“Understood,” said the prime minister. “It occurs to me that tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Clearly it is not a coincidence.”

“No, Prime Minister, I suspect they’ve been preparing for this for a long time.” Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. “Can someone give me a lift to the American embassy? There’s a telephone call coming there in a few minutes that I’d like to take.”

“Graham will take you,” the prime minister said. “We’ll give you a police escort. The traffic in central London this time of day is really quite dreadful.”

On the wall above John O’Donnell’s workstation was a large digital clock with red numerals set against a black background. Gabriel, however, had eyes only for the telephone. It was a modern device, with access to twenty lines, including extension 7512, which was available nowhere else in the building. Extension 7512 was O’Donnell’s private reserve. Now it belonged to Gabriel, along with O’Donnell’s warm chair and O’Donnell’s wrinkled legal pad.

The clock rolled over to 17:59 and the seconds began their methodical march from :00 to :59. Gabriel kept his eyes on the phone—on the green light in the box marked 7512, and on the small crack in the receiver, inflicted by O’Donnell during a blind rage early in the crisis. A minute later, when the clock rolled over to 18:00:00, there was an audible gasp in the room. Then, at 18:01:25, Gabriel heard one of O’Donnell’s team members begin to weep. He did not share the pessimism of his audience. He knew the terrorists were cruel bastards who were just using the opportunity of the deadline to have a spot of fun at the expense of their American and Israeli opponents.

At 18:02:17, the telephone finally rang. Gabriel, unwilling to cause his audience any additional stress, answered before it could ring a second time. He spoke in English, with his heavy Hebrew accent, so there would be no misunderstanding about who was on the line.

“The answer is yes,” he said.

“Be ready at ten o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll give you the instructions then.”

Under normal circumstances, a professional negotiator like O’Donnell would have begun the delay tactics: trouble assembling the money, trouble getting the permission of local authorities for the handover, anything to keep the hostage alive and the kidnappers talking. But this was not a normal situation—the terrorists wanted Gabriel—and there was no point delaying the inevitable. The sooner it started, the sooner it would be over.

“You’ll call on this number?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Click.

Gabriel stood, pulled on his leather jacket, and started toward the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Carter.

“I’m leaving.”

“You can’t just leave.”

“I can’t stay here, Adrian. I have work to do.”

“Let us give you a lift. We can’t have you wandering around London unprotected.”