Gabriel drew his BlackBerry from his coat pocket and sent a message to the Travel department at King Saul Boulevard requesting two first-class tickets on BA Flight 501—one ticket for Johannes Klemp, the other for Adrien LeBlanc. Travel quickly confirmed receipt of the message and asked Gabriel to stand by. Two minutes later the reservation numbers appeared. Only one first-class seat was available; Travel, in its infinite wisdom, reserved it for Gabriel. Monsieur LeBlanc was booked into one of the few remaining seats in economy. It was in the rear of the aircraft, in the zone of wailing children and toilet odors.

Gabriel sent another message to King Saul Boulevard, requesting a car on a hot standby at Heathrow. Then he returned the BlackBerry to his pocket and watched the woman heading ticket in hand toward security. Keller waited until she was gone before walking over to Gabriel’s side.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Gabriel smiled and said, “Home.”

They checked in separately: no luggage, no carry-ons of any kind. A Portuguese border policeman stamped their false passports; an airport security officer waved them through the screeners. They had forty-five minutes to kill before the flight, so they dawdled in the perfumed halls of duty-free and snagged some reading material from a newsstand so they wouldn’t board the plane empty-handed. The woman was at the gate when they arrived, her sky-blue eyes fixed on the screen of her mobile. Gabriel sat behind her and waited for the flight to be called. The first announcement was in Portuguese, the second in English. The woman waited for the second before rising. She dropped the mobile into her handbag and cruised onto the Jetway through the first-class lane. Gabriel did the same a moment later. While holding his ticket out to the gate attendant, he glanced at Keller, who was standing miserably among the overpacked huddled masses. Keller scratched his nose with his middle finger and frowned at the swaddled infant who would soon be his tormentor.

By the time Gabriel entered the aircraft, the woman had settled into her seat and been handed a glass of complimentary champagne. She was next to the window in the second row, on the left side of the fuselage. Her bag was at her feet, not quite properly stowed. An in-flight magazine lay on her thighs. She had yet to open it.

She paid Gabriel no heed as he squeezed past an overweight pensioner and dropped into his seat: fourth row, aisle, right side of the aircraft. An overly made-up flight attendant pressed a glass of champagne into Gabriel’s hand. There was a reason it was complimentary; it tasted like sparkling turpentine. He placed the glass carefully on the center console and nodded to his seatmate, a British businessman with a Yorkshire accent who was shouting something about a missing shipment into his mobile phone.

Gabriel withdrew his own device and keyed in another message to King Saul Boulevard, this time asking for an identity check of a woman of perhaps thirty who was at that moment occupying Seat 2A of British Airways Flight 501. The response came five minutes later, as Keller was shuffling past Gabriel like a prisoner being marched out for a work detail. The passenger in question was Anna Huber, thirty-two years of age, German citizen, last known address Lessingstrasse 11, Frankfurt.

Gabriel powered off the BlackBerry and studied the woman on the other side of the aisle. Who are you? he thought. And what are you doing on this airplane?

26

HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

THE FLIGHT WAS TWO HOURS and forty-six minutes in duration. The woman called Anna Huber passed the journey foodless and with no drink other than the champagne. Thirty minutes before they were due to land, she carried her handbag into the toilet and deadbolted the door. Gabriel thought about Quinn’s visit to Yemen, where he worked with al-Qaeda on a bomb capable of bringing down an airliner. Perhaps this is how it would end, he thought. He would plunge to his death in a green English field, strapped to a seat with a businessman from Yorkshire. Then suddenly the lavatory door squeaked open and the woman reappeared. She had run a brush through her dark hair and added a hint of color to her pale cheeks. Her blue eyes passed over Gabriel with no trace of recognition as she reclaimed her seat.

The plane emerged from the bottom of a cloud and dropped onto the runway with a heavy thud that opened a few of the overhead luggage bins. It was a few minutes after one, but outside it looked like nightfall. The businessman was soon blaring into his mobile; it seemed the crisis in his affairs had not resolved itself. Gabriel powered on his BlackBerry and learned that a silver Volkswagen Passat would be waiting outside Terminal 3. He sent a message of confirmation, and when the seatbelt light died, he rose slowly and joined the queue of passengers waiting to exit the aircraft. The woman called Anna Huber was trapped against the window, hunched over, burdened by the handbag. When the cabin doors opened, Gabriel waited for her to step into the aisle. She gave him a terse nod of gratitude—again there was no suggestion of recognition—and filed onto the Jetway.

Her German passport allowed her to enter the United Kingdom through the express EU lane. Gabriel was standing directly behind her when the British immigration officer asked about the nature of her visit. Her response was inaudible to Gabriel, though clearly it pleased the immigration officer, who rewarded her with a warm smile. Gabriel received no such welcome. The immigration officer stamped his passport with thinly restrained violence and returned it without eye contact.

“Enjoy your stay,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied Gabriel, and set off after the woman.

He caught up with her in the cattle chute that herded passengers into the arrivals hall. A low-level operative from London Station was standing along the railing, next to a pair of black-veiled women. He was holding a paper sign that read ashton and wearing an expression of profound boredom. He jammed the sign into his pocket and fell in next to Gabriel as he threaded his way through a tearful family reunion.

“Where’s the car?”

The operative nodded toward the left-most door.

“Go back to the rail and hold up your sign. Another man will be along in a few minutes.”

The operative dropped away. Outside, a line of taxis and airport shuttles waited in the early-afternoon gloom. The woman threaded her way through the traffic and headed for the short-stay car park. It was the one scenario for which Gabriel had not accounted. He drew his BlackBerry and called Keller.

“Where are you?”

“Passport control.”

“There’s a man in the arrivals hall holding a sign that says Ashton. Tell him to take you to the car.”

Gabriel rang off without another word and followed the woman into the car park. Her vehicle was on the second level, a blue BMW sedan, British registration. She fished the key from her handbag, popped the locks with the remote, and lowered herself into the driver’s seat. Gabriel rang Keller a second time.

“Where are you now?”

“Behind the wheel of a silver Passat.”

“Meet me at the exit of short-term parking.”

“Easier said than done.”

“If you’re not there in two minutes, we’re going to lose her.”

Gabriel killed the call and concealed himself behind a concrete pillar as the BMW passed. Then he headed down the ramp at a trot and returned to the arrivals level of the terminal. The BMW was nosing from the exit. It slid past Gabriel’s position and disappeared from sight. Gabriel started to dial Keller a third time but stopped when he saw the flashing headlamps of a rapidly approaching Volkswagen. He swung into the passenger seat and waved Keller forward. They caught up with the BMW as it was turning onto the A4, bound for West London. Keller eased off the throttle and lit a cigarette. Gabriel lowered his window and rang Graham Seymour.