The english girl a novel daniel silva

THE ENGLISH GIRL A NOVEL DANIEL SILVA DEDICATION Once again, for my wife, Jamie, and my children, Lily and Nicholas EPIGRAPH He who lives an immoral life dies an immoral death —CORSICAN PROVERB CONTENTS DEDICATION EPIGRAPH PART ONE: THE HOSTAGE 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 PART TWO: THE SPY 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 PART THREE: THE SCANDAL 58 59 60 61 62 AUTHOR’S NOTE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR ALSO BY DANIEL SILVA CREDITS COPYRIGHT ABOUT THE PUBLISHER PART ONE THE HOSTAGE PIANA, CORSICA They came for her in late August, on the island of Corsica The precise time would never be determined—some point between sunset and noon the following day was the best any of her housemates could Sunset was when they saw her for the last time, streaking down the drive of the villa on a red motor scooter, a gauzy cotton skirt fluttering about her suntanned thighs Noon was when they realized her bed was empty except for a trashy half-read paperback novel that smelled of coconut oil and faintly of rum Another twenty-four hours would elapse before they got around to calling the gendarmes It had been that kind of summer, and Madeline was that kind of girl They had arrived on Corsica a fortnight earlier, four pretty girls and two earnest boys, all faithful servants of the British government or the political party that was running it these days They had a single car, a communal Renault hatchback large enough to accommodate five uncomfortably, and the red motor scooter which was exclusively Madeline’s and which she rode with a recklessness bordering on suicidal Their ocher-colored villa stood at the western fringe of the village on a cliff overlooking the sea It was tidy and compact, the sort of place estate agents always described as “charming.” But it had a swimming pool and a walled garden filled with rosemary bushes and pepper trees; and within hours of alighting there they had settled into the blissful state of sunburned seminudity to which British tourists aspire, no matter where their travels take them Though Madeline was the youngest of the group, she was their unofficial leader, a burden she accepted without protest It was Madeline who had managed the rental of the villa, and Madeline who arranged the long lunches, the late dinners, and the day trips into the wild Corsican interior, always leading the way along the treacherous roads on her motor scooter Not once did she bother to consult a map Her encyclopedic knowledge of the island’s geography, history, culture, and cuisine had been acquired during a period of intense study and preparation conducted in the weeks leading up to the journey Madeline, it seemed, had left nothing to chance But then she rarely did She had come to the Party’s Millbank headquarters two years earlier, after graduating from the University of Edinburgh with degrees in economics and social policy Despite her second-tier education—most of her colleagues were products of elite public schools and Oxbridge—she rose quickly through a series of clerical posts before being promoted to director of community outreach Her job, as she often described it, was to forage for votes among classes of Britons who had no business supporting the Party, its platform, or its candidates The post, all agreed, was but a way station along a journey to better things Madeline’s future was bright—“solar flare bright,” in the words of Pauline, who had watched her younger colleague’s ascent with no small amount of envy According to the rumor mill, Madeline had been taken under the wing of someone high in the Party Someone close to the prime minister Perhaps even the prime minister himself With her television good looks, keen intellect, and boundless energy, Madeline was being groomed for a safe seat in Parliament and a ministry of her own It was only a matter of time Or so they said Which made it all the more odd that, at twenty-seven years of age, Madeline Hart remained romantically unattached When asked to explain the barren state of her love life, she would declare she was too busy for a man Fiona, a slightly wicked dark-haired beauty from the Cabinet Office, found the explanation dubious More to the point, she believed Madeline was being deceitful— deceitfulness being one of Fiona’s most redeeming qualities, thus her interest in Party politics To support her theory, she would point out that Madeline, while loquacious on almost every subject imaginable, was unusually guarded when it came to her personal life Yes, said Fiona, she was willing to toss out the occasional harmless tidbit about her troubled childhood—the dreary council house in Essex, the father whose face she could scarcely recall, the alcoholic brother who’d never worked a day in his life—but everything else she kept hidden behind a moat and walls of stone “Our Madeline could be an ax murderer or a high-priced tart,” said Fiona, “and none of us would be the wiser.” But Alison, a Home Office underling with a