Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel. Daniel SilvaЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 28 Seraincourt, France

      THE BANLIEUES OF NORTHEASTERN PARIS seemed to stretch for an eternity, but gradually the vulgar apartment blocks fell away and the first patches of green appeared. Even in winter, with the sky low and heavy, the French countryside looked as though it had been groomed for a family portrait. They roared through it in the black Maybach sedan with no escort vehicles, at least none that Zoe could see. Rafiq al-Kamal, the pumice-faced security chief, sat scowling in the front passenger seat. He wore his usual dark suit but, in deference to the informality of the occasion, no necktie. Nadia wore a rich cream-colored cashmere sweater, trim-fitting tan suede trousers, and low-heeled boots suitable for walking along wooded country lanes. To hide her nerves, she spoke without pause. About the French. About the appalling fashions that winter. About an article she had read in the Financial Journal that very morning regarding the deplorable financial straits of the Euro-zone economies. The heat inside the car was tropical. Zoe was perspiring beneath her clothing, but Nadia appeared slightly chilled. Her hands were curiously bloodless. Noticing Zoe’s interest, she blamed it on the damp Parisian weather, of which she spoke without interruption until a road sign warned that they were approaching the village of Seraincourt.

      At that instant, a motorcycle overtook them. It was a high-powered Japanese model of the sort that compelled the driver to lean forward at an uncomfortable-looking angle. He looked into Zoe’s window as he passed, as though curious about the occupants of so fine an automobile, then made an obscene gesture at the driver before vanishing behind a cloud of road spray. Hello, Mikhail, thought Zoe. So nice to see you again.

      She drew the BlackBerry from her handbag and dialed. The voice that answered was vaguely familiar. Of course it was, she reminded herself quickly. It belonged to her old friend Thomas Fowler from London. Thomas who made a bundle investing in God only knew what. Thomas who met Nadia a few years ago at a seaside bar in St. Barts. Thomas who was now giving Zoe directions to his showy new château—right on the rue de Vexin, left on the rue des Vallées, right on the Route des Hèdes. The gate was on the left side of the road, he said, just beyond the old vineyard. Never mind the warning sign about the dogs. It was just a bluff, for security’s sake. Thomas was concerned about security. Thomas had good reason to be.

      Zoe severed the connection and returned the BlackBerry to her handbag. Looking up again, she caught Rafiq al-Kamal eyeing her warily in his mirror. Nadia was gazing gloomily out her window at the passing countryside. Smile, thought Zoe. We’re going to a party, after all. It’s important you try to smile.

      There was no formal precedent for what they were attempting to do, no established doctrine, no Office tradition upon which to draw. During the endless rehearsal sessions, Gabriel likened it to an unveiling, with Nadia as the potential buyer and Gabriel himself as the painting propped upon a display pedestal. The event would be preceded by a brief journey—a journey, he explained, that would take Nadia and the team from the present into the not-too-distant past. The nature of this trip would have to be carefully calibrated. It would have to be pleasant enough so as not to scare Nadia away, yet forceful enough to leave her no opportunity to turn back. Even Gabriel, who had devised the strategy, placed their chances of success at no better than one in three. Eli Lavon was still more pessimistic. But then Lavon, a student of biblical disasters, was a worrier by nature.

      At that moment, though, the prospect of failure was the farthest thing from Lavon’s thoughts. Bundled in several layers of wool, remnants of operations past, he was plodding along the grassy shoulder of the rue des Vallées, a walking stick in one hand, his head seemingly in the clouds. He paused briefly to stare at the passing Maybach limousine—to do otherwise would have been odd—but paid no attention to the little Renault hatchback that followed in the big sedan’s wake like a poor relation. Behind the Renault the road was deserted, which is precisely what Lavon was hoping for. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, feigning a cough, informed Gabriel that the target was proceeding as instructed, with no surveillance other than that of the home team.

      By then, the Maybach had already made the turn onto the Route des Hèdes and was sweeping past the old vineyard at flank speed. It ducked through the imposing front gate of the château, then headed up the long straight gravel drive, at the end of which stood Yossi in a pose of idleness only money could buy. He waited until the car had come to a stop before advancing slowly toward it, but froze when al-Kamal emerged in an aggressive black blur. The Saudi bodyguard stood beside the car for several seconds, his eyes flickering over the façade of the grand manor house, before finally opening the rear passenger door at a strict forty-five-degree angle. Nadia emerged slowly and in stages—a costly boot upon the gravel, a jeweled hand across the top of the door, a flash of silken hair that seemed to gather the remaining light of the afternoon.

      For reasons Gabriel did not share with the others, he had decided to mark the occasion with a photograph, which resides in the file rooms of King Saul Boulevard to this day. Snapped by Chiara from a window on the second floor, it shows Nadia taking her first step across the forecourt with Zoe at her side, one hand stretched hesitantly toward Thomas Fowler, the other clutching the bottle of Latour by the neck. Her brow is already slightly furrowed, and in her eyes is the faintest flicker of recognition. It was true that she had once seen this man on the island of St. Barts, in a charming little patio bar overlooking the salt marshes of Saline. Nadia had been drinking daiquiris that day; the man, burned by the sun, had nursed a beer a few tables away. He had been accompanied by a scantily dressed woman with sandstone-colored hair and generous hips—the same woman who was now stepping from the front entrance of the house in clothing that matched Nadia’s in cost and style. A woman who was now holding on to Nadia’s hand as though she had no intention of ever letting go. “I’m Jenny Fowler,” said Rimona Stern. “I’m so thrilled you’re joining us. Please come inside before we all catch our death.”

      The first leg of Nadia’s journey complete, they turned in unison and started toward the entrance of the house. The bodyguard briefly attempted to follow, but Nadia, in her first act of conspiracy, stilled him with a gesture of her hand and a few reassuring words of murmured Arabic. If she thought her hosts would not understand, she was mistaken; the Fowlers were both fluent Arabic speakers, as was the petite woman with dark hair waiting beneath the chandelier in the grand main foyer. Again Nadia’s expression was one of distant recollection. “I’m Emma,” said Dina Sarid. “I’m an old friend of the Fowlers. It’s so nice to meet you.”

      Nadia grasped the outstretched hand, another stage of the journey complete, and allowed Dina to draw her into the vaulted great room. Standing before a row of French doors, her gaze fixed on the elaborate terraced garden, was a woman with pale blond hair and skin the color of alabaster. Hearing the sound of footsteps, the woman turned slowly and stared at Nadia for a long moment with expressionless blue eyes. She didn’t bother to offer a false name. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.

      “Hello, Nadia,” Sarah Bancroft said finally. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

      Nadia recoiled slightly and seemed frightened for the first time. “My God,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “Is it really