“That’s the theory, but no one knows for sure.”
“And you have no idea who it was?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Why do you suppose your organization received the largest donation?”
“Trust me, Mr. Allon, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” She shot a glance at her wristwatch, then rose to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have to be going. If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to call.” She fixed her gaze on Peel and added, “The same goes for you, Detective Inspector.”
And with that she was gone.
“Is it my imagination,” asked Gabriel, “or does Phoebe Chadwick have a thing for you?”
“It’s your imagination,” replied Peel.
“Is she telling us the truth?”
“About not knowing the identity of the donor? Absolutely.”
“Her friends Sophie Maxwell and Ella Burns didn’t seem terribly concerned about Alice’s disappearance, did they?”
“If it were my investigation, they would be sitting in an interview room with the recorder rolling.”
“I suggest we follow the money instead.”
“The ransom money?”
“The donations,” said Gabriel.
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Why did Britain’s smallest relief agency receive the largest contribution? And why did all of the money go to Phoebe’s Africa programs?”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“The Secret Sharer?”
Peel nodded.
“Since they’re in the business of protecting the anonymity of their clients, it is highly unlikely they will betray one to the likes of us.”
“I suppose we’ll have to find a workaround.” Peel smiled, then said, “The kind they don’t teach you in detective school.”
“You’re a quick study, aren’t you?”
“I learned from the best,” replied Peel, and went to the bar to fetch two more beers.
27
Raamstraat
The European headquarters of the Secret Sharer silent donor service were located in an old brick house on the Raamstraat in the historic center of The Hague. Gabriel and Timothy Peel arrived there at eleven fifteen the next morning, having caught the early train from St. Pancras. In the gloom of the Channel Tunnel they decided that Peel was best suited to appear on the organization’s doorstep unannounced. He was, after all, the one with the credentials and the actual job. Gabriel, for his part, was something of a minister without portfolio. He also happened to be cursed with a name and a face that sometimes attracted unwanted attention.
He took refuge in a café at the end of the street while Peel, an active phone tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, presented himself at the entrance of the old brick house and, pressing the call button on the intercom, requested admittance. There followed a brief interrogation regarding the purpose of his visit, but eventually a buzzer sounded and a dead bolt snapped. The foyer was hung with black-and-white photographs of the wretched of the earth. Seated behind a small desk was a woman of perhaps twenty-five with magenta-colored hair and more earrings than Peel could count. He displayed his Met credentials, and the woman scrutinized them with manifest distaste.
“You realize, I hope, that we cannot disclose the identity of our donors.”
“I do,” said Peel.