much-broken heart, had another theory “The poor lamb’s in love,” she declared one afternoon as she watched Madeline rising goddess-like from the sea in the tiny cove beneath the villa “The trouble is, the man in question isn’t returning the favor.” “Why ever not?” asked Fiona drowsily from beneath the brim of an enormous sun visor “Maybe he’s in no position to.” “Married?” “But of course.” “Bastard.” “You’ve never?” “Had an affair with a married man?” “Yes.” “Just twice, but I’m considering a third.” “You’re going to burn in hell, Fi.” “I certainly hope so.” It was then, on the afternoon of the seventh day, and upon the thinnest of evidence, that the three girls and two boys staying with Madeline Hart in the rented villa at the edge of Piana took it upon themselves to find her a lover And not just any lover, said Pauline He had to be appropriate in age, fine in appearance and breeding, and stable in his finances and mental health, with no skeletons in his closet and no other women in his bed Fiona, the most experienced when it came to matters of the 62 CORSICA Three days later the don invited Gabriel to drop by his office for a chat It was not truly an invitation, for invitations can be politely declined It was a Shamronian commandment, chiseled into stone, inviolable “How about lunch?” asked Gabriel, knowing that Orsati was likely to be in a good mood then “Fine,” answered the don Then he added ominously, “But perhaps it would be better if you came alone.” Gabriel left the villa shortly after noon The goat allowed him to pass without a confrontation, for it recognized him as an associate of the beautiful Italian woman The guards outside Don Orsati’s estate allowed him to pass, too, for the don had left word that the Israelite was expected He found the don in his large office, hunched over his ledger books “How’s business?” asked Gabriel “Never better,” replied Orsati “I have more orders than I can possibly fill.” Whether the don was speaking of blood or oil, he did not say Instead, he led Gabriel to a dining room where a table had been laid with a Corsican feast With its whitewashed walls and simple furnishings, the room reminded Gabriel of the pope’s private dining room in the Apostolic Palace There was even a heavy wooden crucifix on the wall behind the chair reserved for the don “Does it bother you?” asked Orsati “Not at all,” replied Gabriel “Christopher tells me you know your way around Catholic churches.” “What else did he tell you?” Orsati frowned but said nothing more as he filled Gabriel’s plate with food and his glass with wine “The villa is to your liking?” he asked finally “It’s perfect, Don Orsati.” “And your wife is happy here?” “Very.” “How long you plan to stay?” “As long as you’ll have me.” The don was curiously silent “Have I worn out my welcome already, Don Orsati?” “You can stay here on the island as long as you like.” The don paused, then added, “So long as you don’t involve yourself in matters that affect my business.” “You’re obviously referring to Keller.” “Obviously.” “I meant no disrespect, Don Orsati I was just—” “Meddling in affairs that don’t concern you.” The don’s mobile phone buzzed softly He ignored it “Did I not help you when you first came to the island looking for the English girl?” “You did,” said Gabriel “And did I not give you Keller free of charge to help you find her?” “I couldn’t have done it without him.” “And did I not overlook the fact that I was never offered any of the ransom money you surely recovered?” “The money is in the bank account of the Russian president.” “So you say.” “Don Orsati ” The don waved his hand dismissively “Is that what this is about? Money?’ “No,” the don admitted “It’s about Keller.” A gust of wind beat against the French doors leading to Don Orsati’s garden It was the libeccio, a wind from the southeast Usually, it brought rain in winter, but for now the sky was clear “Here on Corsica,” the don said after a moment’s silence, “our traditions are very old For example, a young man would never dream of proposing marriage to a woman without first asking her father for permission Do you see my point, Gabriel?” “I believe I do, Don Orsati.” “You should have spoken to me before talking to Christopher about going back to England.” “It was a mistake on my part.” Orsati’s expression softened Outside the libeccio overturned a table and chair in the don’s garden He shouted something at the ceiling in the Corsican dialect, and a few seconds later a mustachioed man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder came scampering into the garden to put it back in order “You don’t know what your friend Christopher was like when he arrived here after leaving Iraq,” Orsati was saying “He was a mess I gave him a home A family A woman.” “And then you gave him a job,” said Gabriel “Many jobs.” “He’s very good at it.” “Yes, I know.” “Better than you.” “Who said that?” The don smiled A silence fell between them, which Gabriel allowed to linger while he chose his next words with great care “It’s not a proper way for a man