Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel. Daniel SilvaЧитать онлайн книгу.
with him to leave his wife. Coyle, his face streaming with tears, said he wanted nothing more. He required just one thing. It would take a bit of time, he told her, but it would not be difficult. Coyle had access to secrets—secrets that he could spin into gold. His days at Langley were numbered. So, too, were the nights he would return to Norah and their little cottage in the Palisades.
He stepped out of the car and headed inside. Norah was wearing a dowdy pleated skirt, heavy stockings, and a pair of half-moon glasses that Coyle found singularly unbecoming. He accepted her lifeless kiss and replied, “Yes, of course, dear,” when she reminded him that Lucy needed to be walked. “And don’t be long, Ellis,” she said, frowning at the electric bill. “You know how lonely I get when you’re away.”
Coyle used the techniques taught to him by the Agency to smother his guilt. Stepping outside, he was treated to the sight of Blankman guiding his enormous Mercedes into the second bay of his three-car garage. Lucy growled low in her throat before pulling Coyle in the direction of MacArthur Boulevard. On the opposite side of the wide street was the entrance to the park. A brown wooden sign warned that bicycles were forbidden and that dogs had to remain leashed at all times. At the base of the sign, partially obscured by a clump of weeds, was a chalk mark. Coyle removed Lucy’s leash and watched her bound freely into the park. Then he rubbed out the mark with the toe of his shoe and followed.
THE INVESTMENT
A REMARKABLY ACCURATE ACCOUNT OF THE worrisome new terrorist chatter appeared the next morning in the New York Times. Gabriel read the story with more than passing interest on the Amtrak Acela from Washington to New York. His seatmate, a Washington political consultant, spent the entire journey shouting into her mobile phone. Every twenty minutes, a policeman in paramilitary garb strode through the carriage with a bomb-sniffing dog. It seemed the Department of Homeland Security had finally come to realize the trains of Amtrak were rolling terrorist catastrophes waiting to happen.
A prickly rain greeted Gabriel as he emerged from Penn Station. Nevertheless, he spent the next hour hiking the streets of Midtown Manhattan. At the corner of Lexington Avenue and East Sixty-third Street, he saw Chiara peering into the window of a shoe store, a mobile phone pressed to her right ear. Had she been holding it to her left, it would have meant Gabriel was under surveillance. The right meant he was clean and that it was safe to proceed to the target.
He walked across town to Fifth Avenue. Dina was perched on the stone wall bordering Central Park, a black-and-white kaffiyeh around her neck. A few paces farther south, Eli Lavon was buying a soft drink from a street vendor. Gabriel brushed past him without a word and headed toward the used-book stalls at the corner of East Sixtieth Street. An attractive woman stood alone at one of the trestle tables, as though killing a few minutes before an appointment. She kept her gaze downward for several seconds after Gabriel’s arrival, then looked at him for a long moment without speaking. She had dark hair, olive-complected skin, and wide brown eyes. A thin smile animated her face. Not for the first time, Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling he was being studied by a figure from a painting.
“Was it really necessary for me to take the bloody subway?” Zoe Reed asked resentfully in her posh London accent.
“We had to make certain you weren’t being followed.”
“I assume by your presence I’m not.”
“You’re clean.”
“What a relief,” she said archly. “In that case, you can take me to the Pierre for a drink. I’ve been on the air since six this morning.”
“I’m afraid your face is far too well known for that. You’ve become quite the star since coming to America.”
“I was always a star,” she replied playfully. “It just doesn’t count unless you’re on television.”
“I hear you’re getting your own show.”
“Prime time, actually. It’s supposed to be witty news chat with an emphasis on global affairs and business. Perhaps you’d like to appear on the debut program.” She lowered her voice and added conspiratorially, “We can finally tell the world how we brought down the Iranian nuclear program together. It has all the elements of a blockbuster. Boy meets girl. Boy seduces girl. Girl steals boy’s secrets and gives them to the Israeli secret service.”
“I don’t think anyone would find it credible.”
“But that’s the beauty of American cable news, darling. It doesn’t have to be credible. It just has to be entertaining.” She brushed a drop of rain from her cheek, then asked, “To what do I owe this honor? Not another security review, I hope.”
“I don’t do security reviews.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” She picked up a novel from the table and turned the cover toward Gabriel. “Ever read him? His character is a bit like you—moody, egotistical, but with a sensitive streak women find irresistible.”
“That one’s more to my taste,” he said, pointing toward a battered Rembrandt monograph.
Zoe laughed. “Please let me buy it for you.”
“It won’t fit in my carry-on. Besides, I already own a copy.”
“Of course you do.” She returned the novel to its place and with feigned casualness glanced up Fifth Avenue. “I see you brought along two of your little helpers. I believe you referred to them as Max and Sally when we were at the safe house in Highgate. Not the most realistic cover names, if you ask me. Better suited to a pair of Welsh corgis than two professional spies.”
“There is no safe house in Highgate, Zoe.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. It was all just a bad dream.” She managed a fleeting smile. “Actually it wasn’t all bad, was it, Gabriel? In fact, it went quite smoothly until the end. But that’s the way it is with affairs of the heart. They always end disastrously and someone always gets hurt. Usually, it’s the girl.”
She picked up the Rembrandt monograph and leafed through the pages until she came to a painting called Portrait of a Young Woman. “What do you suppose she’s thinking?” she asked.
“She’s curious,” replied Gabriel.
“About what?”
“About why a man from her recent past has reappeared without warning.”
“Why has he?”
“He needs a favor.”
“The last time he said that, it almost got her killed.”
“It’s not that kind of favor.”
“What is it?”
“An idea for her new prime-time cable news program.”
Zoe closed the book and returned it to the table. “She’s listening. But don’t try to mislead her. Remember, Gabriel, she’s the one person in the world who knows when you’re lying.”
The rain ended as they entered the park. They drifted slowly past the Delacorte clock, then made their way to the foot of Literary Walk. For the most part, Zoe listened in studied silence, interrupting only to challenge Gabriel or to clarify a point. Her questions were posed with the intelligence and insightfulness that had made her one of the world’s most respected and feared investigative reporters. Zoe Reed had made just one mistake during her celebrated career—she had fallen in love with a glamorous Swiss businessman who, unbeknownst to her, was selling restricted nuclear materials to the Islamic Republic of Iran. Zoe had atoned for her sins by agreeing to join forces with Gabriel and his allies in British and American intelligence. The result of the operation was an Iranian nuclear