“Because you betrayed him to the Crusaders and the Jews,” Gabriel said. “Because he is a takfiri Muslim and, in his eyes, you are now an apostate worthy only of death. You are worse than a Crusader—even worse than a Jew—because you were once a devout Islamist who has now renounced the path of jihad. The woman is taking you inside to be killed, Ibrahim. Don’t go with her.”

“My son would never harm me.”

“He’s not your son anymore.”

Ibrahim smiled and removed Gabriel’s hand from his arm. “You must have faith, my friend. Let me go. I’ll bring the girl out to you, just as I promised.”

Gabriel felt the barrel of the Makarov pressing against the base of his skull. “Listen to Ibrahim, Zionist pig. He speaks the truth. We do not kill our parents. You are the murderers, not us. Let him bring you the girl, so you can be on your way.”

Ibrahim climbed out of the car before Gabriel could stop him and started toward the cottage. The woman waited until he was several yards away before lowering the gun from Gabriel’s head and setting off after him. As they neared the entrance, a man appeared in the doorway. In the snow and darkness Gabriel could discern little of his appearance—only that his hair had been dyed platinum blond. He greeted Ibrahim formally, with kisses on both cheeks and a hand reverentially over his heart, and led him inside. Then the woman closed the door and the windshield exploded in Gabriel’s face.

PART F OUR THE BRIDGE OVER JAHANNAM

PART FOUR

THE BRIDGE OVER JAHANNAM

Chapter 43

43

WINFIELD HOUSE, LONDON: 7:05 A.M., FRIDAY

It would be nearly an hour before word of the disaster in northern Denmark reached Washington, and another thirty minutes would elapse before the first news reached Winfield House, the official residence of the American ambassador to the United Kingdom. Despite the lateness of the hour—it was 3:15 A.M. in London and 10:15 P.M. in Washington—Robert Halton was seated at the desk in his private study, where he had remained throughout that long night, waiting for word from the White House Situation Room. Though he had been expecting a call for many hours, the sound of the ringing telephone caused him to recoil involuntarily, as though from a nearby gunshot. As he snatched the receiver from the cradle, he thought for an instant that he could hear the sound of Elizabeth weeping. It must have been a burst of interference on the line—or a hallucination, he would think later—for the voice he heard when he brought the phone to his ear belonged not to his daughter but to Cyrus Mansfield, the president’s national security advisor.