Portrait of a Spy

by Daniel Silva

  Outside, six car doors opened in unison, and six men, all former members of the elite Saudi National Guard, emerged. One was familiar to Gabriel and the rest of the team: Rafiq al-Kamal, the burly former chief of Zizi al-Bakari’s personal security detail, who now served in the same capacity for his daughter. It was al-Kamal who had conducted the advance sweep of the hotel earlier that morning. And it was al-Kamal who now walked a subservient step behind Nadia as she flowed from the back of her Maybach into the lobby where Zoe stood with a porcelain smile fixed upon her face and her heart beating against her breastbone.

  There exist in the file rooms of King Saul Boulevard many photos of a younger version of Nadia, or, as Eli Lavon was fond of saying, Nadia before the fall. Zoe had been given access to some of the more illustrative shots during the flight from New York. They showed a petulant woman in her mid-twenties, darkly beautiful, spoiled, and superior. She was a woman who smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol behind her father’s back and who, in violation of Muhammad’s teachings, bared her flesh on some of the world’s most glamorous beaches. Her father’s death had straightened Nadia’s carriage and lent a serious light to her face, yet it had robbed her of none of her beauty. She wore a radiant dress of winter white, with her dark hair hanging straight between her shoulder blades like a satin cape. Her nose was long and straight. Her eyes were wide and nearly black. Pearls lay against the caramel-colored skin of her neck. A thick gold bracelet sparkled on her slender wrist. Her scent was an intoxicating blend of jasmine, lavender, and the sun. Her hand, when it closed around Zoe’s, was as cool as marble.

  “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” Nadia said in an accent that betrayed no origin other than unfathomable wealth. “I’ve heard so much about your work.”

  She smiled for the first time, a cautious effort that did not quite extend to her eyes. Zoe felt slightly claustrophobic in the enclosure of the bodyguards, but Nadia conducted herself as though she were unaware of their presence.

  “I’m sorry to make you come all the way to Paris on such short notice.”

  “Not at all, Ms. al-Bakari.”

  “Nadia,” she said, her smile genuine now. “I insist you call me Nadia.”

  Al-Kamal appeared anxious to move the party out of the lobby, as did Madame Dubois, who was rocking slightly from heel to toe. Zoe suddenly felt an unseen hand on her elbow nudging her toward the elevators. She squeezed into a cramped carriage next to Nadia and her bodyguards and had to turn her shoulders slightly in order for the door to close. The scent of jasmine and lavender in the confined space was mildly hallucinogenic. On Nadia’s breath was the faintest trace of the last cigarette she had smoked.

  “Do you come to Paris often, Zoe?”

  “Not as often as I used to,” she answered.

  “You’ve stayed at the Crillon before?”

  “Actually, it’s my first time.”

  “You really must allow me to pay for your room.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Zoe said with a gracious smile.

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “It would also be unethical.”

  “How so?”

  “It could create the appearance that I’m accepting something of value in return for a favorable news piece. My company forbids it. Most journalistic enterprises do, at least the reputable ones.”

  “I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”

  “A reputable journalistic enterprise?” Zoe offered a confiding smile. “One or two.”

  “Including yours?”

  “Including mine,” said Zoe. “In fact, I would feel much more comfortable if you would allow me to pay for lunch.”

  “Don’t be silly. Besides,” Nadia added, “I’m sure the famous Zoe Reed would never allow herself to be influenced by a nice lunch in a Paris hotel.”

  They passed the rest of the journey in silence. When the doors of the elevator finally rattled open, al-Kamal surveyed the vestibule before leading Zoe and Nadia briskly into the Louis XV Suite. The classical French furnishings in the sitting room had been rearranged to create the impression of an elegant private dining room. Before the tall windows overlooking the Place de la Concorde was a round table set for two. Nadia surveyed the room with approval before snuffing out the single candle burning amid the crystal and silver. Then, with a movement of her dark eyes, she invited Zoe to sit.

  There ensued a somewhat farcical few moments of unfurling napkins, closing doors, furtive glances, and murmured exchanges—some in French, some in Arabic. Finally, at Nadia’s insistence, the security men retreated into the corridor, accompanied by Madame Dubois, who was visibly uneasy about the prospect of leaving her boss alone with the famous reporter. The sommelier poured a few drops of Montrachet into Nadia’s glass. Nadia pronounced it satisfactory, then looked at Zoe’s BlackBerry, which was resting on the table like an uninvited guest. “Would you mind turning that off?” she asked, attempting to make light of the request. “One can never be too careful these days when it comes to electronic devices. You never know who might be listening.”

  “I understand completely,” said Zoe.

  Nadia returned her glass to the table and said, “I’m sure you do.”

  Were it not for the miniature transmitter carefully concealed in the hotel suite, those four words, at once innocent and ominous, might have been the last heard by the man of medium height and build pacing the rooms of a château north of Paris. Instead, with a few keystrokes on his notebook computer, the audio feed resumed with only a brief interruption. In the courtyard of the Crillon, the couple from Montreal departed, replaced by two women in their mid-thirties. One had sandstone-colored hair and childbearing hips; the other had dark hair and walked with a slight limp. She pretended to read a glossy Paris fashion magazine. It helped to quiet the clock ticking relentlessly in her head.

