Portrait of a Spy

by Daniel Silva

  Switching off the television, Nadia returned to her bedroom and changed into exercise clothing. She had never cared for physical activity, and since turning thirty she cared for it even less. She dutifully elevated her heart rate and strained her limbs each morning because it was something that, as a modern businesswoman who lived mainly in the West, she was expected to do. Still suffering from a mild headache, she shortened her already-brief daily routine. After a leisurely stroll atop the conveyor belt of her treadmill, she stretched for several minutes on a rubber yoga mat. Then she lay on her back very still, with her ankles pressed together and her arms extended from her sides. As always, the pose created a sensation of weightlessness. On that morning, however, it also produced a shockingly clear revelation of her future. She lay there for several moments, her pose unchanged, and debated whether to go through with the trip to Zurich. One phone call is all it would take, she thought. One phone call and the burden would be lifted. It was a call she could not bring herself to make. She believed she had been put on earth, in this time and place, for a reason. She believed the same was true for the man who had killed her father, and she did not want to disappoint him.

  Nadia stood and, fighting off a wave of dizziness, returned to her bedroom. After bathing and perfuming her body, she entered her dressing room and selected her clothing, forsaking the light colors that she preferred for more somber shades of gray and black. Her hair she arranged piously. Her face, as she glided past Rafiq al-Kamal into the back of her limousine thirty minutes later, was set in the juhayman of the Bedouin. The transformation was nearly complete. She was a wealthy Saudi woman plotting to avenge the murder of her father.

  The car slipped through the front gate of the mansion and turned into the street. As it headed along the Bois de Boulogne, Nadia noticed the man she knew as Max walking a few paces behind a woman who may or may not have been Sarah. Just then, a motorcycle appeared briefly next to her window, ridden by a slender, helmeted figure in a black leather jacket. Something about him made Nadia feel a sudden painful stab of memory. It was probably nothing, she told herself as the bike vanished into a side street. Just a touch of last-minute nerves. Just her mind playing tricks.

  At the behest of the al-Saud, Nadia had been compelled to keep more than just her father’s old security detail. The basic structure of the company remained the same, as did most of the senior personnel. Daoud Hamza, a Stanford-educated Lebanese, still ran the day-to-day operations. Manfred Wehrli, a granite-calm Swiss moneyman, still managed the finances. And the legal team known as Abdul & Abdul still kept things reasonably above board. Accompanied by twenty additional aides, footmen, factotums, and assorted hangers-on, they were all gathered in the VIP lounge of Le Bourget Airport by the time Nadia arrived. At the stroke of ten, they filed onto AAB’s Boeing Business Jet, and by 10:15 they were Zurich bound. They spent the hour-long flight crunching numbers around the conference table and upon arrival at Kloten Airport piled into a convoy of Mercedes sedans. It bore them at considerable speed up the wooded slopes of the Zürichberg to the graceful entrance of the Dolder Grand Hotel, where management escorted them to a conference room with an Alpine-sounding name and a view of the lake that was worth the outrageous price of admission. The delegation from the Swiss optical firm had already arrived and was partaking freely of the lavish buffet. The AAB team sat down and began opening their briefcases and laptops. AAB personnel never ate during meetings. Zizi’s rules.

  The meeting had been scheduled to last two hours. It ran thirty minutes over and concluded with a pledge by Nadia to invest an additional twenty million francs in the Swiss company to help it upgrade its factories and product line. After a few benedictory remarks, the Swiss delegation departed. Crossing the elegant lobby, they passed a thin, lightly bearded Arab in his early forties sitting alone with his briefcase at his side. Five minutes later, a phone call summoned him to the conference room the Swiss had just vacated. Waiting there alone was a beautiful woman of unimpeachable jihadist credentials.

  “May God’s blessings be upon you,” she said in Arabic.

  “And upon you as well,” Samir Abbas responded in the same language. “I trust your meeting with the Swiss went well.”

  “Earthly matters,” said Nadia with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “God has been very generous to you,” Abbas said. “I’ve put together some proposals on how I think your money should be invested.”

  “I don’t need investment advice from you, Mr. Abbas. I do quite well on my own.”

  “Then how might I be of service, Miss al-Bakari?”

  “You may begin by having a seat. And then you can switch off your BlackBerry. One can never be too careful these days when it comes to electronic devices. You never know who might be listening.”

  “I understand completely.”

  She managed to smile. “I’m sure you do.”