like Christopher to earn a living,” he said at last “People in glass houses, Allon.” “I never realized that was a Corsican proverb.” “All things wise come from Corsica.” The don pushed his plate away and rested his heavy forearms on the tabletop “There’s something you don’t seem to understand,” he said “Christopher is more than just my best taddunaghiu I love him like a son And if he ever left ” The don’s voice trailed off “I would be heartbroken.” “His real father thinks he’s dead.” “There was no other way.” “How would you feel if the roles were reversed?” Orsati had no answer He changed the subject “Do you really think this friend of yours from British intelligence would be interested in bringing Christopher back to England?” “He’d be a fool not to.” “But he might say no,” the don pointed out “And by raising the matter with him, you might endanger Christopher’s position here on Corsica.” “I’ll it in a way that poses no threat to him.” “He is a man of trust, this friend of yours?” “I’d trust him with my life In fact,” said Gabriel, “I’ve done it many times before.” The don exhaled heavily in resignation He was about to give Gabriel’s unusual proposition his blessing when his mobile phone rang again This time he answered it He listened in silence for a moment, spoke a few words in Italian, and then returned the phone to the tabletop “Who was that?” asked Gabriel “Your wife,” replied the don “Is something wrong?” “She wants to take a walk into the village.” Gabriel started to rise “Stay and finish your lunch,” said Orsati “I’ll send a couple of my boys to keep an eye on her.” Gabriel sat down again The libeccio was wreaking havoc in Orsati’s garden The don watched it sadly for a moment “I’m still glad we didn’t kill you, Allon.” “I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.” The wind chased Chiara down the narrow track, past the shuttered houses and the cats, and finally to the main square, where it swirled in the arcades and vandalized the display tables of the shopkeepers She went to the market and filled her straw basket with a few things for dinner Then she took a table at one of the cafés and ordered a coffee In the center of the square, a few old men were playing boules amid tiny cyclones of dust, and on the steps of the church an old woman in black was handing a slip of blue paper to a young boy The boy had long, curly hair and was very pretty Looking at him, Chiara smiled sadly She imagined that Gabriel’s son Dani might have looked like the boy if he had lived to be ten years of age The woman descended the church steps and disappeared through the doorway of a crooked little house Then the boy started across the square with the slip of blue paper in his hand Much to Chiara’s surprise, he entered the café where she was seated and placed the paper on her table without a word She waited until the boy was gone before reading the single line I must see you at once The old signadora was waiting in the door of her house when Chiara arrived She smiled, touched Chiara’s cheek softly, and then drew her inside “Do you know who I am?” the old woman asked “I have a good idea,” answered Chiara “Your husband mentioned me?” Chiara nodded “I warned him not to go to the city of heretics,” the signadora said, “but he didn’t listen He’s lucky to be alive.” “He’s hard to kill.” “Perhaps he is an angel after all.” The old woman touched Chiara’s face again “And you went, too, didn’t you?” “Who told you I went to Russia?” “You went without telling your husband,” the signadora went on, as though she hadn’t heard the question “You were together for a few hours in a hotel room in the city of night Do you remember?” The old woman smiled Her hand was still touching Chiara’s face It moved to her hair “Shall I go on?” she asked “I don’t believe you can see the past.” “Your husband was married to another woman before you,” the old woman said, as if to prove Chiara wrong “There was a child A fire The child died but the wife lived She lives still.” Chiara drew away sharply “You were in love with him for a long time,” the old woman continued, “but he wouldn’t marry you because he was grieving He sent you away once, but he came back to you in a city of water.” “How you know that?” “He painted a picture of you wrapped in white bedding.” “It was a sketch,” said Chiara The old woman shrugged, as if to say it made no difference Then she nodded toward her table, where a plate of water and a vessel of olive oil stood next to a pair of burning candles “Won’t you sit down?” she asked “I’d rather not.” “Please,” said the old woman “It will only take a moment or two Then I’ll know for certain.” “Know what?” “Please,” she said again Chiara sat down The old woman sat opposite “Dip your forefinger in the oil, my child And then allow three drops to fall into the water.” Chiara reluctantly did as she was told The oil, upon striking the surface of the water, gathered into a single drop The old woman gasped, and a tear spilled onto her powdery white cheek “What you see?” asked Chiara The old woman held Chiara’s