  Chapter 24

  Paris

  SOME RECRUITMENTS ARE LIKE SEDUCTIONS, some border on extortion, and still others are like a ballet of the wounded. But even Ari Shamron, who had haunted the secret world far longer than most, would later say that he had never witnessed anything quite like the recruitment of Nadia al-Bakari. Having listened to the opening act over a secure link at King Saul Boulevard, he declared it one of the most masterful pieces of fieldwork he had ever heard. It was especially high praise given that the person doing the recruiting hailed from a profession for which Shamron had nothing but contempt.

  Gabriel had instructed his recruiter to go slowly, and go slowly she did. For the first hour of the encounter, as hushed waiters entered and departed the hotel suite, Zoe questioned Nadia respectfully on the many changes she had made to AAB’s investment profile and on the challenges posed by the global recession without end. Much to Gabriel’s surprise, the reclusive Saudi heiress turned out to be an engaging and forthright conversationalist who seemed far wiser than her thirty-three years. Indeed, there was not a trace of tension until Zoe nonchalantly asked Nadia how often she traveled to Saudi Arabia. The question produced the first uncomfortable silence of the encounter, just as Gabriel had expected it would. Nadia regarded Zoe for a moment with her bottomless dark eyes before responding with a question of her own.

  “You’ve been to Saudi Arabia?”

  “Once,” replied Zoe.

  “For your work?”

  “Is there any other reason for a Westerner to go to Saudi Arabia?”

  “I suppose not.” Nadia’s expression softened. “Where did you go?”

  “I spent two days in Riyadh. Then I went to the Empty Quarter to tour the new Saudi Aramco oil-drilling project at Shaybah. It was very impressive.”

  “Actually, you described it as ‘a technological marvel that will ensure Saudi domination of the global oil market for at least another generation.’ ” Nadia gave a fleeting smile. “Do you really think I would agree to a meeting without first reviewing your work? After all, you do have something of a reputation.”

  “For what?”

&
nbsp; “Ruthlessness,” said Nadia without hesitation. “They say you have something of a puritanical streak. They say you like to destroy companies and executives who step out of line.”

  “I don’t do that kind of work any longer. I’m on television now. We don’t investigate. We just talk.”

  “You don’t miss being a real journalist?”

  “By that you mean a print journalist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Occasionally,” Zoe admitted, “but then I look at my bank account and I feel much better.”

  “Is that why you left London? For money?”

  “There were other reasons.”

  “What kind of reasons?”

  “The kind I generally don’t discuss in professional settings.”

  “It sounds as though it had something to do with a man,” Nadia said, her tone conciliatory.

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “Yes, I am.” Nadia reached for her wineglass but stopped. “I don’t go to Saudi Arabia often,” she said suddenly, “once every three or four months, no more. And when I do go, I don’t stay for long.”

  “Because?”

  “For the reasons you would expect.” Nadia appeared to choose her next words with great care. “The laws and customs of Islam and Saudi Arabia are old and very important to our society. I’ve learned how to navigate the system in a way that allows me to conduct my business with a minimum of disruption.”

  “What about your countrywomen?”

  “What about them?”

  “Most aren’t as lucky as you are. Women in Saudi Arabia are considered property, not people. Most spend their lives locked away indoors. They’re not permitted to drive an automobile. They’re not permitted to go out in public without a male escort and without first concealing themselves beneath an abaya and a veil. They’re not permitted to travel, even inside the country, without receiving permission from their fathers or older brothers. Honor killings are permissible if a woman brings shame upon her family or engages in un-Islamic behavior, and adultery is a crime punishable by stoning. In the birthplace of Islam, women cannot even enter a mosque except in Mecca and Medina, which is odd, since the Prophet Muhammad was something of a feminist. ‘Treat your women well and be kind to them,’ the Prophet said, ‘for they are your partners and committed helpers.’ ”

  Nadia picked at an invisible flaw in the tablecloth. “I admire your honesty, Zoe. Most journalists trying to secure an important interview would resort to platitudes and flattery.”

  “I can do that, if you prefer.”

  “Actually, I prefer honesty. We don’t have enough of that in Saudi Arabia. In fact, we avoid it at all costs.” Nadia turned her gaze toward the windows. Outside, it was dark enough so that her image was reflected ghostlike in the glass. “I never realized you were so interested in the condition of Muslim women,” she said softly. “There’s no evidence of it in your previous work.”

  “How much of it did you read?”

  “All of it,” said Nadia. “There were many stories about corrupt businessmen but not one about the plight of Muslim women.”

  “I’m interested in the rights of all women, regardless of their faith.” Zoe paused, then added provocatively, “I would think that someone in your position would be interested in them as well.”

  “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Because you have the power and influence to be an important role model.”

  “I run a large company, Zoe. I don’t have the time or desire to involve myself in politics.”

  “You don’t have any?”

  “Any what?”

  “Politics.”

