The English Girl: A Novel (19 page)

32

CORSICA–LONDON

T
hey had dinner in the village, then Gabriel settled into a guest suite on the lower level of the villa. The walls were white, the bedding was white, the armchair and ottoman were covered in sailcloth. The room’s lack of color disturbed his sleep. That night, when he ran to Madeline in his dreams, he ran across an endless field of snow. And when she scratched at the back of her hand, the blood that flowed from the wound was the color of heavy cream.

In the morning they caught the first flight to Paris and then flew on to Heathrow. Keller cleared customs on a French passport, which Gabriel, who was waiting for him in the arrivals hall, thought was a most ignoble way for an Englishman to return to the land of his birth. They made their way outside and waited twenty minutes for a taxi. It crawled into central London through heavy traffic and rain.

“Now you know why I don’t live here any longer,” Keller said quietly in French as he stared out his rain-spattered window at the gray London suburbs.

“The moisture will do wonders for your skin,” Gabriel replied in the same language. “You look like a piece of leather.”

The taxi delivered them to Marble Arch. Gabriel and Keller walked a short distance along Bayswater Road, to the apartment house overlooking Hyde Park. The flat was precisely as he had left it the morning he had driven to France with the ransom money; in fact, Chiara’s breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Gabriel dropped his bag in the main bedroom and took a gun from the floor safe. When he emerged, he found Keller standing in the window of the sitting room.

“Can you manage for a few hours on your own?” Gabriel asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Any plans?”

“I think I’ll take a boat ride on the Serpentine and then pop over to Covent Garden for a bit of shopping.”

“It might be better if you stayed here. You never know who you might bump into.”

“I’m Regiment, luv.”

Keller said nothing more; he didn’t need to. He was SAS, which meant that, if he wanted, he could walk through a room of close friends and no one would know his name.

Gabriel headed down to the street and hailed a passing taxi. Twenty minutes later he was walking past the gated entrance of Downing Street, toward the Houses of Parliament. In his pocket was a single entry from his dossier, a lengthy article from London’s
Daily Telegraph
. The headline read
MADELINE HART—THE UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
.

T
he article had been written by Samantha Cooke, the
Telegraph
’s chief Whitehall correspondent and one of Britain’s most highly regarded journalists. She had been covering Jonathan Lancaster from the time he was a lowly backbencher and had chronicled his rise in a biography called
The Path to Power
. Despite the book’s somewhat pretentious title, it had been well received, even by her competitors who were jealous of the advance paid by her London publisher. Samantha Cooke was the kind of reporter who knew much more than she could ever put into print, which is why Gabriel wanted to talk to her.

He rang the
Telegraph
’s switchboard and asked to be connected to her extension. The operator put him through without delay, and after a few seconds Samantha Cooke picked up. Gabriel suspected she was on a mobile phone because he could hear footsteps and the echo of baritone voices in a high-ceilinged room—perhaps the lobby of Parliament, which was just across the street from the café where Gabriel was sitting. He said he needed a few minutes of her time. He promised he would make it well worth her while. He never mentioned a name.

“Do you know how many calls I get like this every day?” she asked wearily.

“I can assure you, Ms. Cooke, you’ve never received a call like this before.”

There was silence on the line. Clearly, she was intrigued.

“What’s this about?”

“I’d rather not talk about it over the telephone.”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“You’re obviously skeptical.”

“Obviously.”

“Does your phone have an Internet connection?”

“Of course.”

“A couple of years ago, a rather well-known Israeli intelligence officer was captured by Islamic terrorists and interrogated on camera. Their plan was to kill him, but it didn’t work out that way. The video of the interrogation is still floating around on the Internet. Watch it and then call me.”

He gave her a number and rang off. Two minutes later she called him back.

“I’d like to see you.”

“Surely you can do better than that, Ms. Cooke.”

“Please, Mr. Allon, would you consider granting me an audience?”

“Only if you apologize for treating me so rudely a moment ago.”

“I offer my most profound and humble apology, and I hope you will find some way in your heart to forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Where are you?”

“Café Nero on Bridge Street.”

“Unfortunately, I know it well.”

“How soon can you be here?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Don’t be late,” said Gabriel, and he severed the connection.

