The Secret Servant

her. She answered it in a low, evenly modulated voice, then returned to her cot and wept uncontrollably. Don’t hope , she told herself. Don’t you dare hope .
     
     
     
    John O’Connell’s private number in the ops center rang at 3:09. This time he didn’t bother identifying himself.
    “Do you have the information I need?”
    “The animal was a stuffed whale.”
    “What did she call it?”
    “Fish,” the man said. “She called it Fish and nothing else.”
    O’Donnell closed his eyes and pumped his fist once.
    “Right answer,” he said. “Let’s put a deal together. Let’s bring my girl home in time for Christmas.”
    The man with the modified voice listed his demands, then said: “I’m going to call back at five fifty-nine London time. I want a one-word answer: yes or no. That’s it: yes or no. Do you understand me?”
    “I understand perfectly.”
    The line went dead again. O’Donnell looked at Kevin Barnett.
    “They’ve got her,” he said. “And we are completely fucked.”
     
     
     
    A Jaguar limousine was waiting at the edge of the tarmac as Adrian Carter’s Gulfstream V touched down at London City Airport. As Gabriel, Carter, and Sarah came down the airstair, a long, boney hand poked from the Jaguar’s rear passenger-side window and beckoned them over.
    “Graham Seymour,” said Gabriel theatrically. “Don’t tell me they sent you all the way out here to give me a lift to Heathrow.”
    “They sent me out here to give you a lift,” Seymour said, “but we’re not going to Heathrow.”
    “Where are we going?”
    Seymour left the question momentarily unanswered and instead gazed quizzically at Gabriel’s face. “What in God’s name happened to you?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    “It usually is,” he said. “Get in. We don’t have much time.”

47
     
    10 D OWNING S TREET : 4:15 P.M. , F RIDAY
     
    G raham Seymour’s limousine turned into Whitehall and stopped a few seconds later at the security gates of Downing Street. He lowered his window and flashed his identification to the uniformed Metropolitan Police officer standing watch outside the fence. The officer examined it quickly, then signaled to his colleagues to open the gate. The Jaguar eased forward approximately fifty yards and stopped again, this time before the world’s most famous door.
    Gabriel emerged from the limousine last and followed the others into the entrance hall. To their right was a small fireplace and next to the fireplace an odd-looking Chippendale hooded leather chair once used by porters and security men. To their left was a wooden traveling chest, believed to have been taken by the Duke of Wellington into battle at Waterloo in 1815, and a grandfather clock by Benson of Whitehaven that so annoyed Churchill he ordered its chimes silenced. And standing in the center of the hall, in an immaculately tailored suit, was a handsome man with pale skin and black hair shot with gray at the temples. He advanced on Gabriel and cautiously extended his hand. It was cold to the touch.
    “Welcome to Downing Street,” said the British prime minister. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
    “Please forgive my appearance, Prime Minister. It’s been a long few days.”
    “We heard about your misadventure in Denmark. It appears you were deceived. We all were.”
    “Yes, Prime Minister.”
    “We treated you shabbily after the attack in Hyde Park, but the fact that your name and face appeared in the newspapers has provided us with an opportunity to save Elizabeth Halton’s life. I’m afraid we need your rather serious help, Mr. Allon. Are you prepared to listen to what we have to say?”
    “Of course, Prime Minister.”
    The prime minister smiled. It was a replica of a smile, thought Gabriel, and about as warm as the December afternoon.
     
     
     
    They hiked up the long Grand Staircase, beneath portraits of British prime ministers past.
    “Our logs contain no evidence of any previous visits by you to Downing Street, Mr. Allon. Is that the case, or have you slipped in here before?”
    “This is my first time, Prime Minister.”
    “I suppose it must seem rather different from your own prime minister’s office.”
    “That’s putting it mildly, sir. Our staterooms are decorated in early kibbutz chic.”
    “We’ll meet in the White Room,” the prime minister said. “Henry Campbell-Bannerman died there in 1908, but, as far as I know, no one has died there today.”
    They passed through