Читать книгу The English Spy - Daniel Silva - Страница 13

WHY DO YOU SUPPOSE MY flight is delayed?” asked Chiara.

“It could be a mechanical problem,” replied Gabriel.

“It could be,” she repeated without conviction.

They were seated in a quiet corner of a first-class departure lounge. It didn’t matter the city, thought Gabriel, they were all the same. Unread newspapers, tepid bottles of suspect pinot grigio, CNN International playing silently on a large flat-panel television. By his own calculation, Gabriel had spent one-third of his career in places like this. Unlike his wife, he was extraordinarily good at waiting.

“Go ask that pretty girl at the information desk why my flight hasn’t been called,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk to the pretty girl at the information desk.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t know anything, and she’ll simply tell me something she thinks I want to hear.”

“Why must you always be so fatalistic?”

“It prevents me from being disappointed later.”

Chiara smiled and closed her eyes; Gabriel looked at the television. A British reporter in a helmet and flak jacket was talking about the latest airstrike on Gaza. Gabriel wondered why CNN had become so enamored with British reporters. He supposed it was the accent. The news always sounded more authoritative when delivered with a British accent, even if not a word of it was true.

“What’s he saying?” asked Chiara.

“Do you really want to know?”

“It’ll help pass the time.”

Gabriel squinted to read the closed captioning. “He says an Israeli warplane attacked a school where several hundred Palestinians were sheltering from the fighting. He says at least fifteen people were killed and several dozen more seriously wounded.”

“How many were women and children?”

“All of them, apparently.”

“Was the school the real target of the air raid?”

Gabriel typed a brief message into his BlackBerry and fired it securely to King Saul Boulevard, the headquarters of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Employees referred to it as the Office and nothing else.

“The real target,” he said, his eyes on the BlackBerry, “was a house across the street.”

“Who lives in the house?”

“Muhammad Sarkis.”

“The Muhammad Sarkis?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Is Muhammad still among the living?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about the school?”

“It wasn’t hit. The only casualties were Sarkis and members of his family.”

“Maybe someone should tell that reporter the truth.”

“What good would it do?”

“More fatalism,” said Chiara.

“No disappointment.”

“Please find out why my flight is delayed.”

Gabriel typed another message into his BlackBerry. A moment later came the response.

“One of the Hamas rockets landed close to Ben-Gurion.”

“How close?” asked Chiara.

“Too close for comfort.”

“Do you think the pretty girl at the information desk knows my destination is under rocket fire?”

Gabriel was silent.

“Are you sure you want to go through with it?” asked Chiara.

“With what?”

“Don’t make me say it aloud.”

“Are you asking whether I still want to be the chief at a time like this?”

She nodded.

“At a time like this,” he said, watching the images of combat and explosions flickering on the screen, “I wish I could go to Gaza and fight alongside our boys.”

“I thought you hated the army.”

“I did.”

She tilted her head toward him and opened her eyes. They were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. Time had left no marks on her beautiful face. Were it not for her swollen abdomen and the band of gold on her finger, she might have been the same young girl he had first encountered a lifetime ago, in the ancient ghetto of Venice.

“Fitting, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“That the children of Gabriel Allon should be born in a time of war.”

“With a bit of luck, the war will be over by the time they’re born.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Chiara glanced at the departure board. The status box for Flight 386 to Tel Aviv read DELAYED. “If my plane doesn’t leave soon, they’re going to be born here in Italy.”

“Not a chance.”

“What would be so wrong with that?”

“We had a plan. And we’re sticking to the plan.”

“Actually,” she said archly, “the plan was for us to return to Israel together.”

“True,” said Gabriel, smiling. “But events intervened.”

“They usually do.”

Seventy-two hours earlier, in an ordinary parish church near Lake Como, Gabriel and Chiara had discovered one of the world’s most famous stolen paintings: Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. The badly damaged canvas was now at the Vatican, where it was awaiting restoration. It was Gabriel’s intention to conduct the early stages himself. Such was his unique combination of talents. He was an art restorer, he was a master spy and assassin, a legend who had overseen some of the greatest operations in the history of Israeli intelligence. Soon he would be a father again, and then he would be the chief. They didn’t write stories about chiefs, he thought. They wrote stories about the men whom chiefs sent into the field to do their dirty work.

