momentarily blocked; then the sea of lime green parted and he glimpsed Gabriel for the first time. He had one arm draped over Yossi’s shoulder and the other over Oded’s. His face was contorted with pain and swelling, and his blue-and-white tracksuit was covered in blood and mud. They brought him through the gate and propped him upright for a moment before the three senior spymasters. Shamron kissed his cheek gently and murmured something in Hebrew that the others could not understand. Gabriel lifted his head slightly and looked at Graham Seymour.

  “If you tell me not to complain about a nasty bump on the head, I just may lose my temper.”

  “You’re a damned fool—and damned brave.” Seymour looked at Adrian Carter. “Let’s get him inside, shall we?”

  Ambassador Robert Halton was waiting in the embassy’s ground floor atrium, along with FBI hostage negotiator John O’Donnell and several other members of the American team. As Gabriel came inside, still clinging to Yossi and Oded for support, they broke into restrained applause, as though they feared too much noise might inflict additional damage to him. Robert Halton walked over to Gabriel and put his hands carefully on his shoulders. “My God, what have they done to you?” He looked at Adrian Carter. “Let’s take him up to my office. The doctors can have a look at him there.”

  They shepherded him into a waiting elevator and whisked him up to the ninth floor. Yossi and Oded lowered him onto the couch in the ambassador’s office, but when the doctors tried to enter the room, Graham Seymour held them back and quickly closed the door.

  “Twenty minutes ago, a team of Met special operatives raided the house in the Ambler Road where Ishaq claimed Elizabeth was being held. She wasn’t there, but they found plenty of evidence that she had been recently. The Sphinx led us on a wild-goose chase across western Europe, and all the while she’s been here in England, right under our noses. The question is, where is she now?”


  “The information Ishaq gave Gabriel about Elizabeth’s location was correct,” said Adrian Carter. “So it stands to reason that the information about what they intend to do with her is also correct.”

  “It is,” said Gabriel. “They’re going to execute her outside Westminster Abbey before the start of Christmas services. She’s to be murdered by a pair of suicide bombers, who will take many innocent lives along with their own. I was supposed to be part of the second act, a massive car bombing that would have killed hundreds of your first responders.”

  “A bloodbath in front of our most important national symbol on the morning of our Savior’s birth,” said Graham Seymour. “One that is intended to spark an armed uprising in Egypt and bring this country to its knees.” He hesitated, then said: “And one that we cannot allow to happen. As of this moment there are several hundred people congregated outside the north entrance of the Abbey, waiting to be admitted for a service of carols and readings that begins at ten-thirty. Our only option is to seal off Westminster and quickly evacuate everyone from the area.”

  “A move that will automatically condemn Elizabeth to death,” said Gabriel. “If the shaheeds arrive in Westminster to find the Abbey evacuated and under siege, they’ll resort to their backup plan, which is to kill her instantly, no matter where they are.”

  “Forgive my bluntness,” said Seymour, “but that is a vastly better outcome than their primary plan.”

  “I didn’t go through Hell to give up on her now,” Gabriel said. “There is another way.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ishaq told us that Elizabeth would be accompanied by two men,” Gabriel said. “He told us—”

  Graham Seymour held up his hand. “Don’t go any further, Gabriel. It’s madness.”