The Rembrandt Affair

reached in an emergency or if she needed a favor. Perhaps it was time to renew their relationship.

45
    THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
    T he conference room was preposterously large, as was the gleaming rectangular table that ran nearly the entire length of it. Shamron sat at his assigned place, dwarfed by his executive swivel chair, and gazed across the river toward the Emerald City-like headquarters of MI6. Gabriel sat next to him, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering over the two men opposite. On the left, dressed in an ill-fitting blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers, was Adrian Carter, director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. On the right was Graham Seymour, deputy director of MI5.
    The four men seated around the table represented a secret brotherhood of sorts. Though each remained loyal to his own country, their close bond transcended time and the fickle whims of their political masters. They did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later. They had fought for one another, killed for one another, and in some cases bled for one another. During multiple joint operations, all conducted under conditions of extreme stress, they had also developed an uncanny ability to sense one another’s thoughts. As a result, it was painfully obvious to both Gabriel and Shamron that there was tension on the Anglo-American side of the table.
    “Something wrong, gentlemen?” asked Shamron.
    Graham Seymour looked at Carter and frowned. “As our American cousins like to say, I’m in the doghouse.”
    “With Adrian?”
    “No,” Carter interjected quickly. “We revere Graham. It’s the White House that’s angry with him.”
    “Really?” Gabriel looked at Seymour. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Graham. How did you manage that?”
    “The Americans had an intelligence failure last night. A significant failure,” he added. “The White House has gone into full damage-control mode. Tempers are flaring. Fingers are pointing. And most of them seem to be pointing at me.”
    “What exactly was this failure?”
    “A Pakistani citizen who sometimes resides in the United Kingdom attempted to blow himself up on a flight from Copenhagen to Boston. Luckily, he was as incompetent as the last fellow, and international passengers seem to have become quite adept at taking matters into their own hands.”
    “So why is anyone angry with you?”
    “Good question. We alerted the Americans several months ago that he was associating with known radicals and was probably being groomed for an attack. But according to the White House, I wasn’t forceful enough in my warnings.” Seymour glanced at Carter. “I suppose I could have written an op-ed piece in the New York Times, but I thought that might be a bit excessive.”
    Gabriel looked at Carter. “What happened?”
    “His name was misspelled by someone on our end when it was entered into the database of suspected militants.”
    “So he never made it onto the no-fly list?”
    “That’s correct.”
    Graham Seymour shook his head in amazement. “There’s a ten-year-old American Boy Scout who can’t get his name off the no-fly list, but I can’t get a known jihadi on it. Quite the contrary, they gave him an open-ended visa and allowed him to get on an airplane with a one-way ticket and explosive powder in his carry-on.”
    “Is that true, Adrian?” asked Gabriel.
    “In a nutshell,” Carter conceded morosely.
    “So why take it out on Graham?”
    “Political convenience,” Carter said without hesitation. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are powerful people around our new president who like to pretend there’s no such thing as a war on terror. In fact, I’m no longer allowed to utter those words. So when something does happen…”
    “The powerful men around your president go looking for a scapegoat.”
    Carter nodded.
    “And they picked Graham Seymour?” asked Gabriel incredulously. “A loyal friend and ally who’s been at your side from the beginning of the war on terror?”
    “I’ve pointed that out to the president’s counterterrorism adviser, but he’s in no mood to listen. Apparently, his job is less than secure at the moment. As for Graham, he’ll survive. He’s the only person in Western intelligence who’s been in his job longer than I have.”
    Seymour’s mobile telephone purred softly. He dispatched the call to his voice mail with the press of a button, then rose from his chair and walked