The Secret Servant

cell.”
    “What Amsterdam cell?”
    “Come on, Graham—there isn’t time.”
    “Immigration spent the night looking for them. So far they’ve come up with no evidence to suggest any of the men whose names you gave me are even in the country.”
    “That doesn’t mean they’re not here.”
    “Why do you think they’re going to go after the Americans?”
    Gabriel told him.
    “You want me to sound the alarm at Grosvenor Square because of some lines on a legal pad?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m not going to do that. There’s not enough evidence to support making a call like that. Besides, have you been to Grosvenor Square lately? It’s an American fortress now. A terrorist can’t get close to that building.”
    “Call them, Graham. If you don’t, I will.”
    “Listen to me, Allon, and listen very carefully. If you make a mess of my town, so help me God, I’ll—”
    Gabriel severed the connection and dialed another number.

9
     
    G ROSVENOR S QUARE, L ONDON : 7:13 A.M. , F RIDAY
     
    T he streets at the northern end of posh Mayfair have a distinctly American flavor. Tucked amid the stately Georgian buildings one can find the headquarters of the American Chamber of Commerce, the American Club, the American Church, the American Society, and the Society of American Women. Along the northern side of Grosvenor Square is the U.S. Navy building, and on the western side stands the American embassy. Nine stories in height and adorned by a monstrous gilded eagle, it is one of the largest American diplomatic missions in the world and the only one to reside on land not owned by the federal government. The Duke of Westminster, who owns most of Mayfair, leases the property to the American government for the very reasonable sum of a single peppercorn a year. There is little danger the Americans will be evicted from their patch of Mayfair any time soon, since the lease on the property does not expire until Christmas Day in the year 2953.
    Fifty-eight men and a single woman have served as the American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s—including five who would become president—but only one has ever come from the ranks of the career Foreign Service. The rest have been political appointees and diplomatic debutants, known more for their money and connections than their foreign policy expertise. Their names read like an honor roll of American high society and wealth: Mellon, Kennedy, Harriman, Aldrich, Bruce, Whitney, and Annenberg.
    The current American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, Robert Carlyle Halton, was not born to wealth, and few Americans knew his name, though he was by far the richest man to ever occupy the post and his political connections were second to none. The president and CEO of the Denver-based Red Mountain Energy, Halton’s personal fortune exceeded five billion dollars at last estimate. He also happened to be a lifelong friend of the president of the United States and his largest political donor. The Washington Post , in a rather unflattering profile of Halton published shortly after his nomination, declared that he “had pulled off the extraordinary political feat of putting his best friend in the White House.” When asked about the accuracy of the report during his confirmation hearings, Halton said he only wished he had been able to give the president more money, a remark that had cost him several Democratic votes.
    Despite the fact Robert Halton was no longer responsible for a global energy empire, he remained an early riser and kept a rigorous daily schedule that was far more punishing than those of his predecessors. As usual that morning, he had left Winfield House, his official residence in Regent’s Park, at the thoroughly undiplomatic hour of 6:45, and by seven he was leafing through the London papers at his desk overlooking Grosvenor Square. The pages were filled with dire news from Iraq. Halton was convinced the British, who had already made drastic cuts to their troop levels in Iraq, would soon be looking for the exits entirely, an assessment he had given directly to the president during their last meeting at Halton’s sprawling Owl Creek estate in Aspen. Halton hadn’t minced words during the meeting. He rarely did.
    At 7:10, a tall young woman dressed in a cold-weather tracksuit and fleece headband appeared in his doorway. She had long dark hair, pale green eyes set in an attractive face, and a trim athletic figure. Without waiting for permission to enter, she