hand “Your husband is waiting for you at the villa,” she said “Go home and tell him he’s going to be a father again.” “Boy or girl?” The old woman smiled and said, “One of each.” AUTHOR’S NOTE The English Girl is a work of entertainment and should be read as nothing more The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental The version of Susanna and the Elders by Jacopo Bassano that appears in the novel does not exist If it did, it would look a great deal like the one that hangs in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Reims There is indeed a small limestone apartment house on Narkiss Street in Jerusalem—several, in fact— but an Israeli intelligence officer named Gabriel Allon does not actually reside there The headquarters of the Israeli secret service are no longer located on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv; I have chosen to keep the headquarters of my fictitious service there in part because I have always liked the name of the street The bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946 is historical fact, though Arthur Seymour, the father of my fictitious MI5 officer Graham Seymour, did not actually witness it There is no exhibit at the Israel Museum featuring the pillars of Solomon’s Temple of Jerusalem, for no ruins from the Temple have ever been discovered There is in fact a restaurant called Les Palmiers on the Quai Adolphe Landry in Calvi, but, to the best of my knowledge, it has never been used as a rendezvous point for two Russian spies The Orsati Olive Oil Company was invented by the author, as was the friendly-fire incident that led Christopher Keller, who first appeared in The English Assassin, to desert the Special Air Service and become a Corsican-based professional killer Those familiar with the island and its rich traditions will know that I have given my fictitious signadora powers that most of her colleagues not profess to have The Russian energy company known as Volgatek Oil & Gas does not exist Nor is there a trade group called the International Association of Petroleum Producers, though there are many just like it I tinkered with the times of El Al’s flights between Tel Aviv and St Petersburg to meet the needs of my operation Those brave souls who visit St Petersburg in the depths of winter should not attempt to scale the glorious dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral, for it is closed in cold weather For the record, I am quite fond of the Café Nero on London’s Bridge Street Deepest apologies to the Hotel Metropol, the Astoria Hotel, and the Ritz-Carlton for running intelligence operations from their premises, but I’m sure I was not the first I did my utmost to describe the atmosphere inside 10 Downing Street accurately, though I admit that, unlike Gabriel Allon, I have never set foot beyond the security barrier along Whitehall When creating Jeremy Fallon, my fictitious chief of staff, I gave him the broad authority that Prime Minister Tony Blair gave to his real chief of staff, Jonathan Powell I am quite confident that, had the brilliant and scrupulous Powell been at the side of Jonathan Lancaster, the entire sordid affair portrayed in The English Girl would not have occurred The increased spying on the part of Russia’s intelligence services against Western targets has been well documented The KGB defector Oleg Gordievsky recently told the Guardian newspaper that the size of the SVR’s London rezidentura has reached Cold War levels Gordievsky is in a unique position to make such a claim because he worked for the KGB in London from 1982 to 1985 Furthermore, he is not alone in his assessment; MI5 has come to the same conclusion “It is a matter of some disappointment to me,” said MI5 Director General Jonathan Evans, “that I still have to devote significant amounts of equipment, money, and staff to countering this threat They are resources which I would far rather devote to countering the threat from international terrorism.” While London is clearly an important hub of Russian intelligence activity, the United States remains the primary focus of Moscow Center The FBI provided ample proof of this fact in June 2010, when it arrested ten Russian spies who had been living in the United States under non-official illegal cover for several years Fearful of jeopardizing its much-touted “reset” in relations with the Kremlin, the Obama administration quickly agreed to return all the spies to Russia as part of a prisoner exchange, the largest between the United States and Russia since the Cold War The most notorious of the Russian spies was Anna Chapman, a comely femme fatale who lived in London for several years before settling in New York as a real estate agent and party girl Since returning to Russia, Chapman has hosted a television program, written a newspaper column, and posed for a magazine cover in French lingerie She was also appointed to the guiding council of the Young Guard of United Russia, a pro-Kremlin organization affiliated with the country’s ruling party Critics of the