The Cellist by Daniel Silva
61Wilmington, Delaware
Gabriel waited until he was on the ground at New Castle Airport before ringing Jordan Saunders, the president-elect’s designated national security adviser.
“What brings you to town?” he asked.
“I need a word with the boss.”
“The boss isn’t talking to any foreign leaders or officials before the inauguration. For that matter, neither am I. We’ll get together when the prime minister visits the White House.”
“I didn’t know there was a meeting scheduled.”
“There isn’t,” said Saunders, and rang off.
Gabriel called him back. “Don’t hang up, Jordan. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t serious.”
“I’m serious, too, Allon. We’re not communicating with foreign officials. Not after the Flynn fiasco.”
“I’m not the Russian ambassador, Jordan. I’m the director-general of a friendly intelligence service. And I have something I need to share with you and your boss.”
“Why don’t you share it with Langley?”
“Because I’m not confident the information will get into the right hands.”
“What’s the nature of this information? Broadly speaking,” Saunders added hastily.
“Broadly speaking, it concerns your boss’s security.”
Saunders made no reply.
“Did I lose you, Jordan?”
“Where are you?”
Gabriel told him.
“As you might expect, the boss’s dance card is rather full today. So is mine.”
“As long as I see him before Inauguration Day, it’s fine.”
“Why Inauguration Day?”
“Not on the phone, Jordan.”
“Do you know the address of the house?”
Gabriel recited it.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Saunders, and the connection went dead a second time.
Gabriel rented a Nissan from the Avis counter and drove to a Dunkin’ Donuts on North Market Street in downtown Wilmington. He ordered a large coffee and two jelly sticks and listened to the news on the car radio as the old redbrick buildings darkened around him.
Jordan Saunders called a few minutes after six. “I think I can get you ten minutes at seven fifteen.”
“Can I bring you anything from Dunkin’?”
“A Boston Kreme.”
“You got it, Jordan.”
Google Maps estimated the driving time to the president-elect’s house to be sixteen minutes. Gabriel tacked on an additional ten and took his time. He followed North Market Street to West Eleventh, made a left, and picked up Delaware Avenue. It changed names a couple of times before becoming Kennett Pike. Barley Mill Road was two lanes, rolling, and lined with leafless trees.
A Delaware State Police cruiser blocked the entrance of the private lane that led to the president-elect’s compound. Gabriel surrendered an Israeli passport to a Secret Service agent and stated his real name. The officer didn’t seem to recognize it. Evidently, he was not expected.
The agent stepped away, got on his radio, and after a few minutes determined to his satisfaction that the Israeli with gray temples and unusually green eyes was to be admitted to the grounds without further delay. Gabriel accepted his passport and advanced to the next Secret Service checkpoint, where he was directed into the president-elect’s circular drive.
Jordan Saunders, elegantly attired and impeccably groomed, waited outside the entrance of the large colonial-style home. In twenty years, Saunders would look like the archetypal diplomat, the sort who wore waistcoats, drank tea with his breakfast, and lived grandly in Georgetown. For now, at least, he might have been mistaken for one of the interns.
Gabriel handed Saunders the bag from Dunkin’ Donuts. “A peace offering.”
“Have you been vaccinated?”
“Two weeks ago.”
They walked around the side of the house to the rear garden. Through the black boughs of trees, Gabriel glimpsed a small, frozen lake.
“Wait here,” said Saunders, and entered the house.
Five minutes elapsed before he reappeared. At his side was the next president of the United States. Unlike the previous Democratic president, he had not emerged from obscurity to dazzle a nation with his oratory and good looks. Indeed, Gabriel could scarcely recall a time when he was not a part of American political life. Twice before he had sought the presidency, and twice he had failed. Now, in the twilight of his life, he had been called upon to heal a sick and divided nation—a difficult task for a leader in his prime, harder still for one who had been slowed by age. Regrettably, he and Gabriel had that affliction in common.
He approached Gabriel warily. He wore slim-fitting wool trousers, a zippered sweater, and a smart-looking car-length coat. Like his young national security aide, he was double-masked.
“This meeting never happened. Are we clear, Director Allon?”
“We are, Mr. President-elect.”
He glanced at the file folder in Gabriel’s hand. “What is this all about?”
“Your inauguration, sir. I believe you should consider moving it inside, with very few guests.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t,” said Gabriel, “you might have the shortest presidency in American history.”