The Secret Servant

central London?”
    “About a hundred and fifty miles.”
    “I want to be on site for the retrieval—whatever it is.”
    “The Royal Navy has been kind enough to leave a Sea King at the London Heliport for just this kind of scenario.”
    “Where’s the heliport?”
    “South bank of the Thames between the Battersea and Wandsworth bridges.”
    “Tell them to warm up the engines. Can you give me a lift through town?”
    “I’ll have a pair of patrol cars outside the embassy in two minutes.”
    “Send them to Upper Brook Street,” O’Donnell said. “There are no reporters back there.”
    “Right.”
     
     
     
    The flight to the south coast was ninety minutes in duration and thoroughly unpleasant because of high winds swirling ahead of a strong Atlantic storm front. As the Sea King swooped down toward Beacon Point, O’Donnell looked out his window and saw arc lamps blazing away on the little sand beach and blue police lights flashing along roads linking the surrounding villages of Kingston, Houghton, and Ringmore. The landing zone was a small patch of moorland behind the beach. O’Donnell was met there by the officer in charge, a stubby deputy chief constable from the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary aptly named Blunt. He briefed the FBI man as they walked down a sandy pathway to the beach.
    “We’ve determined that the beach and surrounding grounds are free of bombs or any other weaponry,” he said. “About twenty minutes ago we used a remote-control robotic device to have a look under the overturned boat.”
    “Anything there?” O’Donnell asked.
    “Nothing that we could see with the camera, but it’s possible something could be buried beneath it. We decided to wait until you arrived before moving the boat.”
    They clambered out of the dunes and stopped about twenty yards from the boat. An eight-foot dinghy with peeling gray and white paint, it was surrounded by a half-dozen policemen in blast-protection suits and visors. With a terse nod, Blunt spurred them into action, and the boat was soon resting on its hull. Taped to the seat in the stern was a DVD in a clear plastic case. Blunt retrieved it and immediately handed it to O’Donnell, who carried it back to the helicopter and inserted it into a laptop computer. As the image flickered to life on the screen, O’Donnell swore beneath his breath and looked at the British police official.
    “I need a favor from you.”
    “Anything,” said Blunt, his tone grave.
    “Tell your men it was just a hoax. Apologize to them for the inconvenience, and thank them on behalf of the American people and Ambassador Halton for their fine work tonight.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. O’Donnell.”
    O’Donnell glanced at the screen. “This DVD does not exist. Now do you understand?”
    Blunt nodded. He understood perfectly.

18
     
    A NDREWS A IR F ORCE B ASE : 7:12 A.M. , S ATURDAY
     
    T he Gulfstream V executive jet touched down at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington and taxied to a secure hangar with floors as smooth as polished marble. Gabriel descended the airstair, Samsonite bag in hand, and headed toward a waiting Suburban with Virginia license plates. The two CIA security men inside did not speak as he tossed the suitcase into the backseat and climbed in after it. Gabriel was used to this sort of behavior by the Americans. They were trained by their counter-intelligence people to believe that Office agents viewed every encounter with Agency personnel, no matter how mundane, as an opportunity for intelligence gathering. He was tempted to pose an inappropriate question or two, just to keep the myth alive. Instead he asked only where they were taking him.
    “Headquarters,” said the man in the passenger seat.
    “I don’t want to go to Headquarters.”
    “You’ll go into the building black. No one will know you’re there.”
    “Why can’t we meet in a safe house, the way we usually do?”
    “Your contact doesn’t have time to leave the building today. I’m sure you can understand that.”
    Gabriel was about to object again but stopped himself. Twice in the past year his photograph had appeared in the world’s newspapers, once for his actions inside the Vatican, and again for his attempt to prevent the kidnapping of Elizabeth Halton. Making his first appearance at Langley didn’t seem to matter much in comparison. Besides, if Shamron and the prime minister had their way, it wouldn’t be his last.
    There was little