“Did someone forget to pay the power bill?” he asked.

“New regulations. The Agency is going green. I’d offer you some coffee but—”

“That’s all right, Adrian. I really have to be going.”

“Pressing matters at home?”

“A chief’s work is never done.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Carter wandered over to the thermostat and squinted at the dial, mystified.

“Please tell me you didn’t drag me all the way to Washington to take a stroll down nightmare lane, Adrian. I was here, remember? I had an agent inside Saladin’s operation.”

“A damn fine piece of work on your part,” said Carter. “But it was all for naught. Saladin beat you in the end. And I know how much you hate to lose, especially to a creature like him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Word on the street is you’ve got something cooking with the French other than a nice pot of coq au vin. Something involving Saladin. I want to remind you that it was my country he attacked last November, not yours. And if anyone’s going to get him, it’s me.”

“Any ops in the works?”

“Several.”

“Any of them about to bear fruit?”

“Not a one. Yours?”

Gabriel was silent.

“I’ve never been shy about crashing operational parties,” said Carter. “All it would take is a single phone call to the chief of the DGSI, and it would be mine.”

“He doesn’t know about it.”

“Must be a good one then.”

“Must be,” agreed Gabriel.

“Perhaps I can contribute.”

“And thus preserve your hold on the Directorate of Operations.”

“Absolutely.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Adrian. It’s refreshing in our line of work.”

“Desperate times,” said Carter.

“How much do you need to remain viable?”

“At this point, nothing short of Saladin can save me.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I might be able to help.”

They spoke in the drawing room, bundled in their overcoats, without the distraction of refreshment. Gabriel’s version of the operation thus far was abridged but honest enough so that nothing was lost in translation. Carter did not flinch at the mention of Jean-Luc Martel’s name; Carter was a man of the real world. He offered support where he could, mainly in the form of electronic and digital surveillance, America’s strong suit. In return, Gabriel allowed Carter to take the operation to the seventh floor of Langley and present it as a joint undertaking between the Agency and its friends in Tel Aviv. From Gabriel’s point of view, it was a high price to pay, and not without risk. But if it kept Carter in his job, it would be worth its weight in gold.

They left the safe house together shortly before eight o’clock and rode to Dulles Airport, where Bill Blackburn’s Gulfstream sat fueled and ready for departure. The crew had already filed a flight plan to Ben Gurion, but upon entering the aircraft Gabriel asked to be taken to London instead. Stretched out on the bed in the private stateroom, he fell into a dreamless sleep. His mind was at peace for the first time in many days. He was about to make an old friend quite wealthy. It was, he thought, the least he could do.

24

Mayfair, London

Julian Isherwood was a man of many faults, but parsimony was not among them. Indeed, in his business dealings, as in his private life, he had always been rather too free with his wallet. He had acquired a good many paintings when he should have passed—his personal and professional collection was said to rival that of the Queen herself—and invariably it was his credit card that ended up on the collection plate each evening in the bar at Wilton’s. Not surprisingly, his finances were in a state of perpetual disrepair. Of late, the situation had grown dire. His cheerless accountant, the appropriately named Blunt, had suggested a fire sale of available assets, coupled with a sharp reduction in outlays. Isherwood had balked. Most of his professional inventory was of little or no value. It was dead as a doornail, as they said in the trade. Burned to a crisp. Toast. And as for the idea of trimming his expenditures, well, that was simply out of the question. One had to live one’s life, especially at his age. Besides, his actions on the night of the attack had imbued him with a sense of personal optimism. If Juicy Julian Isherwood could risk his life to save others, anything was possible.

It was this belief that brighter days were just over the horizon that compelled Isherwood to admit Brady Boswell, the director of a small but respected museum in the American Midwest, into his gallery in Mason’s Yard late that afternoon. Boswell had a well-deserved reputation as a looker, not a buyer. He spent the better part of two hours pawing Isherwood’s inventory before finally confessing that his acquisition budget was in worse condition than Isherwood’s bank account, and that he was in no position to buy new carpeting for his museum, let alone a new painting to hang on its walls. Isherwood was tempted to tell Boswell that the next time he wanted to see Old Masters in London, he should try the National Gallery. Instead, he accepted the American’s invitation to dinner, if only because he couldn’t bear the thought of spending yet another evening listening to tubby Oliver Dimbleby describing his latest sexual conquest.