  “I am a citizen of Saudi Arabia,” Nadia said. “We have a king, not politics. Besides, in the Middle East, politics can be very dangerous.”

  “Was your father killed because of politics?” Zoe asked cautiously.

  Nadia turned and gazed at Zoe. “I don’t know why my father was killed. I’m not sure anyone does, other than his murderers, of course.”

  A heavy silence fell between them. It was broken a few seconds later by the sound of a door opening. A pair of waiters entered, bearing trays of coffee and pastries. They were followed by Rafiq al-Kamal, the chief of security, and Madame Dubois, who was tapping the face of her Cartier wristwatch as if to say the meeting had gone on long enough. Zoe feared Nadia might latch onto the signal as an excuse to take her leave. Instead, she ordered the intruders from the room with an imperious wave of her hand. She did the same for the waiter holding the tray of pastries, but accepted the coffee. She drank it black with an extraordinary amount of sugar.

  “Are these the kinds of questions you propose to ask me on camera? Questions about the rights of women in Saudi Arabia? Questions about the death of my father?”

  “We don’t divulge the questions in advance of an interview.”

  “Come, come, Zoe. We both know how this works.”

  Zoe made a brief show of thought. “If I failed to ask you about your father, I would be brought up on charges of journalistic malpractice. It makes you a deeply compelling figure.”

  “What it makes me is a woman without a father.” Nadia removed a packet of Virginia Slims from her handbag and ignited one with a rather ordinary-looking gold lighter.

  “You were there that night in Cannes?”

  “I was,” said Nadia. “One minute we were all enjoying a wonderful evening in our favorite restaurant. The next I was holding my father as he lay dying in the street.”

  “You saw the men who killed him?”

  “There were two,” she said, nodding her head. “They rode motorcycles, very fast, very skillfully. At first, I thought they were just French boys having a bit of fun on a warm summer night. Then I saw the weapons. They were obviously professionals.” She drew on her cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “After that, everything is a blur.”

  “There were reports that witnesses heard you screaming for revenge.”

  “I’m afraid that retribution is the Bedouin way,” Nadia said sadly. “I suppose it runs in my blood.”

  “You admired your father,” Zoe pressed.

  “I did,” Nadia said.

  “He was an art collector.”

  “A voracious one.”

  “I understand you share your father’s passion.”

  “My art collection is private,” Nadia said, reaching for her coffee.

  “Not as private as you think.”

  Nadia looked up sharply but said nothing.

  “My sources tell me that you made an important acquisition last month. They tell me that you were the one who paid the record price for the Rothko at Christie’s in New York.”

  “Your sources are mistaken, Zoe.”

  “My sources are never mistaken. And they’ve told me other things about you as well. Apparently, you’re not as indifferent to the rights of women in the Islamic world as you pretend to be. You’ve quietly given millions of dollars to combat violence against women and millions more to promote female entrepreneurship, which you believe will have the effect of empowering Muslim women as never before. But your charitable works don’t stop there. I’m told you’ve used your fortune to promote free and independent media in the Arab world. You’ve also attempted to counter the spread of dangerous Wahhabi ideology by donating to organizations that promote a more tolerant version of Islam.” Zoe paused. “Taken together, your activities paint a portrait of a courageous woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East.”

  Nadia managed a dismissive smile. “It’s an intriguing story,” she said after a moment. “It’s a shame none of it is true.”

  “That’s too bad,” Zoe replied, “because there are people who would like to help you.”

  “What sort of people?”

  “People of discretion.”

  “In the Middle East, people of discretion are either spies or terrorists.”

  “I can assure you they�
��re not terrorists.”

  “So they must be spies then.”

  “I wasn’t told their affiliation.”

  Nadia gave her a skeptical look. Zoe held out a card. It had no name, only the number of her BlackBerry.

  “This is my private number. It is important that you proceed with caution. As you know, there are people around you who do not share your goal of changing the Islamic world for the better—including your own bodyguards.”

  “What is your interest in this matter, Zoe?”

  “I have no interest, other than obtaining an interview with a woman I greatly admire.”

  Nadia hesitated. Then she accepted the card and slipped it into her handbag. At that instant, the door of the hotel suite opened again and Madame Dubois entered with Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. She was once again tapping her wristwatch. This time, Nadia rose. Looking suddenly fatigued, she extended her hand toward Zoe.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to lift the veil just yet,” she said, “but I’d like some time to consider your offer. Would it be possible for you to remain in Paris for a few days?”

  “It will be a terrible hardship,” Zoe said jokingly, “but I’ll try to manage.”

  Nadia released Zoe’s hand and followed her security chief into the corridor. Zoe remained behind for a moment longer before returning to her room three floors below. There she powered on her BlackBerry and called her producer in New York to explain that she would be staying on in Paris to continue the negotiations. Then she placed the BlackBerry on the bedside table and sat for a long time at the end of her bed. She smelled jasmine and lavender, the scent of Nadia, and recalled the instant of their parting. Nadia’s hand had been oddly cold to the touch. It was the hand of fear, thought Zoe. The hand of death.