Young Guard often refer to it darkly as the “Putin Youth.” Much of Russia’s spying against the United States is industrial and economic in nature The reasons are painfully obvious Nearly a quarter of a century after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia remains largely an economic basket case, heavily dependent on raw materials and, of course, oil and gas President Vladimir Putin has made no secret of what energy means to the new Russia Indeed, the Kremlin spelled it out clearly in a 2003 strategy paper that declared the “role of the country in the global energy markets largely determines its geopolitical influence.” Wisely, the Kremlin has softened its language when talking about the importance of Russia’s energy sector, but the goals remain the same Stripped of its empire and militarily feeble, Russia now intends to wield power on the world stage with oil and gas rather than nuclear weapons and Marxist-Leninist ideology What’s more, the Kremlin’s state-owned energy giants are no longer content to operate only within the boundaries of Russia, where production of oil and gas has leveled off They are now acquiring both “upstream” and “downstream” assets as part of their stratagem to become truly global energy players In short, the Russian Federation is attempting to become a Eurasian Saudi Arabia Gazprom, the state-owned Russian behemoth, is the world’s largest gas company, and its revenues are the source of much of the Kremlin’s annual federal budget Several former Soviet Republics receive all their natural gas from Russia, as does tiny Finland Austria receives more than 80 percent of its gas from Russia; Germany, about 40 percent While advances in drilling technology are bringing more gas to the international marketplace, the pipelines linking Europe and Russia will help to ensure Gazprom’s dominant position for years to come Its many European customers should bear in mind that Gazprom operated as an instrument of political repression in 2001, when it purchased NTV, Russia’s only independent national broadcast outlet and a harsh critic of Vladimir Putin and his United Russia party NTV’s editorial outlook is now reliably pro-Kremlin After a brief stint as prime minister, Putin was elected to a third term as Russia’s president in March 2012 A former officer of the KGB, he is now in a position to rule until at least 2024, longer than Leonid Brezhnev and nearly as long as Joseph Stalin Needless to say, not all Russians support Putin’s dictatorial hold on power, but increasingly the voices of opposition are being silenced, sometimes harshly In November 2009, Sergei Magnitsky, a Moscow lawyer and accountant who accused tax officials and police officers of embezzlement, died suddenly in a Russian jail at the age of thirty-seven, provoking international condemnation and sanctions from the United States Now it appears the Kremlin has set its sights on Alexei Navalny, Russia’s most prominent dissident and a leader of the protest movement that swept the country after Putin’s return to the presidency At the time of this writing, Navalny is awaiting trial on embezzlement charges—charges he and his legion of supporters have denounced as politically motivated If convicted, he faces the prospect of spending ten years in prison, where he would be no threat to Putin and his fellow siloviki in the Kremlin All too often, a prison sentence of any length in the new Russia of Vladimir Putin is tantamount to a death sentence According to Russian officials, 4,121 people died in custody in 2012 alone, though pro-democracy advocates say the actual figure is likely far higher Which might help to explain why Alexander Dolmatov, a Russian pro-democracy activist, chose to take his own life in a Rotterdam detention center in January 2013 Fearing arrest and prosecution in Russia, Dolmatov had fled to the Netherlands in search of political asylum; and when his application was denied, he hanged himself in his cell The Dutch government has said the denial of asylum had nothing to with Dolmatov’s suicide His friends from the opposition movement believe otherwise Magnitsky, Navalny, Dolmatov: their names are known in the West But there are many others who already languish in Russian prison cells because they dared to carry a sign, or write an Internet blog, critical of Vladimir Putin In Russia, the steady descent into authoritarianism continues And the Kremlin’s oil and gas giants are footing the bill ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This novel, like the previous books in the Gabriel Allon series, could not have been written without the assistance of David Bull, who truly is among the finest art restorers in the world Each year, David gives up many hours of his valuable time to advise me on technical matters related to the craft of restoration and to review my manuscript for accuracy His knowledge of art history is exceeded only by the pleasure of his company, and his friendship has enriched our family in ways large and small I spoke to numerous Israeli and American intelligence