Finally, at 7:05 A.M. London time, as a gray dawn was breaking over Regent’s Park, the president telephoned to say that Danish fire-and-rescue had found just three bodies in the charred ruins of the residence. According to a statement from Gabriel Allon, who was injured but very much alive, the dead consisted of two terrorists-one male and one female-and the Egyptian asset Ibrahim Fawaz. The National Security Council, the FBI, the CIA, and the State Department were all operating under the assumption that Elizabeth was still alive, and frantic efforts to secure her release would continue until the deadline and beyond. Robert Halton hung up the phone and fell to his knees in a desperate prayer of thanksgiving. Then he stumbled into his bathroom and was violently sick.
He lay for several minutes on the cold marble floor, his body seemingly paralyzed by anguish and grief. Where are you, Robert Halton? he thought. Where was the business maverick who had turned a small oil exploration company into a global energy conglomerate? Where was the man who, for the sake of his daughter, had stoically endured the loss of his beloved wife? Where was the man who, against all odds, had managed to put his best friend in the White House? He was gone, thought Halton. He had been kidnapped by the terrorists, just as surely as Elizabeth had been.
He rose to his feet and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stepped from the bathroom and returned to his office. It was now Friday morning. By nightfall his daughter would be dead. Robert Carlyle Halton, billionaire and kingmaker, had watched helplessly while the combined forces of American intelligence, diplomacy, and law enforcement, along with their counterparts across Europe and the Middle East, had searched in vain for his daughter. He had stood idly by and listened to their empty assurances that eventually Elizabeth would be brought home to him alive. He was prepared to stand idly by no longer. He would now deploy the only weapon available to him, a weapon even the jihadists understood. The course of action he was about to undertake bordered on treason, for, if successful, Halton would be providing the terrorists a weapon they could later use against the United States and its allies. But if treason was necessary to save his daughter, then Robert Halton was prepared to be a traitor, if only for a few hours.
He walked calmly to his desk and sat down before the computer, imagining for a moment that he was no longer a helpless and grief-stricken father but once again a steady and assured CEO and magnate. A click of the mouse brought a letter onto the screen. It had been composed by Halton during the first week of the crisis and saved for this very moment. His eyes scanned the arid prose: Due to present circumstances…unable to continue in my role as your ambassador in London…an honor and pleasure to serve…Robert Carlyle Halton… He added the proper date, clicked the print icon, and watched the letter slide onto his desk. After adding his signature, he loaded the letter into his fax machine. He did not send it just yet. The CEO had a few more deals to close.
He picked up the telephone and dialed a local London number. The number was located inside Number 10 Downing Street, the official residence of the British prime minister, and was answered instantly by Oliver Gibbons, the prime minister’s chief of staff. Halton and Gibbons had spoken several times during the past two weeks and there was no need for formalities. Halton said he needed to speak to the prime minister urgently; Gibbons responded by saying that the prime minister was in a breakfast meeting and would not be free for another twenty minutes. The meeting apparently ended sooner than anticipated because, twelve minutes later, the prime minister returned the call. “I’m about to try something desperate,” Halton said. “And I want to know whether I can count on you and your authorities to make it happen.”
The conversation that ensued next was brief-later, at the official inquest, much would be made of the fact it was just six minutes in length-and concluded with a promise by the prime minister that the police and intelligence services of Britain would do anything necessary to help Halton in his endeavor. Halton thanked the prime minister, then dialed a number in his own embassy. It was answered by Stephen Barnes, the deputy public affairs officer. His boss, Jack Hammond, had been killed in Hyde Park the morning of Elizabeth ’s abduction. Barnes had been given a field promotion of sorts and had served ably as the embassy’s chief spokesman throughout the crisis.
“I need to make a statement to the press, Steve. I’d like to do it here at Winfield House instead of the embassy. It will be important. The networks need to know that they should carry it live and in its entirety-especially the European networks and the Arab satellite channels.”
“What time?”
“Noon should be fine. Can you arrange it by then?”
“No problem,” Barnes said. “Is there anything I can draft for you?”
“No, I can handle this one without a text. I do need you to prepare the ground for me, though.”
“How so?”
“Do you have any contacts at al-Jazeera?”
Barnes said he did. He had taken al-Jazeera’s London bureau chief to lunch a couple times in a futile effort to get the network to stop broadcasting al-Qaeda propaganda messages.
“Give your friend a call now. Let it leak that I’m about to make an offer to the kidnappers.”
“What sort of offer?”
“One they can’t refuse.”
“Is there something else I should know, Mr. Ambassador?”
“I’m resigning my post, Steve. You can call me Bob.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
Halton hung up the phone, then stood up and headed toward his bedroom to shower and change. He was no longer Ambassador Robert Halton, the desperate and broken American diplomat who had no choice but to watch his daughter die. He was once again Robert Carlyle Halton, multibillionaire and kingmaker, and he was going to get Elizabeth back, even if it took every penny he had.
44
Your chariot has arrived, Mr. Allon.”
Lars Mortensen lifted his hand and pointed toward the heavy gray sky. Gabriel looked up and watched a Gulf stream V sinking slowly toward the end of the runway at Aalborg Airport. The slight movement caused his head to begin throbbing again. It had taken eighteen sutures, administered by a sleepy Skagen doctor, to close the three wounds in his scalp. His face bore a crosshatched pattern of tiny cuts, inflicted by the exploding safety glass of the windshield. Somehow he had managed to shield his eyes at the instant of detonation, though he had no memory of doing it.
He could recall the events of the rest of the evening, however, with faultless clarity. Ordered by the kidnappers to relinquish his telephone in Funen, he had been forced to drive the crippled Audi with its blasted-out windshield three miles in order to find a public phone. He had rung Carter and Mortensen from the parking lot of a small market on the outskirts of Skagen and, in language fit for an insecure line, had told them what had transpired. Then he had driven back to the dunes and watched the cottage burn slowly to the ground. Twenty more minutes would elapse before he heard the distant scream of the sirens and saw the first police and firefighters stumble bewildered onto the scene. A uniformed policeman had peppered Gabriel with questions while an ambulance attendant wiped the blood from his face. Talk to Lars Mortensen of the PET, was all Gabriel said. Mortensen will explain everything.