Portrait of a Spy

by Daniel Silva

  Obviously, the sheikh’s test was not yet over. Nadia remembered the last words Gabriel had spoken to her at Château Treville. You’re Zizi’s daughter. Never let them forget it.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Sheikh Bin Tayyib. Perhaps I should have cloaked myself in a burqa and declared my intention to avenge my father’s death on television. Surely that would have been the wiser course of action.”

  The sheikh gave a conciliatory smile. “I’ve heard all about your wicked tongue,” he said.

  “I have my father’s tongue. And the last time I heard his voice, he was bleeding to death in my arms.”

  “And now you want vengeance.”

  “I want justice—God’s justice.”

  “And what of the al-Saud?”

  “They seem to have lost interest in me.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Bin Tayyib said. “Even the House of Saud isn’t sure whether it’s going to survive the turmoil sweeping the Arab world. They need friends wherever they can find them, even if they happen to wear the short thobes and unkempt beards of the Salaf.”

  Nadia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If the sheikh was speaking the truth, the rulers of Saudi Arabia had renewed the Faustian bargain, the deal with the devil that had led to 9/11 and countless other deaths after that. The al-Saud had no choice, she thought. They were like a man holding a tiger by the ears. If they kept their grip on the beast, they might survive a little longer. But if they released it, they would be devoured in an instant.

  “Do the Americans know about this?” she asked.

  “The so-called special relationship between the Americans and the House of Saud is a thing of the past,” Bin Tayyib said. “As you know, Miss al-Bakari, Saudi Arabia is forming new alliances and finding new customers for its oil. The Chinese don’t care about things like human rights and democracy. They pay their bills on time, and they don’t poke their noses into things that are none of their business.”

  “Things like jihad?” she asked.

  The sheikh nodded. “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, taught us there were Five Pillars of Islam. We believe there is a sixth. Jihad is not a choice. It is an obligation. The al-Saud understand this. Once again, they are willing to look the other way, provided the brothers don’t make trouble inside the Kingdom. That was Bin Laden’s biggest mistake.”

  “Bin Laden is dead,” said Nadia, “and so is his group. I’m interested in the one who can make bombs go off in the cities of Europe.”

  “Then you are interested in the Yemeni.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Do you have the ability to speak to him?”

  “That is a dangerous question. And even if I could speak to him, I certainly wouldn’t bother to tell him about a rich Saudi woman who’s looking for vengeance. You have to believe in what you are doing.”

  “I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari and a descendant of Muhammad Abdul Wahhab. I certainly believe in what I am doing. And I am after far more than just vengeance.”

  “What are you after?”

  Nadia hesitated. The next words were not her own. They had been dictated to her by the man who had killed her father.

  “I wish only to resume the work of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari,” she said gravely. “I will place the money in the hands of the Yemeni to do with as he pleases. And perhaps, if God wills it, bombs will one day explode in the streets of Washington and Tel Aviv.”

  “I suspect he would be most grateful,” the sheikh said carefully. “But I am certain he will be unable to offer any sort of guarantees.”

  “I’m not looking for any guarantees. Only a pledge that he will use the money wisely and carefully.”

  “You are proposing a one-time payment?”

  “No, Sheikh Bin Tayyib, I am proposing a long-term relationship. He will attack them. And I will pay for it.”

  “How much money are you willing to provide?”

  “As much as he needs.”

  The sheikh smiled.

  “Al-hamdu lillah.”

  Nadia remained in the tent of the sheikh for another hour. Then she followed the talib along the edge of the wadi to her car. The skies poured with rain during the drive back to Riyadh, and it was still raining late the following morning when Nadia and her entourage boarded their plane for the flight back to Europe. Once clear of Saudi airspace, she removed her niqab and abaya and changed into a pale Chanel suit. Then she telephoned Thomas Fowler at his estate north of Paris to say that her meetings in Saudi Arabia had gone better than expected. Fowler immediately placed a call to a little-known venture capital firm in northern Virginia—a call that was automatically routed to Gabriel’s desk in Rashidistan. Gabriel spent the next week carefully monitoring the financial and legal maneuverings of one Samir Abbas of the TransArabian Bank in Zurich. Then, after dining poorly with Carter at a seafood restaurant in McLean, he headed back to London. Carter let him take an Agency Gulfstream. No handcuffs. No hypodermic needles. No hard feelings.

  Chapter 44

  St. James’s, London

  ON THE DAY AFTER GABRIEL’S return to London, the venerable Christie’s auction house announced a surprise addition to its upcoming sale of Venetian Old Masters: Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene, oil on canvas, 110 by 92 centimeters, previously attributed to the workshop of Palma Vecchio, now firmly attributed to none other than the great Titian himself. By midday, the phones inside Christie’s were ringing off the hook, and by day’s end, no fewer than forty important museums and collectors had dipped their oars into the water. That evening, the atmosphere in the bar at Green’s Restaurant was electric, though Julian Isherwood was notably not among those present. “Saw him getting into a cab in Duke Street,” Jeremy Crabbe muttered into his gin and bitters. “Looked positively dreadful, poor sod. Said he was planning to spend a quiet evening alone with his cough.”