  Chapter 39

  Zurich

  THEY SAT ON OPPOSITE SIDES of the conference table, with no refreshment other than bottles of Swiss mineral water, which neither of them touched. Between them lay two smart phones, screens dark, SIM cards removed. Having averted his gaze from Nadia’s unveiled face, Samir Abbas appeared to be studying the chandelier above his head. Concealed amid the lights and crystal was a miniature short-range transmitter installed earlier that morning by Mordecai and Oded. They were now monitoring its signal from a room on the fourth floor, all charges paid in full by the National Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency. Gabriel was listening at the safe house on the opposite shore of the lake via a secure microwave link. His lips were moving slightly, as if he were trying to feed Nadia her next line.

  “I would like to begin by offering you my sincerest apology,” she said.

  Abbas appeared momentarily perplexed. “You’ve recently deposited two hundred million dollars in the financial institution for which I work, Miss al-Bakari. I cannot imagine why you would apologize.”

  “Because not long after my father’s death, you asked me to make a donation to one of the Islamic charities with which you are associated. I turned you away—rather brusquely, if I remember correctly.”

  “I was wrong to have approached you at so sensitive a time.”

  “I know you only had my best interests at heart. Zakat is extremely important to our faith. In fact, my father believed the giving of alms to be the most important of the Five Pillars of Islam.”

  “Your father was generous to a fault. I could always count on him when we were in need.”

  “He always spoke very highly of you, Mr. Abbas.”

  “And of you as well, Miss al-Bakari. Your father loved you dearly. I cannot imagine the pain of your loss. Take peace in the knowledge that your father is with God in Paradise.”

  “Inshallah,” she said wistfully, “but I’m afraid I’ve not had a single day of peace since his murder. And my pain has been compounded by the fact that his killers have never been punished for their crime.”

  “You have a right to your anger. We all do. Your father’s murder was an insult to all Muslims.”

  “But what to do with this anger?”

  “Are you asking me for advice, Miss al-Bakari?”

  “Of the spiritual variety,” she said. “I know you are a man of great faith.”

  “Like your father,” he said.

  “Like my father,” she repeated softly.

  Abbas looked directly into her eyes briefly before averting his gaze once more. “The Koran is more than a recitation of Allah’s word,” he said. “It is also a legal document that governs every aspect of our lives. And it is quite clear about what is to be done in the case of murder. It is known as al-quisas. As the surviving next of kin, you have three options. You may simply forgive the guilty party out of the goodness of your heart. You may accept a payment of blood money. Or you may do to the killer the same as he did to the victim, without killing anyone except the guilty party.”

  “The men who killed my father were profes
sional assassins. They were sent by others.”

  “Then it is the men who dispatched the assassins who are ultimately responsible for your father’s death.”

  “And if I cannot find it in my heart to forgive them?”

  “Then, by the laws of Allah, you are entitled to kill them. Without killing anyone else,” he added hastily.

  “A difficult proposition, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Abbas?”

  The banker made no response other than to gaze directly into Nadia’s face for the first time without the slightest trace of Islamist decorum.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Nadia.

  “I know who killed your father, Miss al-Bakari. And I know why he was killed.”

  “Then you also know that it is not possible for me to punish them under the laws of Islam.” She paused, then added, “Not without help.”

  Abbas picked up Nadia’s disabled BlackBerry and examined it in silence.

  “You have nothing to be nervous about,” she said quietly.

  “Why would I be nervous? I manage accounts for high-net-worth individuals for TransArabian Bank. In my spare time, I solicit funds for legitimate charities to help ease the suffering of Muslims around the world.”

  “Which is why I asked to see you.”

  “You wish to make a contribution?”

  “A substantial one.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the sort of men who can deliver to me the justice I am owed.”

  Abbas returned Nadia’s BlackBerry to the table but said nothing. Nadia held his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment.

  “We reside in the West, you and I, but we are children of the desert. My family came from the Nejd, yours from the Hejaz. We can say a great deal with very few words.”

  “My father used to speak to me only with his eyes,” Abbas said wistfully.

  “Mine, too,” said Nadia.

  Abbas removed the cap from his bottle of mineral water and poured some slowly into a glass, as though it were the last water on the face of the earth. “The charities with which I am associated are entirely legitimate,” he said finally. “The money is used to build roads, schools, hospitals, and the like. Occasionally, some of it finds its way into the hands of a group based in the northwest tribal areas of Pakistan. I’m sure this group would be very grateful for any assistance. As you know, they lost their primary patron recently.”

  “I’m not interested in the group based in the tribal areas of Pakistan,” Nadia said. “They’re no longer effective. Their time has passed.”

  “Tell that to the people of Paris, Copenhagen, London, and Madrid.”

  “It is my understanding that the group based in the tribal areas of Pakistan had nothing to do with those attacks.”

  Abbas looked up sharply. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “A man on my security staff who maintains close contact with the Saudi GID.”

  Nadia was surprised at how easily the lie rose to her lips. Abbas screwed the cap back onto the bottle and appeared to consider her response carefully.