A
s it turned out, she
was
late—six minutes late, which explained why she came whirling through the door in a rush, a phone to her ear, her umbrella flapping in the wind that blew in with her. Most of the patrons in the café were tourists, but three gray-suited junior MPs were sipping lattes in the back. Samantha Cooke stopped to have a word with them before making her way to Gabriel’s table. Her hair was ash blond and shoulder length. Her eyes were blue and probing. For several seconds they didn’t move from Gabriel’s face.

“My God,” she said finally. “It really is you.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Horns, I suppose.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“It’s one of my worst faults.”

“Any others?”

“Curiosity,” she said.

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Actually,” she said, looking around the room, “it might be better if we walked.”

Gabriel rose and pulled on his coat.

T
hey headed toward the Tower Bridge and then made a quick left onto the Victoria Embankment. The afternoon traffic moved slowly along the road, but the crowds that usually surged along the river walk had been chased away by the rain. Gabriel glanced over his shoulder to make certain they hadn’t been followed from the café. Turning again, he noticed Samantha Cooke peering at him from beneath her umbrella as though he were on the endangered species list.

“You look much better than you did in that video,” she said after a moment.

“It was all done with makeup.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Does it help?” she asked.

“To make jokes after something like that?”

She nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “It helps.”

“I met her once, you know.”

“Who?”

“Nadia al-Bakari. It was when she was a nobody, a Saudi party girl, the spoiled daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, financier of Islamic terror.” She looked at Gabriel’s face for a reaction and seemed disappointed when there was none. “Is it true that you were the one who killed him?”

“Zizi al-Bakari was killed as the result of an operation initiated by the Americans and their allies in the global war on terror.”

“But you were the one who actually pulled the trigger, weren’t you? You killed him in Cannes, in front of Nadia. And then you recruited Nadia to take down Rashid al-Husseini’s terror network. Brilliant,” she said. “Truly brilliant.”

“If I was so brilliant, Nadia would still be alive.”

“But her death changed the world. It helped to bring democracy to the Arab world.”

“And look how well that worked out,” Gabriel said glumly.

They passed beneath the Hungerford Bridge as a train rumbled into Charing Cross. The rain eased. Samantha Cooke lowered her umbrella, wound it tightly, and inserted it into her handbag.

“I’m honored you came to me,” she said, “but the Middle East isn’t exactly my beat.”

“This isn’t about the Middle East. It’s about Jonathan Lancaster.”

She looked up sharply. “Why is a famous Israeli intelligence operative coming to a London reporter for information about the British prime minister?”

“It must be something important,” Gabriel said evasively. “Otherwise, the famous Israeli operative would never dare to do such a thing.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” she agreed. “But surely the famous operative has a great deal of information about Lancaster at his fingertips. Why would he ask a reporter for help?”

“Contrary to popular myth, we don’t compile personal dossiers on our friends.”

“Bullshit.”

Gabriel hesitated for a moment. “This is a strictly personal matter, Ms. Cooke. My service isn’t involved in any way.”

“And if I agree to help you?”

“Obviously, I would give you something in return.”

“A story?”

Gabriel nodded.

“But you can’t tell me what it is,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Whatever it is, it had better be something big.”

“I’m Gabriel Allon. I only do big.”

“Yes, you do.” She stopped walking and gazed at the London Eye turning slowly on the opposite bank of the river. “All right, Mr. Allon, we have a deal. Perhaps you should tell me what this is all about.”

Gabriel withdrew the
Telegraph
article from his coat pocket and held it up for her to see. Samantha Cooke smiled.

“Where would you like me to start?”

Gabriel returned the article to his coat pocket. Then he asked her to start with Jeremy Fallon.

33

LONDON

S
he was a good reporter, and like all good reporters she provided her audience with the necessary background to put her story into proper context. Gabriel, a former resident of the United Kingdom, knew much of it already. He knew, for example, that Jeremy Fallon had been educated at University College London and had worked as an advertising copywriter before joining the political unit at Party headquarters. What Fallon discovered was that there was an antiquated campaign organization dedicated to selling a product that no one, least of all the British voting public, wanted to buy. His first priority was to change the way the Party did its polling. Fallon didn’t care which party a particular voter supported; he wanted to know where the voter did his shopping, what programs the voter watched on television, and what hopes the voter had for his children. Most of all, Fallon wanted to know what the voter expected from his government. Quietly, working far from the public spotlight, Fallon set about retooling the Party’s core policies to meet the needs of a modern British electorate. Then he went in search of the perfect pitchman to take his new product to market. He found one in Jonathan Lancaster. With Fallon’s help, Lancaster successfully challenged for Party leader. Then, six months later, he was swept into Downing Street.