  It is rare that a painting by an artist like Titian resurfaces, and when one does, it is usually accompanied by a good story. Such was certainly the case with Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene, though whether it was tragedy, comedy, or morality tale depended entirely on who was doing the telling. Christie’s released an abridged version for the sake of the painting’s official provenance, but in the little West London village of St. James’s, it was immediately written off as well-sanitized hogwash. Eventually, there came to exist an unofficial version of the story that unfolded roughly along the following lines.

  It seemed that at some point the previous August, an unidentified Norfolk nobleman of great title but shrinking resources reluctantly decided to part with a portion of his art collection. This nobleman made contact with a London art dealer, also unidentified, and asked whether he might be willing to accept the assignment. This London art dealer was busy at the time—truth be told, he was sunning himself in the Costa del Sol—and it was late September before he was able to make his way to the nobleman’s estate. The dealer found the collection lackluster, to put it mildly, though he did agree to take several paintings off the nobleman’s hands, including a very dirty work attributed to some hack in the workshop of Palma Vecchio. The amount of money that changed hands was never disclosed. It was said to be quite small.

  For reasons not made clear, the dealer allowed the paintings to languish in his storage rooms before commissioning a hasty cleaning of the aforementioned Palma Vecchio. The identity of the restorer was never revealed, though all agreed he gave a rather good account of himself in a remarkably short period of time. Indeed, the painting was in such fine shape that it managed to catch the wandering eye of one Oliver Dimbleby, the noted Old Master dealer from Bury Street. Oliver acquired it in a trade—the other paintings involved were never disclosed—and promptly hung it in his gallery, viewable by appointment only.

  It would not remain there long, however. In fact, just forty-eight hours later, it was purchased by something called Onyx Innovative Capital, a limited liability investment firm registered in the Swiss
city of Lucerne. Oliver didn’t deal directly with OIC, but rather with an agreeable bloke named Samir Abbas of the TransArabian Bank. After thrashing out the final details over tea at the Dorchester Hotel, Abbas presented Oliver with a check for twenty-two thousand pounds. Oliver quickly deposited the money into his account at Lloyds Bank, thus consecrating the sale, and began the messy process of securing the necessary export license.

  It was at this point that the affair took a disastrous turn, at least from Oliver’s point of view. Because on a dismal afternoon in late January there came to Oliver’s gallery a rumpled figure dressed in many layers of clothing, who, with a single offhand question, sent the apples rolling across the proverbial floor. Oliver would never reveal the identity of the man, except to say he was learned in the field of Italian Renaissance art, particularly the Venetian School. As for the question posed by this man, Oliver was willing to repeat it verbatim. In fact, for the price of a good glass of Sancerre, he would act out the entire scene. For Oliver loved nothing more than to tell stories on himself, especially when they were less than flattering, which was almost always the case.

  “I say, Oliver, old chap, but is that Titian spoken for?”

  “Not a Titian, my good man.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Positive as I can be.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  “Palma.”

  “Really? Rather good for a Palma. Workshop or the man himself?”

  “Workshop, love. Workshop.”

  It was then the rumpled figure leaned precariously forward to have a closer look—a lean that Oliver re-created nightly at Green’s to uproarious laughter.

  “Sold, is it?” asked the rumpled figure, tugging at his earlobe.

  “Just last week,” said Oliver.

  “As a Palma?”

  “Workshop, love. Workshop.”

  “How much?”

  “My good man!”

  “If I were you, I’d find some way to wriggle out of it.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Look at the draftsmanship. Look at the brushwork. You just let a Titian slip through your fingers. Shame on you, Oliver. Hang your head. Confess your sins.”

  Oliver did neither, but within minutes he was on the phone to an old chum at the British Museum who had forgotten more about Titian than most art historians would ever know. The chum hurried over to St. James’s in a deluge and stood before the canvas looking like the only survivor of a shipwreck.

  “Oliver! How could you?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  “At least you have one. Mine will be in the loo if this gets out.”

  “You do have one option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Call Mr. Abbas. Tell him the check bounced.”

  And don’t think the idea didn’t cross Oliver’s devious little mind. In fact, he spent the better part of the next forty-eight hours trying to find some legally and morally acceptable loophole that he might use to extricate himself from the deal. Finding none—at least not one that would allow him to sleep at night—he called Mr. Abbas to inform him that Onyx Innovative Capital was actually the proud owner of a newly discovered Titian. Oliver offered to take the painting to market, hoping to at least salvage a healthy commission out of the debacle, but Abbas called back the very next day to say OIC was going in a different direction. “Tried to let me down easy,” Oliver said wistfully. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Dimbleby. Lunch next time you’re in Zurich, Mr. Dimbleby. And by the way, Mr. Dimbleby, the lads from Christie’s will be stopping by in an hour.”

  They appeared with the suddenness of professional kidnappers and carried the painting over to King Street, where it was examined by a parade of Titian experts from around the globe. Each rendered the same verdict, and, miraculously, not one violated the draconian confidentiality agreement that Christie’s had made them sign for their fee. Even the normally loquacious Oliver managed to keep quiet until after Christie’s unveiled its prize. But then Oliver had reason to hold his tongue. Oliver was the goat who let a Titian slip through his hooves.

