The Secret Servant (34 page)

H
e left Jerusalem for Cyprus three days later. Chiara pleaded with him to take her along but he refused. He had lost one wife to his enemies and had no intention of losing another.

He entered the country on an Israeli passport bearing the name Gideon Argov and told the Cypriot customs officers that the purpose of his visit was vacation. After collecting his rental car, a C-Class Mercedes that he subjected to a thorough inspection, he set out along the south coast toward the whitewashed villa by the sea. Wazir al-Zayyat had been vague about when he might appear, so Gabriel stopped briefly in a small village market and bought enough food to last him three days.

The March weather was unseasonably mild and he spent the first day relaxing on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, guilt-ridden for having abandoned Chiara to Jerusalem. By the second day he was restless with boredom, so he searched the Internet for a decent art-supply shop and found one a few miles up the coast. He spent the remainder of the afternoon producing sketches of the villa, and, late in the afternoon of the third day, he was working on a decent watercolor seascape when he spotted al-Zayyat’s car coming up the road from Larnaca.

Their encounter was conducted at a leisurely pace and in the cool sunshine on the terrace. Al-Zayyat worked his way slowly through the bottle of single malt while Gabriel sipped mineral water with wedges of lemon and lime. For a long time they talked in generalities about the situation inside Egypt, but as the sun was sinking slowly into the sea Gabriel brought the topic of conversation around to the real reason why he had asked al-Zayyat to come to Cyprus: the name he had been given in Jerusalem earlier that week by Adrian Carter. Upon hearing it, al-Zayyat smiled and nipped at his whisky.

“We’ve had our suspicions about the professor for some time,” he said.

“He was in Paris for the last year working on a book at something called the Institute for Islamic Studies. It’s a well-known front for jihadist activities, funded in part by Prince Rashid. He left Paris the day after Christmas and came back to Cairo, where he resumed his teaching duties at the American University.”

“I take it you’d like to grant the good professor a sabbatical?”

“A permanent one.”

“It’s going to cost you.”

“Trust me, Wazir—money is no obstacle.”

“When would you like to do it?”

“Late spring,” he said. “Before the weather gets too hot.”

“Just make sure it’s a clean job. I don’t want you making a mess in my town.”

One hour later al-Zayyat left the villa with a briefcase containing half a million dollars. The next morning Gabriel burned his sketches and the watercolor and flew home to Chiara.

T
he name on the reservation list sent a chill down the neck of Mr. Katubi, the chief concierge of Cairo’s InterContinental Hotel. Surely there was a glitch in the computer reservation system, he thought as he stared at it in disbelief. Surely it had to be a different Herr Johannes Klemp. Surely he hadn’t decided to come back for a return engagement. Surely it was all some sort of terrible misunderstanding. He picked up his house phone and dialed Reservations to see if the guest had made any special requests. The list was so long and detailed it took three minutes for the girl to recite them all.

“How long is he planning to be with us?”

“A week.”

“I see.”

He hung up the phone, then spent the remainder of the morning giving serious thought to taking the week off. In the end he decided that such a course of action would be cowardly and would inflict undue hardship on his colleagues. And so at 3:30 that afternoon he was planted firmly at the center of the glossy lobby, hands behind his back and chin raised like a defiant soldier before a firing squad, as Herr Klemp came whirling through the revolving doors, dressed head to toe in Euro black, sunglasses shoved into his head of silver hair. “Katubi!” he called brightly as he advanced on the steadfast little concierge with his hand extended like a bayonet. “I was hoping you would still be here.”

“There are things about Cairo that never change, Herr Klemp.”

“That’s what I love about the place. It does get under your skin, doesn’t it?”

“Just like the dust,” said Mr. Katubi. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.”

Mr. Katubi braced himself and his staff for a sandstorm of complaints, tirades, and lectures about Egyptian incompetence. But within forty-eight hours of Herr Klemp’s arrival, it had become clear to Mr. Katubi that the German was a changed man. His accommodations—an ordinary single room high on the north side of the building overlooking Tahrir Square and the campus of the American University—he declared to be Paradise on earth. The food, he announced, was ambrosia. The service, he raved, was second to none. He did his sightseeing in the morning, while it was still cool, and spent his afternoons relaxing by the pool. By dusk each day, he was resting quietly in his room. Mr. Katubi found himself longing for a flash of the old Herr Klemp, the one who berated the maids for making his bed improperly or lashed out at the valet staff for ruining his clothing. Instead, there was only the silence of a contented customer.

