The Secret Servant

and in the forecourt was a large American Suburban with diplomatic license plates. Adrian Carter and Sarah Bancroft were standing at the balustrade of Shamron’s terrace, chatting with Uzi Navot and Bella.
    “Gilah never told me Carter was coming,” Chiara said.
    “She must have forgotten to mention it.”
    “How do you forget to mention that the deputy director of the CIA is coming all the way from Washington? And what is Sarah doing here?”
    “Gilah’s old, Chiara. Give her a break.”
    Gabriel climbed out before she could pose another question, then retrieved the overnight bag from the trunk and led her up the steps. Gilah was standing in the entrance hall as they came inside. The large rooms had been emptied of their furniture and several round tables put in their place. Chiara stared at the place settings and the flower arrangements, then walked past Gilah and stepped on the terrace, where a hundred white chairs stood in neat rows around a chuppah hung with flowers. She spun round, mouth open, and looked at Gabriel.
    “What’s going on here?”
    Gabriel held up the overnight bag and said, “I’m going to take this up to our room.”
    “Gabriel Allon, come back here.”
    She followed quickly after him and chased him down the corridor to their room. As she stepped inside, she saw the dress laid out on the bed.
    “My God, Gabriel, what have you done?”
    “Made amends for all my mistakes, I hope.”
    She threw her arms around him and kissed him, then ran a hand through her hair.
    “It’s a mess. What am I going to do?”
    “We brought a hair stylist from Tel Aviv. A very good one.”
    “What about my family?”
    He looked at his watch. “We flew them out of Venice aboard a charter. They landed at Ben-Gurion twenty minutes ago. We’re bringing them up here by helicopter.”
    “And the rings?”
    He pulled a small jewelry box from his coat pocket and opened it.
    “They’re beautiful,” she said. “You thought of everything.”
    “Weddings are operations.”
    “No, they’re not, you dolt.” She slapped his arm playfully. “What time is the ceremony?”
    “Whenever you want it to be.”
    “What time is sundown?”
    “Five-oh-eight.”
    “We’ll start at five-oh-nine.” She kissed him again. “And don’t be late.”

62
     
    J ERUSALEM
     
    Y ou and your team ran a very nice operation,” said Adrian Carter.
    “Which one?”
    “The wedding, of course. Too bad London didn’t go as smoothly.”
    “If it had gone smoothly, we wouldn’t have gotten Elizabeth back.”
    “This is true.”
    A waiter approached their table and freshened Carter’s coffee. Gabriel turned and looked toward the walls of the Old City, which were glowing softly in the gentle sunlight. It was Monday morning. Carter had rung Gabriel’s apartment at seven on the off chance he was free for breakfast. Gabriel had agreed to meet him here, the terrace restaurant of the King David Hotel, knowing full well that Adrian Carter never did anything on the off chance.
    “Why are you still in Jerusalem, Adrian?”
    “Officially, I am here to conduct meetings with our generously staffed CIA station. Unofficially, I stayed in order to see you.”
    “Is Sarah still here?”
    “She left yesterday. Poor thing had to fly commercial.” Carter raised his coffee cup to his lips and stared at Gabriel for a moment without drinking. “Did anything ever happen between you two that I should know about?”
    “No, Adrian, nothing happened between us, during this operation or the last one.” Gabriel made swirls in his Israeli yogurt. “Is that why you stayed in Jerusalem? To ask me whether I slept with one of your officers?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then why are you here, Adrian?”
    He reached into the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers blazer, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to Gabriel. The front bore no markings, but when he turned it over he saw THE WHITE HOUSE printed on the flap in simple lettering.
    “What’s this? An invitation to a White House barbecue?”
    “It’s a note,” said Carter, then he added somewhat pedantically: “From the president of the United States.”
    “Yes, I can see that, Adrian. What’s the topic of the letter?”
    “I’m not in the habit of reading other people’s mail.”
    “You should be.”
    “I assume the president wrote to you in order to thank you for what you did in London.”
    “It might have been helpful if he had said something publicly a month ago, while I was