officers and policy makers while preparing this manuscript, and I thank them now in anonymity, which is how they would prefer it My dear friend Gerald Malone, the former Conservative member of Parliament and minister of state for health, served as my guide to British politics and shared many fascinating stories about life inside the pressure-cooker atmosphere of 10 Downing Street It goes without saying that the expertise is all his and that the mistakes and dramatic license are all mine I consulted hundreds of books, newspaper and magazine articles, and Web sites while preparing this manuscript, far too many to name here I would be remiss, however, if I did not mention the extraordinary scholarship and reporting of Daniel Yergin, Edward Lucas, Pete Earley, Allan S Cowell, William Prochnau, and Clint Van Zandt Additionally, the memoirs of former prime ministers Tony Blair, John Major, and Margaret Thatcher were invaluable sources of information and background Louis Toscano, my dear friend and longtime personal editor, made countless improvements to my manuscript, as did my copy editor, Kathy Crosby Obviously, responsibility for any mistakes or typographical errors that find their way into the finished book falls on my shoulders, not theirs We are blessed with many friends who fill our lives with love and laughter at critical junctures during the writing year, especially Andrea and Tim Collins, Enola and Stephen Carter, Stacey and Henry Winkler, Joy and Jim Zorn, and Margarita and Andrew Pate A heartfelt thanks to Robert B Barnett, Michael Gendler, and Linda Rappaport for all their support and wise counsel Also, to the remarkable team of professionals at HarperCollins, especially Jonathan Burnham, Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Jennifer Barth, Josh Marwell, Tina Andreadis, Leslie Cohen, Leah Wasielewski, Mark Ferguson, Kathy Schneider, Brenda Segel, Carolyn Robson, Doug Jones, Karen Dziekonski, Archie Ferguson, David Watson, David Koral, and Leah CarlsonStanisic I wish to extend my deepest gratitude and love to my children, Nicholas and Lily Not only did they assist me with the final preparation of my manuscript, but they kept me company while I did my research and were a source of love and comfort while I worked Finally, I must thank my wife, the brilliant NBC News journalist Jamie Gangel, who listened with remarkable forbearance as I worked through the twists and turns of the story and then skillfully edited my early drafts Were it not for her patience and attention to detail, The English Girl would not have been completed by its deadline My debt to her is immeasurable, as is my love ABOUT THE AUTHOR DANIEL SILVA is the number one New York Times bestselling author of The Unlikely Spy, The Mark of the Assassin, The Marching Season, The Kill Artist, The English Assassin, The Confessor, A Death in Vienna, Prince of Fire, The Messenger, The Secret Servant, Moscow Rules, The Defector, The Rembrandt Affair, Portrait of a Spy, and The Fallen Angel He is married to NBC News Today correspondent Jamie Gangel, and they live in Washington, DC, with their two children, Lily and Nicholas In 2009 Silva was appointed to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Council www.danielsilvabooks.com Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors ALSO BY DANIEL SILVA The Fallen Angel Portrait of a Spy The Rembrandt Affair The Defector Moscow Rules The Secret Servant The Messenger Prince of Fire A Death in Vienna The Confessor The English Assassin The Kill Artist The Marching Season The Mark of the Assassin The Unlikely Spy CREDITS Cover design by Archie Ferguson Cover photograph © by Peter Dazeley/Getty Images COPYRIGHT The English Girl is a work of fiction The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental Copyright © 2013 by Daniel Silva All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books THE ENGLISH GIRL FIRST EDITION Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for ISBN 978-0-06-207316-7 EPUB Edition July 2013 ISBN 9780062073204 13 14 15 16 17 OV/RRD 10 ABOUT THE PUBLISHER Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia http://www.harpercollins.com.au Canada HarperCollins Canada Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollins.ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O Box Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollins.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollins.com ... That was the way it was on the island Corsica always gave up its dead In Britain, the failures of the police were an occasion to bash the French But for the most part, even the newspapers sympathetic... Jezreel and that he had a passionate hatred of farming He knew that Gabriel’s mother, a gifted artist in her own right, had managed to survive the death camp at Birkenau but was no match for the cancer... meaningless if the Iranians have the capability to build them in a short period of time.” “Like the Japanese.” The Japanese aren’t ruled by apocalyptic Shia mullahs,” Shamron said “If the American