“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about that painting,” Chiara said.

“I found it, I want to restore it.”

“Actually, we found it. But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s no possible way you can finish it before the children are born.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I can finish it or not. I just want to—”

“Leave your mark on it?”

He nodded slowly. “It might be the last painting I ever get to restore. Besides, I owe it to him.”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer; he was reading the closed captioning on the television.

“What’s he talking about now?” Chiara asked.

“The princess.”

“What about her?”

“It seems the explosion that sank the boat was an accident.”

“Do you believe it?”

“No.”

“So why would they say something like that?”

“I suppose they want to give themselves time and space.”

“For what?”

“To find the man they’re looking for.”

Chiara closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. Her dark hair, with its shimmering auburn and chestnut highlights, smelled richly of vanilla. Gabriel kissed her hair softly and inhaled its scent. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to get on the airplane alone.

“What does the departure board say about my flight?” she asked.

“Delayed.”

“Can’t you do something to speed things up?”

“You overestimate my powers.”

“False modesty doesn’t suit you, darling.”

Gabriel typed another brief message into his BlackBerry and sent it to King Saul Boulevard. A moment later the device vibrated softly with the reply.

“Well?” asked Chiara.

“Watch the board.”

Chiara opened her eyes. The status box for El Al Flight 386 still read DELAYED. Thirty seconds later it changed to BOARDING.

“Too bad you can’t stop the war so easily,” Chiara said.

“Only Hamas can stop the war.”

She gathered up her carry-on bag and a stack of glossy magazines and rose carefully to her feet. “Be a good boy,” she said. “And if someone asks you for a favor, remember those three lovely words.”

“Find someone else.”

Chiara smiled. Then she kissed Gabriel with surprising urgency.

“Come home, Gabriel.”

“Soon.”

“No,” she said. “Come home now.”

“You’d better hurry, Chiara. Otherwise, you’ll miss your flight.”

She kissed him one last time. Then she turned away without another word and boarded the plane.

Gabriel waited until Chiara’s flight was safely airborne before leaving the terminal and making his way to Fiumicino’s chaotic parking garage. His anonymous German sedan was at the far end of the third deck, the front end facing out, lest he had reason to flee the garage in a hurry. As always, he searched the undercarriage for evidence of a concealed explosive before sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. An Italian pop song blasted from the radio, one of those silly tunes Chiara was always singing to herself when she thought no one else was listening. Gabriel switched to the BBC, but it was filled with news about the war so he lowered the volume. There would be time enough for war later, he thought. For the next few weeks there would only be the Caravaggio.

He crossed the Tiber over the Ponte Cavour and made his way to the Via Gregoriana. The old Office safe flat was at the far end of the street, near the top of the Spanish Steps. He squeezed the sedan into an empty spot along the curb and retrieved his Beretta 9mm pistol from the glove box before climbing out. The chill night air smelled of frying garlic and faintly of wet leaves, the smell of Rome in autumn. Something about it always made Gabriel think of death.

He walked past the entrance of his building, past the awnings of the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel, to the Church of the Trinità dei Monti. A moment later, after determining he was not being followed, he returned to his apartment building. A single energy-efficient bulb burned weakly in the foyer; he moved through its sphere of light and climbed the darkened staircase. As he stepped onto the third-floor landing, he froze. The door of the flat was ajar, and from within came the sound of drawers opening and closing. Calmly, he drew the Beretta from the small of his back and used the barrel to slowly push open the door. At first, he could see no sign of the intruder. Then the door yielded another inch and he glimpsed Graham Seymour standing at the kitchen counter, an unopened bottle of Gavi in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Gabriel slipped the gun into his coat pocket and went inside. And in his head he was thinking of three lovely words.

Find someone else …