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.

Chapter 44

44

AALBORG, DENMARK: 12:15 P.M., FRIDAY

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.