The Messenger

They made their way back to Eaton Place. This time Carter led Gabriel down the steps to the basement entrance. As Carter inserted the key into the lock, Gabriel quietly lifted the lid of the rubbish bin and saw it was empty. Carter opened the door and led them inside, into the sort of kitchen that real estate brochures routinely describe as “gourmet.” The countertops were granite and agreeably lit by halogen lamps concealed beneath the custom cabinetry. The floor was covered in the Jerusalem limestone so admired by English and American sophisticates who wish to co

“It’s a maisonette,” Carter said. “The drawing room’s upstairs. Go make yourself comfortable.”

“Are you giving me permission to have a look round, Adrian?”

Carter was now opening and closing the cabinet doors with a befuddled expression on his face. Gabriel walked over to the pantry, found a box of Earl Grey tea, and tossed it to Carter before heading upstairs. The drawing room was comfortably furnished but with an air of anonymity common in a pied-à-terre. It seemed to Gabriel that no one had ever loved or quarreled or grieved here. He picked up a framed photograph from a side table and saw a bluff, prosperous American with three well-fed children and a wife who’d had too much cosmetic surgery. Two more photographs showed the American standing stiffly at the side of the president. Both were signed: To Bill with gratitude.

Carter came upstairs a moment later, a tea tray balanced between his hands. He had a head of thi

“Who’s behind it, Adrian?” Gabriel asked.

“You tell me, Gabriel.” Carter placed the tea tray on the center table and removed his raincoat as if weary from too much travel. “It’s your neighborhood.”

“It’s our neighborhood, but something tells me it’s your problem. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here in London ”-Gabriel looked around the room-“in a borrowed safe flat, with no microphones and no backup from the local station.”

“You don’t miss much, do you? Humor me, Gabriel. Tell me his name.”

“He’s a former Saudi GID agent named Ahmed bin Shafiq.”

“Bravo, Gabriel. Well done.” Carter threw his coat over the back of a chair. “Well done, indeed.”

CARTER LIFTED the lid of the teapot, savored the aroma, and decided it needed to steep a moment longer.

“How did you know?”

“We didn’t know,” Gabriel said. “It was an educated guess, based on a few threads of evidence.”

“Such as?”

Gabriel told Carter everything he knew. The blown operation against Professor Ali Massoudi. The surveillance photos and Zurich bank account information found on Massoudi’s computer. The links between Ibrahim el-Ba

“And what about you?” Gabriel asked. “When did you know it was bin Shafiq?”

Carter snared a second lump with the tongs and briefly debated adding it to the cup before plopping it unceremoniously back into the bowl. “Maybe I knew the day we asked His Majesty to shut down Group 205,” he said. “Or maybe it was the day bin Shafiq seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. You see, Gabriel, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that for every action we take there’s bound to be a negative reaction. We drove the Russian bear out of Afghanistan and created a Hydra in the process. We smashed the corporate headquarters of al-Qaeda and now the branch offices are ru

“Why?”

“You’re asking what drove him over the edge?” Carter shrugged and stirred his tea mournfully. “It didn’t take much. Ahmed bin Shafiq is a true Wahhabi believer.”

“Grandson of an Ikhwan warrior,” said Gabriel, which earned him an admiring nod from Carter.

“One may argue about why the Saudis support terrorism,” Carter said. “One may have a learned debate as to whether they truly support the goals of the murderers they arm and finance or whether they are engaged in a clever and cynical policy to control the environment around them and thus ensure their own survival. One may not have such a debate about the man the GID chose to carry out that policy. Ahmed bin Shafiq is a believer. Ahmed bin Shafiq hates the United States, the West, and Christianity, and he would be much happier if your country no longer existed. It was why we insisted that His Majesty shut down his little shop of terror.”

“So when you forced the king to shut down Group 205, bin Shafiq snapped? He decided to use all the contacts he’d made over the years and launch a wave of terrorism of his own? Surely there’s more to it than that, Adrian.”

“I’m afraid we may have given him a little shove,” Carter said. “We invaded Iraq against the wishes of the Kingdom and most of its inhabitants. We’ve captured members of al-Qaeda and locked them away in secret prisons where they belong. This doesn’t look good to the Muslim world, and it adds fuel to the fires of jihad. You’ve had a hand in it as well. The Saudis see your Separation Fence for what it is, a unilateral final border, and they’re not pleased with it.”

“This might come as a shock to you, Adrian, but we don’t care what the Saudis think of our fence. If they hadn’t poured millions into the coffers of Hamas and Islamic Jihad, we wouldn’t need one.”

“Back to my original point,” said Carter, pausing for a moment to sip his tea. “The Islamic world is seething with anger, and Ahmed bin Shafiq, true Wahhabi believer, has stepped forward to raise the flag of jihad against the infidel. He’s used his contacts from his Group 205 days to construct a new network. He’s doing what bin Laden is no longer capable of doing, which is plan and carry out large-scale terror spectaculars like the attack on the Vatican. His network is small, extremely professional, and, as he’s proven conclusively, very lethal.”

“And it’s bought and paid for with Saudi money.”

“Most definitely,” said Carter.

“How high does it go, Adrian?”

“Very high,” said Carter. “Damned near to the top.”

“Where’s he operating? Who’s footing the bill? Where’s the money coming from?”

“AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between,” said Carter unequivocally. “Ahmed bin Shafiq is one of AAB’s most successful investments. Can I freshen up your tea?”