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42
Queen’s Gate Terrace
As part of his retirement package from the Office, Gabriel had been given a personal copy of the Israeli cell phone hacking malware known as Proteus. The program’s most insidious feature was that it required no blunder on the part of the target—no unwise software update or click of an innocent-looking photograph or advertisement. All Gabriel had to do was enter the target’s phone number into the Proteus application on his laptop, and within minutes the device would be under his complete control. He could read the target’s emails and text messages, review the target’s Internet browsing history and telephone metadata, and monitor the target’s physical movements with the GPS location services. Perhaps most important, he could activate the phone’s microphone and camera and thus turn the device into a full-time instrument of surveillance.
He had protectively installed Proteus on Oliver Dimbleby’s Samsung Galaxy after his recruitment but had allowed the malware to remain dormant until 5:42 that afternoon. With the click of his laptop’s trackpad—an action he undertook while drinking tea in Sarah and Christopher’s kitchen in Queen’s Gate Terrace—he established that his missing operative was at that moment walking westwardalong Piccadilly, accompanied by a sultry-voiced woman who spoke fluent English with a Spanish accent. Sarah hurried home from Wiltons in time to hear the final minutes of their conversation in the trendy bar of Hive.
“She’s a worthy opponent, our Magdalena. And not to be taken lightly.”
“All the more reason we need to keep tubby Oliver on a very short leash.”
To that end, Gabriel dispatched Christopher to Mayfair to corral his wayward asset. It was approaching seven thirty when they arrived at the maisonette. The after-action debriefing, such as it was, began with an awkward admission on Gabriel’s part.
Oliver frowned. “That would explain why Sarah and Julian vanished from my contacts.”
“I deleted them as a precautionary measure after you agreed to have drinks with that woman without giving us any warning.”
“I’m afraid she didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s nearly six feet tall and shockingly beautiful. What’s more, she seems to have left Madrid without packing a brassiere.” Oliver looked at Sarah. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”
“The Currant Affairs or the Tropic Thunder?”
“Whisky, if you have it.”
Christopher opened a cabinet and took down a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and a pair of cut-glass tumblers. He filled one of the glasses with two fingers of whisky and sent it across the kitchen island toward Oliver.
“Baccarat,” he said approvingly. “Maybe you’re a wildly successful business consultant after all.” He turned to Gabriel. “Isn’t Proteus the software that the Saudi crown prince used to spy on that journalist he murdered?”
“The journalist’s name was Omar Nawwaf. And, yes, the Israeliprime minister approved the sale of Proteus to the Saudis over my strenuous objections. In the hands of a repressive government, the malware can be a dangerous weapon of surveillance and blackmail. Imagine how something like this might be used to silence a meddlesome journalist or prodemocracy advocate.”
Gabriel clicked the software’splayicon.
“Because she’s nearly six feet tall and shockingly beautiful. What’s more, she seems to have left Madrid without packing a brassiere.”
Gabriel paused the recording.
“Dear God,” murmured Oliver.
“Or how about this?” Gabriel clickedplayagain.
“How is it that I’ve never heard of you?”
“I prefer to operate in the shadows. As do you, it seems.”
“Bury Street is hardly the shadows.”
Gabriel clickedpause.
“Aren’t you going to play the part where I turned down a night of incredible sex in a suite at the Lanesborough?”
“I believe the offer was dinner.”
“You need to get out more, Mr. Allon.”
He closed the laptop.
