The Secret Servant

no choice,” Carter said. “They’ve pledged their full support, and they’ve also made it clear to us that caving in to the Sword’s demands would be a very bad idea. The Egyptian foreign minister is traveling to Washington secretly later today to reinforce that point with the secretary of state and the president. He’s bringing along a team from the Interior Ministry and representatives of all the Egyptian security and intelligence services. We’re adding Egyptian components to our task force here and in London.”
    “Just make sure no one mentions our little black operation in front of them. The Islamists have penetrated every level of Egyptian society and government, including the security services. You can be sure the Sphinx has contacts inside the SSI.”
    “Your operation does not exist, and no one will know about it but me.” Carter looked at his watch. “How long will it take you to deploy in Amsterdam?”
    “I have a man there already who can begin surveillance of the target immediately.”
    “One man? I hope’s he’s good.”
    “He is.”
    “And the rest of your team?”
    “Forty-eight hours.”
    “That leaves only five days before the deadline.” Carter said. “Take my plane back to Ben-Gurion. That will save you several critical hours. We’ll need someone from the Agency on your team in order to coordinate your activities with the larger effort. Otherwise we run the risk of tripping over each other in the field.”
    “I don’t want anyone from the CIA on my team. He’ll just get in the way. And besides, I fully anticipate we’ll be doing things that violate American law. I can’t have him stopping every five minutes to consult with his Washington lawyer.”
    “I’m afraid I have to insist.”
    “All right, Adrian, we’ll let you come along.”
    “Nothing would make me happier, but leaving Headquarters is not an option, at least not at the moment. I do have another candidate in mind, someone who’s experienced in the field and has been forged by fire. And the best part is you trained her.”
    Gabriel stopped walking. “You can’t be serious.”
    “I’m quite serious.”
    “Where is she?”
    “The Saudi desk at the Counterterrorism Center.”
    “How soon can she be ready to leave?”
    “I’ll make one phone call and she’s yours.”

19
     
    O FF L E H AVRE, F RANCE : 4:49 P.M. , S ATURDAY
     
    T he lights of the French coastline pricked the darkness off the prow of the Portsmouth–to–Le Havre ferry. The man seated near the observation windows in the upper lounge glanced at his wristwatch. Thirty minutes remained of the five-hour crossing. He signaled the waitress and, with a small gesture of his hand, ordered another Carlsberg, his fourth of the journey. She brought it a moment later and placed it suggestively on his table. She had bleached-blond hair and a jeweled stud in her lower lip. Her name tag said CHRISTINE . The man stared directly at her, the way infidel men always stared at their women, and allowed his eyes to wander over her breasts.
    “You have a name?” she asked.
    “Thomas,” he said.
    It wasn’t his real name. It was borrowed, like his borrowed driver’s license and borrowed British passport. His Yorkshire accent was the real thing. He was a Yorkshire lad, born and bred.
    “I could be wrong, Thomas, but I think you have an admirer.”
    “Oh, really? Who?”
    The waitress glanced toward the other side of the lounge. Seated alone at a table near the opposite window was a small woman in her mid-twenties with short dark hair and stormy black eyes. She was dressed in tight jeans and a snug-fitting pullover embroidered with the word OUI .
    “She’s been looking at you ever since we left Portsmouth,” the waitress said. “Can’t keep her eyes off you, actually.”
    “Not my type.”
    “What is your type?”
    He remembered the words his controller had spoken during the final briefing. Whatever you do, don’t sit by yourself looking as though you are a terrorist. Strike up a conversation. Buy someone a drink. Flirt with a girl if there’s a girl to flirt with .
    “I like girls named Christine who serve drinks on Channel ferries.”
    “You don’t say.”
    She smiled at him. He felt his stomach churn with rage.
    “When are you going back to England?” she asked.
    “Tomorrow, midday.”
    “What a coincidence. I’m going back on the same boat. I’ll see you then, I hope.”
    “Cheers to that.”
    The waitress walked back to the