point. Gabriel chose the second option. He didn’t want to shorten his walk over something as trivial as a passing squall. Besides, there was a good café atop the cliffs where he could wait out the storm over a freshly baked scone and a pot of tea.
He turned up the collar of his anorak and headed along the rim of the cove as the first rain began to fall. The café appeared, veiled in mist. At the base of the cliffs, sheltering against the leeward side of the derelict boathouse, was a man in his mid-twenties with short hair and sunglasses propped on his head. A second man was loitering atop the observation point, his eye pressed to a coin-operated telescope. Gabriel knew with certainty it had been inoperative for months.
He slowed to a stop and looked toward the café just as a third man stepped onto the terrace. He wore a waterproof hat pulled close to his brow and a pair of rimless eyeglasses favored by German intellectuals and Swiss bankers. His expression was one of impatience—a busy executive who had been forced by his wife to take a holiday. He stared directly at Gabriel for a long moment before lifting his thick wrist toward his face and consulting his watch. Gabriel was tempted to turn in the opposite direction. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the footpath and walked on. Better to do it in public, he thought. It would reduce the chances of a messy scene.
Chapter 10
Lizard Point, Cornwall
D ID YOU REALLY HAVE TO order scones?” asked Uzi Navot resentfully.
“They’re the best in Cornwall. So is the clotted cream.”
Navot made no movement. Gabriel gave a perceptive smile.
“How much more weight does Bella want you to lose?”
“Five pounds. Then I get to go on maintenance,” Navot added gloomily, as though it were a prison sentence. “What I wouldn’t give for your metabolism. You’re married to one of the world’s greatest cooks, but you still have the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Me? I’m married to one of the country’s foremost experts on Syria, and if I even smell a pastry, I have to let my trousers out.”
“Maybe it’s time you told Bella to lighten up on the dietary restrictions.”
“ You tell her,” Navot said. “All those years studying the Baathists in Damascus have left a mark on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m living in a police state.”
They were seated at an isolated table near the rain-spattered windows. Gabriel was facing the interior; Navot, the sea. He was wearing a pair of corduroy trousers and a beige sweater that still smelled of the men’s department at Harrods. He placed his cap on an adjacent chair and ran a hand over his cropped strawberry-blond hair. It had a bit more gray in it than Gabriel remembered, but that was understandable. Uzi Navot was now the chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. Gray hair was one of the many fringe benefits of the job.
Were Navot’s brief tenure to end now, it would almost certainly be regarded as among the most successful directorships in the long and storied history of the Office. The accolades that had been bestowed upon him were the result of Operation Masterpiece, the joint Anglo-American-Israeli undertaking that had resulted in the destruction of four secret Iranian nuclear facilities. Much of the credit rightly belonged to Gabriel, though Navot preferred not to dwell on that aspect of the affair. He had been awarded the job as chief only because Gabriel had repeatedly turned it down. And the four enrichment facilities would still be spinning away if Gabriel hadn’t identified and recruited the Swiss businessman who was covertly selling component parts to the Iranians.
For the moment, however, Navot’s thoughts seemed focused only on the plate of scones. Unable to resist any longer, he selected one, split it with great care, and smothered it with strawberry preserves and a dollop of the clotted cream. Gabriel poured himself a cup of tea from an aluminum pot and quietly asked about the purpose
He turned up the collar of his anorak and headed along the rim of the cove as the first rain began to fall. The café appeared, veiled in mist. At the base of the cliffs, sheltering against the leeward side of the derelict boathouse, was a man in his mid-twenties with short hair and sunglasses propped on his head. A second man was loitering atop the observation point, his eye pressed to a coin-operated telescope. Gabriel knew with certainty it had been inoperative for months.
He slowed to a stop and looked toward the café just as a third man stepped onto the terrace. He wore a waterproof hat pulled close to his brow and a pair of rimless eyeglasses favored by German intellectuals and Swiss bankers. His expression was one of impatience—a busy executive who had been forced by his wife to take a holiday. He stared directly at Gabriel for a long moment before lifting his thick wrist toward his face and consulting his watch. Gabriel was tempted to turn in the opposite direction. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the footpath and walked on. Better to do it in public, he thought. It would reduce the chances of a messy scene.
Chapter 10
Lizard Point, Cornwall
D ID YOU REALLY HAVE TO order scones?” asked Uzi Navot resentfully.
“They’re the best in Cornwall. So is the clotted cream.”
Navot made no movement. Gabriel gave a perceptive smile.
“How much more weight does Bella want you to lose?”
“Five pounds. Then I get to go on maintenance,” Navot added gloomily, as though it were a prison sentence. “What I wouldn’t give for your metabolism. You’re married to one of the world’s greatest cooks, but you still have the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Me? I’m married to one of the country’s foremost experts on Syria, and if I even smell a pastry, I have to let my trousers out.”
“Maybe it’s time you told Bella to lighten up on the dietary restrictions.”
“ You tell her,” Navot said. “All those years studying the Baathists in Damascus have left a mark on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m living in a police state.”
They were seated at an isolated table near the rain-spattered windows. Gabriel was facing the interior; Navot, the sea. He was wearing a pair of corduroy trousers and a beige sweater that still smelled of the men’s department at Harrods. He placed his cap on an adjacent chair and ran a hand over his cropped strawberry-blond hair. It had a bit more gray in it than Gabriel remembered, but that was understandable. Uzi Navot was now the chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. Gray hair was one of the many fringe benefits of the job.
Were Navot’s brief tenure to end now, it would almost certainly be regarded as among the most successful directorships in the long and storied history of the Office. The accolades that had been bestowed upon him were the result of Operation Masterpiece, the joint Anglo-American-Israeli undertaking that had resulted in the destruction of four secret Iranian nuclear facilities. Much of the credit rightly belonged to Gabriel, though Navot preferred not to dwell on that aspect of the affair. He had been awarded the job as chief only because Gabriel had repeatedly turned it down. And the four enrichment facilities would still be spinning away if Gabriel hadn’t identified and recruited the Swiss businessman who was covertly selling component parts to the Iranians.
For the moment, however, Navot’s thoughts seemed focused only on the plate of scones. Unable to resist any longer, he selected one, split it with great care, and smothered it with strawberry preserves and a dollop of the clotted cream. Gabriel poured himself a cup of tea from an aluminum pot and quietly asked about the purpose
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