The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,84

worked closely with Carter on several high-profile operations—including the one in which Hannah Weinberg had played a small role—but America’s nuclear deal with Iran had altered the dynamics of their relationship. Where once Langley and the Office had worked hand-in-glove to sabotage Iran’s nuclear ambitions, the United States, under the deal’s provisions, was now sworn to protect what remained of Tehran’s atomic infrastructure. Gabriel planned to spy the daylights out of Iran to make sure it was not violating the agreement’s provisions. And if he saw any evidence that the mullahs were still enriching uranium or building delivery systems, he would advise his prime minister to strike militarily. And under no circumstances would he consult first with his good friend and ally Adrian Carter.

“Is he one of theirs,” asked Carter now, “or one of yours?”

“She,” said Gabriel. “And she’s one of ours.”

Carter swore softly. “Maybe you really have lost your mind.”

From a pump-action thermos flask atop a credenza, he drew himself a cup of coffee. They were in the sitting room of a redbrick Federal house on N Street in Georgetown, the crown jewel of the CIA’s vast network of safe houses in metropolitan Washington. Gabriel had been a frequent guest at the house during the salad days of the Office’s post–9/11 relationship with Langley. He had planned operations there, recruited agents there, and once, early in the American president’s first term, he had agreed to hunt down and kill a terrorist who happened to carry an American passport in his pocket. Such had been the nature of the relationship. Gabriel had willingly served as a black branch office of the CIA, carrying out operations that, for political reasons, Carter could not undertake himself. But soon Gabriel would be the chief of his service, which meant that, for protocol’s sake, he would outrank Carter. Secretly, Gabriel suspected that Carter wanted nothing more than to be a chief himself. His past, however, would not allow it. In the months after 9/11, he had locked terrorists in secret black sites, rendered them to countries that tortured, and subjected them to interrogation methods of the sort that Gabriel had just countenanced in a farmhouse in the north of France. In short, Carter had done the dirty work necessary to prevent another al-Qaeda spectacular on the American homeland. And for his punishment he would be forever forced to knock politely on the doors of lesser men.

“I didn’t realize the Office had any interest in going after ISIS,” he was saying.

“Someone has to do it, Adrian. It might as well be us.”

Carter frowned at Gabriel over his shoulder. Pointedly, he neglected to offer Gabriel any of the coffee.

“The last time I talked to Uzi about Syria, he was more than content to let the crazies fight it out. The enemy of my enemy is my friend—isn’t that the golden rule in your charming little neighborhood? As long as the regime, the Iranians, Hezbollah, and the Sunni jihadists were all killing each other, the Office was content to sit in the orchestra section and enjoy the show. So don’t stand there and lecture me about sitting on my hands and doing nothing about ISIS.”

“Uzi isn’t going to be the chief for long.”

“That’s the rumor,” agreed Carter. “In fact, we were expecting the transition to occur several months ago and were quite surprised when Uzi let us know he would be staying on for an indefinite period of time. For a while we wondered whether the reports regarding the unfortunate death of Uzi’s chosen successor were true. Now we know the real reason why Uzi is still the chief. His successor has decided to try to penetrate ISIS’s global terror network with a live agent, a noble goal but incredibly dangerous.”

Gabriel made no reply.

“For the record,” said Carter, “I was very relieved to learn that the reports of your demise were premature. Maybe someday you’ll tell me why you did it.”

“Maybe someday. And, yes,” Gabriel added, “I’d love a coffee.”

Carter squeezed out a second cup. “I would have thought you’d had your fill of Syria after your last operation. How much did that one cost you? Eight billion dollars rings a bell.”

“Eight point two,” answered Gabriel. “But who’s counting?”

“Rather steep for a single human life.”

“It was the best deal I ever made. And you would have made the same one in my position.”

“But I wasn’t in your position,” said Carter, “because you didn’t tell us about that operation, either.”

“And you didn’t tell us that the administration was