  “One hears rumors about the Yemeni preacher,” he said finally. “The one who carries an American passport and speaks like one as well. One also hears rumors that he’s expanding his operations. His charitable operations, of course,” Abbas added.

  “Do you know how to make contact with his organization?”

  “If you are serious about trying to help them, I believe I can make an introduction.”

  “The sooner the better,” she said.

  “These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”

  “I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”

  “So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”

  The meeting unwound in the same precise manner with which it had been planned and executed. Abbas returned to his office, Nadia to her airplane, Oded and Mordecai to the safe house on the western shore of the lake. Gabriel didn’t bother to acknowledge their arrival. He was hunched over the computer in the living room, headphones over his ears, resignation on his face. He clicked pause, then rewind, then play.

  “These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”

  “I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”

  “So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”

  “I have one request, Mr. Abbas. Because of what happened to my father, it is essential that I know who I will be meeting with and that I will be safe.”

  “You needn’t worry, Miss al-Bakari. The person I have in mind poses absolutely no threat to your security.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”

  Gabriel clicked pause, then rewind, then play.

  “His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”

  Gabriel pressed stop. Then, reluctantly, he forwarded the name to Adrian Carter at Langley. Carter’s response arrived five minutes later. It was a reservation for the morning flight back to Washington. Economy plus, of course. Carter’s revenge.

  Chapter 40

  Langley, Virginia

  WELL DONE,” SAID CARTER. “A bravura performance. A work of art. Truly.”

  He was standing outside the elevators on the seventh-floor executive suite, smiling with all the sincerity of the artificial plants that flourished in the permanent gloom of his office. It was the kind of consoling smile worn by executives at sacking time, thought Gabriel. The only thing missing from the picture was the gold watch, the modest severance package, and the complimentary dinner for two at Morton’s steak house. “Come,” said Carter, patting Gabriel’s shoulder, something he never did. “I have something to show you.”

  After descending into a subterranean level of the building, they hiked for what seemed like a mile along gray-and-white corridors. Their destination was a windowed observation deck overlooking a cavernous open space that had the atmosphere of a Wall Street trading floor. On each of the four walls flickered video display panels the size of billboards. Beneath them, two hundred computer screens illuminated two hundred faces. Precisely what they were doing Gabriel did not know. Truth be told, he was no longer certain he was still at Langley or even in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  “We decided it was time to bring everyone under one roof,” explained Carter.

  “Everyone?” asked Gabriel.

  “This is your operation,” Carter said.

  “This is all for one operation?”

  “We’re Americans,” said Carter with a trace of contrition. “We only do big.”

  “Does it have its own zip code?”

  “Actually, it doesn’t even have a name yet. For now, we’re calling it Rashidistan in your honor. Let me give you the nickel tour.”

  “Under the circumstances, I believe I’m owed at least ten cents’ worth.”

  “Are we going to have another pissing match over turf?”

  “Only if it’s necessary.”

  Carter led Gabriel down a tight spiral staircase onto the floor of the op center. The stale air smelled of freshly laid carpeting and overheated electrical circuitry. A young woman with spiky black hair brushed past without a word and sat at one of the many worktables at the center of the room. Gabriel looked up at one of the video screens and saw several famous Washington pundits chatting in the warm glow of a television studio. The audio was muted.

  “Are they plotting a terrorist attack?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “So why are we watching them?” asked Gabriel, looking around the room with a combin
ation of wonder and despair. “Who are all these people?”

  Even Carter, the nominal leader of the operation, appeared to deliberate for a moment before responding. “Most come from inside the Agency,” he said finally, “but we’ve also got NSA, FBI, DOJ, and Treasury, along with several dozen green-badgers.”

  “Are they some sort of endangered species?”

  “Quite the opposite,” said Carter. “The people you see wearing green credentials are all private contractors. Even I’m not sure how many we have working at Langley these days. But I do know one thing. Most of them make far more than I do.”

  “Doing what?”

  “A few of them are former counterterrorism types who’ve tripled their salaries by going to work for private firms. In many cases, they do the exact same jobs and hold the exact same clearances. But now they’re paid by ACME Security Solutions or some other private entity instead of the Agency.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Data miners,” said Carter, “and thanks to that meeting in Zurich yesterday, they’ve hit the mother lode.” He pointed toward one of the worktables. “That group over there is handling Samir Abbas, our friend from TransArabian Bank. They’re tearing him limb from limb, e-mail from e-mail, phone call from phone call, financial transaction from financial transaction. They’ve managed to assemble a data trail that predates 9/11. As far as we’re concerned, Samir alone has been worth the price of admission to this operation. It’s remarkable he’s managed to escape our notice all these years. He’s the real thing. And so is his friend at the University of Mecca.”