The Secret Servant

traffic on the road at that hour on a Saturday, and it took them just thirty minutes to make the drive from Andrews to the woods of Langley. After a brief pause at the heavily fortified gatehouse for a credential check, they headed up the long immaculate drive toward the OHB, the Original Headquarters Building. Because Gabriel was entering the building “black,” they sped past the main entrance and turned into an underground parking garage. One of the security men helped Gabriel with the Samsonite bag; the other led the way into a secure elevator. A card key was inserted, buttons were pushed, and a moment later they were ascending rapidly toward the seventh floor. When the doors opened, two more security men were waiting in the foyer, guns visible beneath their blazers. Gabriel was escorted along a carpeted corridor to a secure door, beyond which lay a suite of spacious offices occupied by the most powerful intelligence officers in the world. The man standing in the anteroom, dressed in gray flannel trousers and a wrinkled oxford cloth shirt, looked as though he had wandered in by mistake.
    “How was the flight?” asked Adrian Carter.
    “You have a very nice plane.”
    He shook Gabriel’s hand warmly and looked at the bag.
    “Planning to stay long, or just a day or two?”
    “Only as long as I’m welcome,” Gabriel said.
    “I hope you brought more than clean shirts and underwear.”
    “I did.”
    Carter gave a fatigued smile and led Gabriel wordlessly into his office.
     
     
     
    Gabriel accepted a cup of black coffee and lowered himself onto Carter’s couch. Carter picked up a remote control from the edge of his tidy desk and fired it at a bank of television monitors. Elizabeth Halton’s image immediately appeared on one of the screens. She was seated on the floor of a featureless room, dressed in the same cold-weather running suit she had been wearing in Hyde Park the morning of her kidnapping. In her hands was a copy of the Times , headlined with her own abduction. Four men were standing behind her: black jumpsuits, black balaclavas, green headbands with crossed swords and crescent moons. The one directly behind Elizabeth had a large knife in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He was reading a statement in Egyptian-accented Arabic.
    “I take it you don’t require translation,” Carter said.
    Gabriel, listening intently, shook his head. “He says he’s from the Sword of Allah. He says they want you to release Sheikh Abdullah Abdul-Razzaq from prison and return him to Egypt by six P.M . London time next Friday. He says that if you don’t comply with their demands, the ambassador’s daughter will die. There will be no extensions, no negotiations, and no more contact. If there is any attempt at a rescue, Elizabeth Halton will be killed immediately.”
    The image turned to hash. Carter killed it with a flick of his remote and looked at Gabriel.
    “You don’t seem surprised.”
    “I learned about the Sword of Allah connection yesterday. It’s why I’m here.”
    “How did you find out?”
    “Sources and methods, Adrian. Sources and methods.”
    “Come now,” Carter said mildly. “A woman’s life is at stake. Now is not the time to be territorial.”
    “Just because we are technically at peace with Egypt doesn’t mean we don’t spy on them. We need to know whether the regime is going to stand or fall. We need to know whether we are about to be facing a hostile Islamic republic armed with advanced American weaponry. And we don’t always get the information we need from our friends here at Langley.”
    “Your spy is SSI, I take it?”
    Gabriel gave a sigh of resignation. “Our spy is in the business of keeping Mubarak and his regime alive.”
    Carter took that as confirmation of his suspicions. “Why is it that we’ve spent upward of fifty billion dollars propping up that regime, but you found out about the Sword connection before we did?”
    “Because we’re better than you, Adrian, especially in the Middle East. We’ve always been better and we always will be. You have your unquestioned military might and the power of your economy, but we have a nagging fear that we might not survive. Fear is a far more powerful motivation than money.”
    Carter placed the remote thoughtfully on his desk and sat down in his executive swivel chair.
    “When did you get the video?” Gabriel asked.
    Carter told him.
    “Has word gotten out to the British media?”
    “Not yet,” Carter