The Secret Servant

glad you called. I assume we have a deal?”
    “We do, as long as you agree to my one condition.”
    “You’re not in much of a position to make demands, Ishaq.”
    “Neither are you.”
    “What’s your condition?”
    “I’ll give her to my father, but no one else.”
    “That’s not necessary, Ishaq. Just stop the car and leave Elizabeth by the side of the road—somewhere safe and dry, somewhere out of harm’s way—then drive away. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”
    “I need proof my father is still in Europe.” A pause. “I need proof he’s still alive.”
    “Your father is a founding member of the Sword of Allah, Ishaq. Your father isn’t going to go anywhere near my girl.”
    “My father is an innocent man. And unless he’s there, you don’t get your girl.”
    Gabriel looked at Carter, who nodded his head.
    “All right, Ishaq, you win. We’ll do it your way. Just tell me where you want to do it.”
    “Are you in Denmark?”
    “I told you, Ishaq—it doesn’t matter where I am.”
    “It matters to me.”
    “Yes, Ishaq. I’m in Denmark. Let’s just do it here, shall we? It’s a small country, lots of open spaces, and the Danish police are willing to let you be on your way after you release Elizabeth.”
    “I need a guarantee of safe passage over the border. No checkpoints. No roadblocks. If a policeman so much as looks at me twice, the woman is dead. Do you understand?”
    “I understand. We’ll tell the local authorities to stand down. No one is going to bother you. Just tell me how you want to do it.”
    “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what to do.”
    “Tomorrow? That’s not good enough, Ishaq.”
    “If tomorrow isn’t good enough, then your girl dies tonight.”
    Another glance at Carter. Another nod of the head.
    “All right, Ishaq. What time are you going to call me tomorrow?”
    “I’ll call at noon Copenhagen time.”
    “Too long, Ishaq. I want to hear from you much sooner than that.”
    “It’s noon or nothing. It’s your choice.”
    “All right, noon it is. Don’t disappoint me.”
    The line went dead. Gabriel hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. “I gave him room to maneuver, Adrian, just like Washington wanted, and he maneuvered me right into a corner.”
    “We’ll wait until tomorrow and listen to what he has to say.”
    “And what if we don’t like what he has to say?”
    “Then we won’t accept the deal.”
    “No, Adrian, we’ll do exactly what he tells us to do. Because if we don’t, he’s going to kill her.”

37
     
    T heir security had been exceptionally good. They never entered her cell without their faces covered, and not once since the initial seconds of her capture had they spoken a single word to her. They had permitted her no newspapers or reading material of any kind, and a request for a radio to help pass the empty hours had been met by a slow shake of Cain’s head. She had lost track of how long she had been in captivity. She had no idea whether the rest of the world thought she was alive or dead. Nor did she have any clue as to her whereabouts. She might still be in the east of England, she thought, or she might be in a cave complex in Tora Bora. Of one thing, however, she was certain: her captors were moving her on a regular basis.
    The proof of movement was plain for her to see. The rooms where she was being held were all variations of the first—white walls, a camp bed, a single lamp, a door with a spy hole—but each was clearly different. She would have been able to discern this even if they had forced her to wear a blindfold, because her senses of smell and hearing were now heightened to an animal acuteness. She could hear them coming long before they slid the notes beneath her door and now could distinguish Cain from Abel by scent alone. Her last cell had stunk of liquid bleach. The one where she was being held now was filled with the pleasant aroma of coffee and Middle Eastern spices. She was in a market, she thought, or perhaps the warehouse of a distributor that supplied grocers in Arab neighborhoods.
    Her heightened senses had allowed her to gather one other piece of information: there was a distinct rhythm to her movements. This rhythm was not measured by hours and minutes—time, for all her attempts to capture it, remained a mystery to her—but in the number of meals she was given in each location. It was always the same: four meals of identical content, then a