The Secret Servant

a small dark-haired girl who walked with a slight limp. Though all three had entered the United Kingdom on false passports, Seymour had agreed to let them into Thames House on the condition they did so under their real names. The Rubenesque Israeli was Major Rimona Stern of AMAN, the Israeli military intelligence service. The quiet girl was an analyst for the Israeli foreign intelligence service named Dina Sarid. The American’s credentials identified her as Irene Moore, a CIA desk officer attached to the Counterterrorism Center at Langley..
    They accepted the document gratefully, then divided it among themselves. The American and the Rubenesque Israeli took the telephone numbers. The girl with the slight limp handled the names. She was good with names—Graham Seymour could see that. But there was something else: the intense seriousness of purpose, the stain of early widowhood in her dark eyes. She had been touched by terror, he thought. She was both victim and survivor. And she had a mind like a mainframe computer. Graham Seymour was convinced the matrix of names and numbers contained a valuable clue. And he had no doubt who would find it first.
    He slipped out of the conference room and returned to the ops center. Waiting on his desk when he arrived was a dispatch from the Essex Police Headquarters in Chelmsford. A shallow-bottomed craft had been discovered abandoned along the northern banks of the river Crouch near Holliwell Point. Based on the condition of the outboard engine, it appeared that the boat had been used that evening. Graham Seymour picked up the phone and dialed Uzi Navot’s line at the Israeli command post in Kensington.
     
     
     
    Thirty seconds later, Navot hung up the phone and relayed the news to Shamron.
    “It looks like you were right about them taking him over the river.”
    “You doubted me, Uzi?”
    “No, boss.”
    “He’s alive,” Shamron said, “but he won’t be for long. We need a break. One name. One telephone number. Something.”
    “The girls are looking for it.”
    “Let’s hope they find it, Uzi. Soon .”

53
     
    T he next time Gabriel awakened, his body was being washed. For an instant he feared they had killed him and that he was witnessing the ritual cleansing of his own corpse. Then, as he passed through another layer of consciousness, he realized it was only his captors trying to clean up the mess they had made of him.
    When they were finished, they unchained his hands long enough to clothe him in a tracksuit and a pair of slip-on sandals, then withdrew without further violence. Some time later, a half hour perhaps, Ishaq returned. He regarded Gabriel with a perverted calmness for several moments before posing his first question.
    “Where are my wife and son?”
    “Why are you still here? I would have thought you would have been long gone by now.”
    “To Pakistan? Or Afghanistan? Or Wherever-the-fuck-istan?”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel. “Back to the House of Islam, refuge of murderers.”
    “I was planning to go there,” Ishaq said with a smile, “but I asked to come back here to deal with you, and my request was granted.”
    “Lucky you.”
    “Now, tell me where my wife and son are.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Five minutes till midnight,” said Ishaq, proud of his wit. Then he gave his watch an exaggerated glance. “ Four minutes, actually. Your time is running out. Now, answer my question.”
    “I suspect they’re in the Negev by now. We have a secret prison there for the worst of the worst. It is the equivalent of a galactic black hole. Those who enter are never heard from again. Hanifah and Ahmed will be well taken care of.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “You’re probably right, Ishaq.”
    “When we were negotiating over the phone, you told me you were an American. You told me that my family was going to Egypt to be tortured. Now you tell me they are in Israel. You see my point?”
    “Have you attempted to make one?”
    “You are not to be trusted—that is my point. But, then, that is not surprising. You are, after all, a Jew.”
    “The patricide lectures me about the immorality of deceit.”
    “No, Allon, it was you who murdered my father. I saved him.”
    “I know my brain is a little fuzzy at the moment, Ishaq, but you’re going to have to explain that one to me.”
    “My father was once a member of the Sword of Allah, but he turned his back on jihad and lived the life of an apostate in the land of strangers. Then he compounded