The English Girl: A Novel

late, which explained why she came whirling through the door in a rush, a phone to her ear, her umbrella flapping in the wind that blew in with her. Most of the patrons in the café were tourists, but three gray-suited junior MPs were sipping lattes in the back. Samantha Cooke stopped to have a word with them before making her way to Gabriel’s table. Her hair was ash blond and shoulder length. Her eyes were blue and probing. For several seconds they didn’t move from Gabriel’s face.
    “My God,” she said finally. “It really is you.”
    “What were you expecting?”
    “Horns, I suppose.”
    “At least you’re honest.”
    “It’s one of my worst faults.”
    “Any others?”
    “Curiosity,” she said.
    “Then you’ve come to the right place. Can I get you something to drink?”
    “Actually,” she said, looking around the room, “it might be better if we walked.”
    Gabriel rose and pulled on his coat.
    T hey headed toward the Tower Bridge and then made a quick left onto the Victoria Embankment. The afternoon traffic moved slowly along the road, but the crowds that usually surged along the river walk had been chased away by the rain. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder to make certain they hadn’t been followed from the café. Turning again, he noticed Samantha Cooke peering at him from beneath her umbrella as though he were on the endangered species list.
    “You look much better than you did in that video,” she said after a moment.
    “It was all done with makeup.”
    She smiled in spite of herself. “Does it help?” she asked.
    “To make jokes after something like that?”
    She nodded.
    “Yes,” he said. “It helps.”
    “I met her once, you know.”
    “Who?”
    “Nadia al-Bakari. It was when she was a nobody, a Saudi party girl, the spoiled daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, financier of Islamic terror.” She looked at Gabriel’s face for a reaction and seemed disappointed when there was none. “Is it true that you were the one who killed him?”
    “Zizi al-Bakari was killed as the result of an operation initiated by the Americans and their allies in the global war on terror.”
    “But you were the one who actually pulled the trigger, weren’t you? You killed him in Cannes, in front of Nadia. And then you recruited Nadia to take down Rashid al-Husseini’s terror network. Brilliant,” she said. “Truly brilliant.”
    “If I was so brilliant, Nadia would still be alive.”
    “But her death changed the world. It helped to bring democracy to the Arab world.”
    “And look how well that worked out,” Gabriel said glumly.
    They passed beneath the Hungerford Bridge as a train rumbled into Charing Cross. The rain eased. Samantha Cooke lowered her umbrella, wound it tightly, and inserted it into her handbag.
    “I’m honored you came to me,” she said, “but the Middle East isn’t exactly my beat.”
    “This isn’t about the Middle East. It’s about Jonathan Lancaster.”
    She looked up sharply. “Why is a famous Israeli intelligence operative coming to a London reporter for information about the British prime minister?”
    “It must be something important,” Gabriel said evasively. “Otherwise, the famous Israeli operative would never dare to do such a thing.”
    “No, he wouldn’t,” she agreed. “But surely the famous operative has a great deal of information about Lancaster at his fingertips. Why would he ask a reporter for help?”
    “Contrary to popular myth, we don’t compile personal dossiers on our friends.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Gabriel hesitated for a moment. “This is a strictly personal matter, Ms. Cooke. My service isn’t involved in any way.”
    “And if I agree to help you?”
    “Obviously, I would give you something in return.”
    “A story?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “But you can’t tell me what it is,” she said.
    “Not yet.”
    “Whatever it is, it had better be something big.”
    “I’m Gabriel Allon. I only do big.”
    “Yes, you do.” She stopped walking and gazed at the London Eye turning slowly on the opposite bank of the river. “All right, Mr. Allon, we have a deal. Perhaps you should tell me what this is all about.”
    Gabriel withdrew the Telegraph article from his coat pocket and held it up for her to see. Samantha Cooke smiled.
    “Where would you like me to start?”
    Gabriel returned the article to his coat pocket. Then he asked her to start with Jeremy Fallon.

33
    LONDON
    S he was a good reporter, and like all good