At 6:30 on the penultimate day of his scheduled stay, Herr Klemp appeared in the lobby, dressed for dinner. He asked Mr. Katubi to book a table for him at a French bistro on Zamalek for eight o’clock, then darted through the revolving doors and disappeared into the Cairo dusk. Mr. Katubi watched him go, then reached for the telephone, not knowing then that he would never see Herr Klemp again.

The silver Mercedes sedan was parked in Muhammad Street, within sight of the staff parking lot at the American University. Mordecai was seated calmly behind the wheel. Mikhail sat next to him in the front passenger seat, drumming his fingers nervously against his thigh. Gabriel climbed into the backseat and quietly closed the door. Mikhail drummed on, even after Gabriel told him to stop.

Five minutes later, Mikhail said, “There’s your boy.”

Gabriel watched as a tall, thin Egyptian in Western clothing handed a few piastres to the Nubian attendant and climbed behind the wheel of a Fiat sedan. Thirty seconds later he sped past their position and headed toward Tahrir Square. The traffic light on the edge of the square turned red. The Fiat came to a stop. The Sphinx was a careful man.

“Do it now,” Gabriel said.

Mikhail offered Gabriel the detonator switch. “You sure you don’t want him?”

“Just do it, Mikhail—before the light changes.”

Mikhail pressed the switch. An instant later the small, focused charge of explosives concealed inside the headrest exploded in a brilliant white flash. Mikhail started drumming his fingers again. Mordecai slipped the car into gear and headed for Sinai.

T
he Secret Servant
is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The al-Hijrah Mosque does not exist, though no visit to Amsterdam would be complete without a walk through the lively outdoor market on the Ten Kate Straat. To the best of my knowledge there is no Institute for Islamic Studies in Paris and no Islamic Affairs Council in Copenhagen. Visitors to Parliament Square in London will search in vain for a bench upon which to sit, for no such bench exists. Christmas services at Westminster Abbey are usually held in the afternoon, not the morning. Foulness Island, though inhabited by two hundred rugged souls, is actually a restricted military zone and thus hardly an ideal place to leave thirty million dollars’ ransom. Those wishing to visit Foulness can do so by obtaining a pass from the Ministry of Defence or by booking a table for lunch at the George & Dragon pub in Church End. Deepest apologies to the management of the Europa and d’Angleterre hotels for running intelligence operations from their fine establishments without obtaining prior consent.

The Sword of Allah is entirely fictitious, though its background, creed, and operations are consistent with actual Egyptian terrorist groups such as al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya and al-Jihad. Anwar Sadat did indeed provide material and other support to Egyptian Islamists shortly after assuming power in an ill-considered gambit designed to bolster his base of popular support. The descriptions of torture as practiced by the Egyptian security services are based on accounts provided by victims who have lived to tell about it. The CIA program known as “extraordinary rendition,” the practice of clandestinely transferring suspected terrorists from one country to another for the purposes of incarceration or interrogation, has been well documented. It was put into place not by President George W. Bush but by his predecessor, Bill Clinton.

The statistics used to illustrate the terrorist threat now confronting the United Kingdom are based on reports by the British police and intelligence services, as is the contention that Great Britain has supplanted the United States as al-Qaeda’s top target. The rise of militant Islam across Europe and the Continent’s rapidly changing demographics are, of course, factual. Professor Bernard Lewis of Princeton has estimated that Europe will have a Muslim majority by the end of the century, and Zachary Shore, in his thoughtful study of Europe’s future titled
Breeding Bin Ladens,
stated that “America may not recognize Europe in a few short decades.” Whether Europe will remain a strategic ally of the United States or become a staging ground for future attacks on American soil is not yet known. What is clear, however, are the intentions of al-Qaeda and the global jihadists. Mohammed Bouyeri, the unemployed Dutch-Moroccan immigrant from Amsterdam who murdered the filmmaker Theo van Gogh, stated them unambiguously in the manifesto he adhered to his victim’s body with the point of a knife: “I surely know that you, O America, will be destroyed. I surely know that you, O Europe, will be destroyed. I surely know that you, O Holland, will be destroyed.”