  But even Oliver seemed to find a bit of pleasure in the frenzy that followed the announcement. And why ever not? It really had been a dreadful winter till that point, with the government austerity and the blizzards and the bombings. Oliver was only happy he was able to lighten the mood, even if it meant playing the fool for drinks at Green’s. Besides, he knew the role well. He had played it many times before, to great acclaim.

  On the night of the auction, he gave what would be his final performance to a standing-room-only crowd. At its conclusion, he made three curtain calls, then joined the throng heading over to Christie’s for the big show. Management had been kind enough to reserve a second-row seat for him, directly in front of the auctioneer’s rostrum. Seated to his left was his friend and competitor, Roddy Hutchinson, and to Roddy’s left was Julian Isherwood. The seat to Oliver’s right was unoccupied. A moment later, it was filled by none other than Nicholas Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. Lovegrove had just flown in from New York. Private, of course. Lovegrove didn’t do commercial anymore.

  “Why the long face, Ollie?”

  “Thoughts of what might have been.”

  “Sorry about the Titian.”

  “Win some, lose some. How’s biz, Nicky?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Didn’t realize you dabbled in Old Masters.”

  “Actually, they terrify me. Look at this place. It’s like being in a bloody church—all angels and saints and martyrdom and crucifixion.”

  “So what brings you to town?”

  “A client who wants to venture into new territory.”

  “Client have a name?”

  “Client wishes to remain anonymous—very anonymous.”

  “Know the feeling. Your client planning to venture into new territory by acquiring a Titian?”

  “You’ll know soon enough, Ollie.”

  “Hope your client has deep pockets.”

  “I only do deep pockets.”

  “Word on the street is that it’s going to go big.”

  “Pre-show hype.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Nicky. You’re always right.”

  Lovegrove didn’t bother to dispute this. Instead, he drew a mobile phone from the breast pocket of his blazer and scrolled through the contacts. Oliver being Oliver, he snuck a quick peek at the screen after Lovegrove placed the call. Now isn’t that interesting, he thought. Isn’t that interesting indeed.

  Chapter 45

  St. James’s, London

  THE PAINTING ENTERED THE ROOM at the midway point, like a pretty girl arriving at a party fashionably late. It had been a rather dull party until that moment, and the pretty girl did much to brighten the room. Oliver Dimbleby sat up a bit straighter in his folding chair. Julian Isherwood fussed with the knot of his necktie and winked at one of the women on the telephone dais.

  “Lot Twenty-seven, the Titian,” purred Simon Mendenhall, Christie’s slinky chief auctioneer. Simon was the only man in London with a suntan. It was beginning to smudge the collar of his custom-made shirt. “Shall we begin at two million?”

  Terry O’Connor, the last Irish tycoon with any money, did the honors. Within thirty seconds, the bid in the room stood at six and a half million pounds. Oliver Dimbleby leaned to his right and murmured, “Still think it was hype, Nicky?”

  “We’re still in the first turn,” Lovegrove whispered, “and I hear there’s a strong headwind on the backstretch.”

  “I’d recheck the forecast if I were you, Nicky.”

  The bidding stalled at seven. Oliver, with a scratch of his nose, nudged it to seven and a half.

  “Bastard,” muttered Lovegrove.

  “Anytime, Nicky.”

  Oliver’s bid reignited the frenzy. Terry O’Connor steamrolled his way through several consecutive bids, but the other contenders ref
used to back down. The Irishman finally lowered his paddle at twelve, at which point Isherwood accidentally entered the fray when Mendenhall mistook a discreet cough for a bid of twelve and a half million pounds. It was no matter; a few seconds later a telephone bidder stunned the room by offering fifteen million. Lovegrove pulled out his phone and dialed.

  “Where do we stand?” asked Mr. Hamdali.

  Lovegrove gave him the lay of the land. In the time it had taken him to place the call, the telephone bid had already been eclipsed. It was back in the room with Terry O’Connor at sixteen.

  “Mr. O’Connor fancies himself a pugilist, does he not?”

  “Welterweight champ at university.”

  “Let’s hit him with a stiff uppercut, shall we?”

  “How stiff?”

  “Enough to know we mean business.”

  Lovegrove caught Mendenhall’s eye and raised two fingers.

  “I have twenty million in the room. It’s not with you, madam. Nor with you, sir. And it’s not with Lisa on the telephone. It’s in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove, at twenty million pounds. Do I have twenty million five?”

  He did. It was with Julian Isherwood. Terry O’Connor immediately took it to twenty-one. The telephone bidder countered at twenty-two. A second entered at twenty-four, followed soon after by a third at twenty-five. Mendenhall was twisting and turning like a flamenco dancer. The bidding had taken on the quality of a fight to the death, which was exactly what he wanted. Lovegrove lifted his phone to his ear and said, “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”

  “Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove.”

  “But—”

  “Please bid again.”

  Lovegrove did as he was instructed.

  “The bid is now twenty-six million, in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove. Will someone give me twenty-seven?”