gave it to me yesterday in London.”
“And the code for the alarm? I suppose he gave you that, too.”
Seymour recited the eight-digit number.
“That’s a violation of Office protocol.”
“There were extenuating circumstances. Besides,” added Seymour, “after all the operations we’ve done together, I’m practically a member of the family.”
“Even family members knock before entering a room.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Gabriel removed the cork from the bottle, poured out two glasses, and handed one to Seymour. The Englishman raised his glass a fraction of an inch and said, “To fatherhood.”
“It’s bad luck to drink to children who haven’t been born yet, Graham.”
“Then what shall we drink to?”
When Gabriel offered no answer, Seymour went into the sitting room. From its picture window it was possible to see the bell tower of the church and the top of the Spanish Steps. He stood there for a moment gazing out across the rooftops as though he were admiring the rolling hills of his country estate from the terrace of his manor house. With his pewter-colored locks and sturdy jaw, Graham Seymour was the archetypal British civil servant, a man who’d been born, bred, and educated to lead. He was handsome, but not too; he was tall, but not remarkably so. He made others feel inferior, especially Americans.
“You know,” he said finally, “you really should find somewhere else to stay when you’re in Rome. The entire world knows about this safe flat, which means it isn’t a safe flat at all.”
“I like the view.”
“I can see why.”
Seymour returned his gaze to the darkened rooftops. Gabriel sensed there was something troubling him. He would get around to it eventually. He always did.
“I hear your wife left town today,” he said at last.
“What other privileged information did the chief of my service share with you?”
“He mentioned something about a painting.”
“It’s not just any painting, Graham. It’s the—”
“Caravaggio,” said Seymour, finishing Gabriel’s sentence for him. Then he smiled and added, “You do have a knack for finding things, don’t you?”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I suppose it was.”
Seymour drank. Gabriel asked why Uzi Navot had come to London.
“He had a piece of intelligence he wanted me to see. I have to admit,” Seymour added, “he seemed in good spirits for a man in his position.”
“What position is that?”
“Everyone in the business knows Uzi is on his way out,” answered Seymour. “And he’s leaving behind a terrible mess. The entire Middle East is in flames, and it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
“Uzi wasn’t the one who made the mess.”
“No,” agreed Seymour, “the Americans did that. The president and his advisers were too quick to part ways with the Arab strongmen. Now the president’s confronted with a world gone mad, and he doesn’t have a clue as to what to do about it.”
“And if you were advising the president, Graham?”
“I’d tell him to resurrect the strongmen. It worked before, it can work again.”
“All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men.”
“Your point?”
“The old order is broken, and it can’t be put back together. Besides,” added Gabriel, “the old order is what brought us Bin Laden and the jihadists in the first place.”
“And when the jihadists try to evict the Jewish state from the House of Islam?”
“They are trying, Graham. And in case you haven’t noticed, they don’t have much use for the United Kingdom, either. Like it or not, we’re in this together.”
Gabriel’s BlackBerry vibrated. He looked at the screen and frowned.
“What is it?” asked Seymour.
“Another cease-fire.”
“How long will this one last?”
“I suppose until Hamas decides to break it.” Gabriel placed the BlackBerry on the coffee table and regarded Seymour curiously. “You were about to tell me what you’re doing in my apartment.”
“I have a problem.”
“What’s his name?”
“Quinn,” answered Seymour. “Eamon Quinn.”
Gabriel ran the name through the database of his memory but found no match. “Irish?” he asked.
Seymour nodded.
“Republican?”
“Of the worst kind.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“A long time ago, I made a mistake and people died.”
“And Quinn was responsible?”
“Quinn lit the fuse, but ultimately I was responsible. That’s the wonderful thing about our business. Our mistakes always come back to haunt us, and eventually all debts come due.” Seymour raised his glass toward Gabriel. “Can we drink to that?”
THE SKIES HAD BEEN THREATENING all afternoon. Finally, at half past ten, a torrential downpour briefly turned the Via Gregoriana into a Venetian canal. Graham Seymour stood at the window watching fat gobbets of rain hammering against the terrace, but in his thoughts it was the hopeful summer of 1998. The Soviet Union was a memory. The economies of Europe and America were roaring. The jihadists of al-Qaeda were the stuff of white papers and terminally boring seminars about future threats. “We fooled ourselves into thinking we had reached the end of history,” he was saying. “There were some in Parliament who actually proposed disbanding the Security Service and MI6 and burning us all at the stake.” He glanced over his shoulder. “They were days of wine and roses. They were days of delusion.”
“Not for me, Graham. I was out of the business at the time.”
“I