“Jeremy got the dream job as his reward,” Samantha Cooke said. “Jonathan appointed him chief of staff and gave him more power than any other chief of staff in British history. Jeremy is Lancaster’s gatekeeper and enforcer, a deputy prime minister in everything but name. Lancaster once told me it was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.”

“On the record?”

“Off
,” she said pointedly. “Way, way, way off.”

“If Lancaster knew it was a mistake, why did he do it?”

“Because without Jeremy, the Party would still be wandering in the proverbial political wilderness. And Jonathan Lancaster would still be a lowly opposition backbencher trying to make a name for himself once a week during PMQ. Besides,” she added, “Jeremy is completely loyal to Lancaster. I’m quite confident he would kill for him and then volunteer to mop up the blood.”

Gabriel wished he could tell her how right she was. Instead, he walked on in silence and waited for her to resume.

“But there was more to their relationship than just a bond of debt and loyalty. Lancaster
needed
Jeremy. He truly didn’t believe he could govern the country without him at his side.”

“So it’s true, then?”

“What’s that?”

“That Jeremy Fallon is Lancaster’s brain.”

“Actually, it’s complete rubbish. But it didn’t take long for that perception to take hold in the public. Even the Party’s own internal polls showed a majority of Britons thought Jeremy was the one who was truly running the government.” She paused thoughtfully. “That’s why I was so surprised when Jeremy was at Lancaster’s side the day he finally called the election.”

“Surprised?”

“Not long ago there was a nasty rumor running round Whitehall that Lancaster was planning to push Jeremy out of Downing Street.”

“Because he had become an electoral liability?”

Samantha Cooke nodded her head. “And because he was so unpopular within the Party that no one wanted to work for him.”

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“I didn’t have the sourcing necessary to take it to print,” she replied. “Some of us do have standards, you know.”

“Do you think Jeremy Fallon heard the same rumors?”

“I can’t imagine he didn’t.”

“Did he and Lancaster ever discuss it?”

“I was never able to confirm that, which is one of the reasons I didn’t write about it. Thank God I didn’t,” she added. “I would have looked very foolish right about now.”

They had reached Waterloo Bridge. Gabriel took her by the elbow and guided her toward the Strand.

“How well do you know him?” he asked.

“Jeremy?”

Gabriel nodded.

“I’m not sure anyone really knows Jeremy Fallon. I know him professionally, which means he tells me things he wants me to put in my newspaper. He’s a manipulative bastard, which is why his performance at Madeline Hart’s funeral was so peculiar. I never would have dreamed Jeremy was even capable of shedding a tear.” She paused, then added, “I suppose it was true after all.”

“What’s that?”

“That Jeremy was in love with her.”

Gabriel stopped and turned to face Samantha Cooke. “Are you saying that Jeremy Fallon and Madeline Hart were having an affair?”

“Madeline wasn’t interested in Jeremy romantically,” she replied, shaking her head. “But that didn’t prevent her from using him to advance her career. She rose through the ranks rather too quickly, in my opinion. And I suspect it was all because of Jeremy.”

A silence fell between them. They were standing on the pavement outside the Courtauld Gallery. Samantha Cooke was watching the traffic rushing along the Strand, but Gabriel was wondering why Jeremy Fallon had introduced a woman he loved to Jonathan Lancaster. Perhaps Fallon had wanted to create leverage over the man who was about to end his career in politics.

“Are you sure?” Gabriel asked after a moment.

“That Jeremy was smitten with Madeline?”

Gabriel nodded.

“As sure as one can be about something like that.”

“Meaning?”

“I had it from multiple sources I trust. Jeremy used to make up the flimsiest excuses to contact her. Apparently, it was all rather pathetic.”

“Why didn’t you report it when she disappeared?”

“Because it didn’t seem the right thing to do at the time,” she replied. “And now that she’s dead . . .”

Her voice trailed off. They entered the gallery, purchased two tickets, and climbed the staircase to the exhibition rooms. As usual, they were largely empty of visitors. In Room 7 they paused before the empty frame commemorating the theft of the Courtauld’s signature piece,
Self-Portrait with a Bandaged Ear
by Vincent van Gogh.

“A pity,” said Samantha Cooke.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. He guided her to Gauguin’s
Nevermore
and asked whether she had ever met Madeline Hart.

