The Secret Servant

unveiled the method of Gabriel’s pending execution.
    “Where are we going?” Gabriel asked.
    “Paradise.”
    “Does your driver know the way, or is he just following his nose?”
    “He knows,” said Ishaq. “He’s been preparing for this ride for a very long time.”
    Gabriel twisted his head around and looked at him. He was several years younger than Ishaq, clean shaven, and had both hands on the wheel like a novice out for his first drive alone.
    “I want to sit up,” Gabriel said.
    “It’s probably better if you stay down. If you sit up, it’s going to hurt.”
    “I don’t care,” Gabriel said.
    “Suit yourself.”
    He took hold of Gabriel’s shoulders and propped him carelessly against the passenger-side wall of the cargo hold. Ishaq was right. It did hurt to sit up. In fact, it hurt so damned much he nearly fainted. But at least now he could see out through a portion of the windshield. It was still dark out, but one side of the sky was gradually turning a deep, luminous blue—the first light, Gabriel reckoned, of Christmas morning. Judging from the modest speed they were making, and the absence of any other traffic noise, they were traveling on a B-road. He glimpsed a road sign as it flashed past: SHRUB END 3. Shrub End? Where in God’s name was Shrub End?
    He closed his eyes from the pain and heard an engine note not their own. It was high and tight, the sound of a high-performance motorcycle approaching from behind at considerable speed. He opened his eyes and watched as it flashed past in a cyclone of road spray. Then he looked at Ishaq again and for a second time asked where they were going. This time Ishaq only smiled. It was a martyr’s smile. Gabriel closed his eyes and thought of the motorcycle. Go for the kill shot , he thought. But then Mikhail knew no other kind.
     
     
     
    Uzi Navot lowered the handset of the radio and looked at Shamron.
    “Mikhail says they’re still in the same position that they were when they left the warehouse. One driving, one in the back with Gabriel. He says he can get the driver cleanly, but there’s no way he can get them both.”
    “You have to make them stop, Uzi—someplace where an explosion won’t take innocent life.”
    “And if they won’t stop?”
    “Have a backup plan ready.”…
     
     
     
    Gabriel tried not to think about them. He tried not to wonder how they had tracked him down, how long they had been watching and following, or how they planned to extract him. As far as Gabriel was concerned, they did not exist. They were nonpersons. Ghosts. Lies. He thought of anything else. The pain of his broken ribs. The burning numbness of his limbs. Shamron, leaning on his olive-wood cane. We move like shadows, strike like lightning, and then we vanish into thin air . Strike soon, Gabriel thought, because he feared he couldn’t keep his balance atop the bridge over Jahannam much longer.
    He made a clock in his head and watched the second hand go round. He listened for other vehicles and read the road signs as they flashed past: HECKFORDBRIDGE … BIRCH … SMYTH’S GREEN … TIP - TREE … GREAT BRAXTED …Even Gabriel, Office-trained expert in European geography, could not place their whereabouts. Finally, he saw a sign for Chelmsford and realized they were heading toward London from the northeast, along the route of the ancient Roman road. As they were approaching a village called Langford, the driver slowed suddenly. Ishaq seized hold of his pistol and brought it up near his chest in a defensive position. Then he looked quickly at the driver.
    “What’s wrong?” he murmured in Arabic.
    “There’s an accident ahead. They’re waving for me to stop.”
    “Police?”
    “No, just the drivers.”
    “Don’t stop.”
    “It’s blocking the road.”
    “Go around,” snapped Ishaq.
    The driver turned the wheel hard to the left. The van heeled a few degrees to port as it tipped onto the shoulder and the machine-gun thumping of the tires over the rumble strips sent shock waves of pain through Gabriel’s body. As they shot past the wreck, he saw a tall balding man in his forties waving his arms plaintively and pleading for the van to stop. A man with pockmarked cheeks was standing next to him, gazing at his smashed headlight as though trying to concoct a suitable story for his wife. Gabriel looked at Ishaq as the van lurched back onto the road and sped on toward London.
    “It’s Christmas, Ishaq. What kind of person leaves two