Amos gave him a humorless smile, as if to say, There’ll be no shooting up French train stations on my watch, no matter what the circumstances. The prime minister leaned forward and braced himself on his elbows.

“Do you believe Saudis are behind this?”

“We have some evidence that points to a Saudi connection to the Brotherhood of Allah,” Gabriel said judiciously, “but we’ll need more intelligence before we start looking for a specific individual.”

“Ahmed bin Shafiq, for example.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

“And if it is him?”

“In my opinion, we’re dealing with a network, not a movement. A network bought and paid for with Saudi money. If we lop off the head, the network will die. But it won’t be easy, Prime Minister. We know very little about him. We don’t even know what he really looks like. It will also be complicated politically because of the Americans.”

“It’s not complicated at all. Ahmed bin Shafiq tried to kill my closest adviser. And so Ahmed bin Shafiq must die.”

“And if he’s acting at the behest of Prince Nabil or someone in the Royal Family—a family with close historic and economic ties to our most important ally?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

The prime minister gave a sideways glance at Amos.

“Adrian Carter of the CIA would like a word with you,” Amos said.

“I was supposed to go to Washington tomorrow to brief him on what we’ve learned about the attack on the Vatican.”

“Carter has requested a change of venue.”

“Where does he want to meet?”

“London.”

“Why London?”

“It was Carter’s suggestion,” Amos said. “He wanted a convenient neutral location.”

“Since when is a CIA safe house in London neutral ground?” Gabriel looked at the prime minister, then Amos. “I don’t want to leave Jerusalem—not until we know whether Shamron is going to live.”

“Carter says it’s urgent,” Amos said. “He wants to see you tomorrow night.”

“Send someone else then.”

“We can’t,” said the prime minister. “You’re the only one invited.”

11. London

London

HOW’S THE OLD MAN?” asked Adrian Carter. They were walking side by side in Eaton Place, sheltering from a thin night rain beneath Carter’s umbrella. They had met five minutes earlier, as if by chance encounter, in Belgrave Square. Carter had been the one wearing the mackintosh raincoat and holding a copy of The Independent. He was orthodox when it came to the conventions of tradecraft. According to the office wits at Langley, Adrian Carter left chalk marks on the bedpost when he wanted to make love to his wife.

“Still unconscious,” Gabriel replied, “but he made it through the night, and he’s not losing any more blood.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“Last night, I would have said no.”

“And now?”