T
his novel, like the previous books in the Gabriel Allon series, could not have been written without the assistance of David Bull, who truly is among the finest art restorers in the world. I spoke to many intelligence officers, diplomats, ambassadors, and Bureau of Diplomatic Security agents while preparing this manuscript—men and women who, for obvious reasons, I cannot thank by name. Suffice it to say that because of them I know far more about embassy security procedures—and the way in which the United States would respond to an attack like the one portrayed in the novel—than I would ever put in a work of entertainment during a time of war. I would be remiss, however, if I did not extend a warm thanks to Margaret Tutwiler, the former undersecretary of state who was serving as the American ambassador to Morocco on September 11, 2001. Her descriptions of that day, some terrifying, others uproariously funny, provided me with a unique perspective of what it is like to be inside an American embassy in a time of crisis. I am honored to call her a friend, and grateful for her service.

The remarkable Bob Woodward generously shared with me his knowledge of the cooperation between the CIA and Egyptian security services. The eminent Washington orthopedist Dr. Benjamin Schaeffer taught me how to crudely treat a bullet wound in the field, while Dr. Andrew Pate, the renowned anesthesiologist of Charleston, South Carolina, explained the side effects of repeated ketamine injections and the symptoms of idiopathic paroxysmal ventricular tachycardia. Martha Rogers, a former federal prosecutor and now a much-in-demand Washington defense attorney, reviewed the case against the fictitious Sheikh Abdullah. Alex Clarke, my British editor, accompanied me on a fascinating journey through Finsbury Park and Walthamstow in the days after last summer’s London airline bomb plot, while Marie Louise Valeur Jaques and Lars Schmidt Møller gave me a tour of Copenhagen that I will never forget. A special thanks to the housepainter who verbally assaulted my wife and children on the Groenburgwal in Amsterdam. He unwittingly provided the inspiration for an opening chapter.

I interviewed many Islamists while serving as a correspondent for United Press International in Cairo in the late 1980s, but
Journey of the Jihadist
by Fawaz A. Gerges gave me additional insights into the minds of Egypt’s religious radicals, as did
A Portrait of Egypt
by Mary Anne Weaver.
While Europe Slept
by Bruce Bawer and
Menace in Europe
by Claire Berlinski helped sharpen my thoughts on the dilemma facing Europe today, especially the Netherlands, while
Londonistan
by Melanie Phillips gave me a deeper understanding of the crisis now confronting Great Britain.
Ghost Plane
by Stephen Grey contained many compelling personal accounts of those who have become ensnared, in some cases innocently, in the CIA program of “extraordinary rendition.”
Over Here,
Raymond Seitz’s memoir of his tenure as American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, helped me create the world of Robert Halton.

I was spared much embarrassment by the sure and careful hand of my copy editor, Tony Davis, whose great-uncle John W. Davis served as American ambassador to the Court of St. James’s from 1918 to 1921. Had he defeated Calvin Coolidge for president in 1924, the post of American ambassador to London would have produced
six
presidents instead of just five. Louis Toscano, my personal editor and longtime friend, made countless improvements to the manuscript, as did my literary agent, Esther Newberg of ICM in New York. A special thanks to Chris Donovan, who ably shouldered some of the research burden, and to a friend in the FBI who helped me get my terminology straight. It goes without saying that none of this would have been possible without the support of the remarkable team of professionals at Putnam—Ivan Held, Marilyn Ducksworth, and especially my editor, Neil Nyren—but I shall say it in any case.

Last, I wish to extend the deepest gratitude and love to my children, Lily and Nicholas, who spent their August vacation roaming Europe’s extremist hot spots, and to my wife, the brilliant NBC News
Today
correspondent Jamie Gangel. She listened patiently while I worked out the plot and themes of the novel, skillfully edited each draft, and helped drag me across the finish line with minutes to spare on my deadline. Orwell once described writing a book as “a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.” He neglected to mention that the only people who suffer more than the writer himself are the loved ones forced to live with him.