Chiara waited until the mushrooms had shed their water before seasoning them with salt and pepper and freshly chopped thyme. Then she dropped several bundles of dried fettuccini into a pot of boiling water.

“How long are you planning to stay in London?” she asked.

“Until the British have finished scrubbing the phones and the computers we took from the compound.”

“You’re worried he’s coming after us?”

“His first target was the Isaac Weinberg Center for the Study of Anti-Semitism in France. It’s better for me to stay here while the intelligence is being processed. It’s less likely that something will slip through the cracks.”

“But no more heroics,” she cautioned.

“No,” said Gabriel. “I’m the chief now.”

“You were the chief when you were in Morocco, too.” She tested a strand of the fettuccini. Then she looked around the little kitchen and smiled. “You know, I’ve always loved this apartment. We’ve had good times here, Gabriel.”

“And bad ones, too.”

“We were married here. Do you remember?”

“It wasn’t a real wedding.”

“I thought it was.” Her expression darkened. “I remember it all so clearly. It was the night before . . .”

Her voice trailed off. To the sauté pan she added wine and cream. Then she poured the mixture over the fettuccini and tossed in grated cheese. She prepared only a single portion and placed it before Gabriel. He plunged a fork into it and twirled.

“None for you?” he asked.

“Oh, no.” Chiara glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s much too late to eat.”

Gabriel had used the safe flat so often that his clothing hung in the closet and his toiletries filled the bathroom cabinet. After finishing a second portion of the pasta, he showered and shaved and fell, exhausted, into bed next to Chiara. He had hoped his sleep would be dreamless, but that was not to be the case. He climbed an endless flight of steps that were drenched in blood and littered with the remains of a woman. And when he found the head and moved aside the veil, it was Chiara’s face he saw.

Inshallah, it will be done . . .

Shortly before five o’clock, he awoke suddenly, as if startled by the sound of a bomb. It was only his mobile phone, which was shimmying across the surface of the bedside table. He brought it swiftly to his ear and listened in silence. Rising, he dressed in darkness. And to the darkness he returned.

68

Thames House, London

The Jaguar limousine was waiting downstairs on the Bayswater Road. It delivered Gabriel not to Vauxhall Cross but to Thames House, the headquarters of MI5. Miles Kent, the deputy director, escorted him quickly upstairs to Amanda Wallace’s suite. She looked worn and tired, and was obviously under a great deal of stress. Graham Seymour was there, too, still dressed in the same suit he’d been wearing the night before, absent the club tie. Junior officers were rushing in and out of the room, and there was a secure videoconference up and running to Scotland Yard and Downing Street. The fact that they were gathered here instead of across the river could mean only one thing. Someone had found proof on Saladin’s phones and computers that an attack was imminent. And London was once again the target.

“How long have you known?” asked Gabriel.

“We unearthed the first nugget around two o’clock this morning,” said Seymour.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“We thought you could use a bit of sleep. Besides, it’s our problem, not yours.”

“Where?”

“Westminster.”

“When?”

“Later this morning,” said Seymour. “We think around nine.”

“What’s the method of attack?”

“Suicide bomber.”

“Do you know his identity?”

“We’re still working on that.”

“Just one? You’re sure?”

“So it would seem.”

“Why only one?”

Seymour handed Gabriel a stack of printouts. “Because one is all they need.”

The text message had been dispatched at three fifteen the previous morning Morocco time, when the likely sender had been under emotional distress and in physical pain. As a result, it had lacked the network’s normal secondary and tertiary encryption protocols, thus allowing an MI5 computer technician to unearth it from one of the phones taken from the Zaida compound. The language was coded but unmistakable. It was an order to carry out a martyrdom operation. There was no mention of a target, but the apparent haste with which the message was sent allowed the technician to find related communications and documents that made the objective of the attack, and the time it was to be carried out, abundantly clear. Numerous casing photos had been found, and even a document discussing prevailing winds and the likely dispersal pattern of the radiological material. The planners hoped, God willing, for an area of nuclear contamination stretching from Trafalgar Square to Thames House itself. MI5’s own experts, who had studied similar scenarios, predicted that such an attack would render the seat of British power uninhabitable for months, if not years. The economic cost, not to mention the psychological toll, would be catastrophic.