“Once,” she replied, pointing toward the woman on the canvas, as though she were speaking about her rather than a woman who was dead. “I was doing a piece on the Party’s efforts to connect with minority voters. Jeremy sent me to Madeline. I thought she was rather too pretty for her own good, but smart as a whip. Sometimes it seemed she was interviewing me rather than the other way around. I felt as though I was . . .” She lapsed into silence, as if searching for the right word. Then she said, “I felt as though I were being recruited—for what, I haven’t a clue.”

As the sound of her words died, Gabriel heard footsteps and, turning, saw a middle-aged couple enter the room. The man wore tinted eyeglasses and was bald except for a monkish tonsure. The woman was several years his junior and carried a museum guidebook open to the wrong page. They moved from painting to painting without speaking, stopping before each canvas for only a few seconds before moving mechanically to the next. Gabriel watched as the couple entered the adjoining exhibition room. Then he led Samantha Cooke downstairs, to the vast internal courtyard at the center of the building. In warm weather it was a popular gathering spot for Londoners who worked in the office blocks along the Strand. But now, in the chill rain, the metal café tables were empty and the dancing fountain splashed with the sadness of a toy in a nursery without children.

“You wrote well of Madeline after her disappearance,” said Gabriel as they walked slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard.

“And I meant every word of it. She was remarkably composed and self-confident for someone of her upbringing.” She paused and furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “I never understood the way her mother behaved during the days after she went missing. Most parents of missing persons talk to the press constantly. But not her. She was tight-lipped and insular throughout. And now it seems she’s vanished from the face of the earth. Madeline’s brother, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I tried to contact her for that piece,” she said, nodding toward the newspaper article in Gabriel’s coat pocket, “there was no answer at their house.
Ever
. I finally drove out to bloody Essex and sat on the doorstep. A neighbor told me that Madeline’s family hadn’t been seen since shortly after the funeral.”

Gabriel said nothing, but in his thoughts he was calculating the driving time between central London and Basildon, Essex, at the height of the evening rush.

“I’ve done a great deal of talking,” Samantha Cooke was saying. “Now it’s your turn. Why on earth is the great Gabriel Allon interested in a dead English girl?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you yet.”

“Will you ever?”

“That depends.”

“You know,” she said provocatively, “the very fact you’re in London asking questions is quite a story.”

“That’s true,” Gabriel admitted. “But you would never dare to report it or even mention our conversation to anyone.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it would prevent me from giving you a much better story in the future.”

Samantha Cooke smiled and looked at her wristwatch. “I’d love to spend about a week talking to you, but I really have to be going. I have a piece in tomorrow’s paper.”

“What are you writing about?”

“Volgatek Oil and Gas.”

“The Russian energy company?”

“Very impressive, Mr. Allon.”

“I try to keep up with the news. It helps in my line of work.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“What’s the story?”

“The environmentalists and the global warming crowd are upset about the deal. They’re predicting all the usual calamities—major oil spills, melting polar ice caps, oceanfront property in Chelsea, that sort of thing. They don’t seem to care that the deal will generate billions of dollars in licensing fees and bring several thousand badly needed jobs to Scotland.”

“So your piece will be balanced?” asked Gabriel.

“They always are,” she shot back with a smile. “My sources tell me the deal was Jeremy’s pet project, his last big initiative before leaving Downing Street to run for Parliament. I tried to talk to him about it, but he spoke two words that I’d never heard come out of his mouth before.”

“What were they?”

“No comment.”

With that, she gave him a business card, shook his hand, and disappeared through the arched passage that connected the courtyard to the Strand. Gabriel waited five minutes before following. As he turned into the street, he saw the man and woman from the gallery attempting to hail a taxi. He walked past them without a glance and continued to Trafalgar Square, where a thousand protesters were engaged in Two Minutes Hate directed against the State of Israel. Gabriel plunged into the throng and moved slowly through it, pausing now and again to see whether anyone was following. Finally, a heavenly cloudburst sent the demonstrators scurrying for cover. Gabriel fell in with a troupe of pro-Palestinian actors and artists who were heading off to the bars of Soho, but in Charing Cross Road he broke away and ducked into the Leicester Square Underground station. As he was riding the escalator downward into the warm earth, he called Keller.

“We need a car,” he said in rapid French.

“Where are we going?”

“Basildon.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”