by Daniel Silva
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very good at that?”
“Close your eyes.”
She did. But not because she was suddenly drowsy; his touch had sent an electrical charge straight to her abdomen. She draped an arm across his thighs. The fingers went still and then resumed their exploration of her spine.
“Do you think we could have a drink when this is over,” she asked, “or is that not allowed?”
“Close your eyes,” was all he said.
The fingers moved a few inches lower down her back. She laid her palm flat against his thigh and squeezed gently.
“Don’t.” Then he said, “Not now.”
She removed her hand and placed it beneath her chin while his fingers strolled the length of her spine. Sleep stalked her. She kept it at bay.
“Tell him I can’t go through with it,” she said drowsily. “Tell him I want to go home.”
“Sleep, Leila,” was all he said, and she slept. And in the morning, when she awoke, he was gone.
The sugar-cube dwellings of Thera were still pink with the sunrise when Natalie and Miranda Ward stepped into the quiet street at seven fifteen. They walked to the nearest taxi stand, each towing a rolling suitcase, and hired a car to take them down the coast to the ferry terminal in Athinios. The eastward crossing to Kos was four and a half hours; they passed it on the sun-drenched observation deck or in the ship’s café. Forsaking her training, Natalie actively searched for watchers among the faces of her fellow passengers, hoping Mikhail might be among them. She recognized no one. It seemed she was alone now.
At Kos they had to wait an hour for the next ferry to the Turkish port of Bodrum. It was a shorter journey, less than an hour, with strict passport control at both ends. Miranda Ward gave Natalie a Belgian passport and instructed her to hide her French passport deep within her luggage. The photograph in the Belgian passport was of a thirtysomething woman of Moroccan ethnicity. Dark hair, dark eyes, not ideal but close enough.
“Who is she?” asked Natalie.
“She’s you,” answered Miranda Ward.
The Greek border policeman in Kos seemed to think so, too, as did his Turkish counterpart in Bodrum. He stamped the passport after a brief inspection and with a frown invited Natalie to enter Turkey. Miranda followed a few seconds later, and together they made their way to the bedlam of the car park, where a line of taxis smoked in the scalding midafternoon sun. Somewhere a horn sounded, and an arm gestured from the front window of a dusty cream-colored Mercedes. Natalie and Miranda Ward hoisted their bags into the boot and climbed in, Miranda in front, Natalie in the backseat. She opened her handbag, withdrew her favorite green hijab, and pinned it piously into place. She was Leila from Sumayriyya. Leila who loved Ziad. Leila who wanted vengeance.
Contrary to her assumptions, Natalie had not made the crossing from Santorini to Bodrum alone. Yaakov Rossman had accompanied her on the first leg of the journey; Oded, the second. In fact, he had snapped a photo of her climbing into the back of the Mercedes, which he transmitted to King Saul Boulevard and the safe house in Seraincourt.
Within minutes of leaving the terminal, the car was headed east on the D330 motorway, watched over by an Ofek 10 Israeli spy satellite. Shortly after two the next morning, the car arrived at the border town of Kilis, where the satellite’s infrared camera observed two figures, both women, entering a small house. They did not remain there long—two hours and twelve minutes, to be precise. Afterward, they crossed the porous border on foot, accompanied by four men, and slipped into another vehicle in the Syrian town of A’zaz. It bore them southward to Raqqa, the unofficial capital of the caliphate. There, cloaked in black, they entered an apartment building near al-Rasheed Park.
By then, it was approaching four a.m. in Paris. Sleepless, Gabriel slipped behind the wheel of a rented car and drove to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where he boarded a flight to Washington. It was time to have a word with Langley, and thus make the disaster complete.
34
N STREET, GEORGETOWN
RAQQA? ARE YOU OUT OF your fucking mind?”
It was uncharacteristic of Adrian Carter to use profanity, especially of the Anglo-Saxon copulatory variety. He was the son of an Episcopal minister from New England. He regarded foul language as the refuge of lesser minds, and those who used it in his presence, even powerful politicians, were rarely invited back to his office on the seventh floor of the CIA’s Langley headquarters. Carter was the chief of the Agency’s Directorate of Operations, the longest serving in the Agency’s history. For a brief period after 9/11, Carter’s kingdom had been known as the National Clandestine Service. But his new director, his sixth in just ten years, had decided to call it by its old name. That’s what the Agency did when it made mistakes; it swapped nameplates and moved desks. Carter’s fingerprints were on many of the Agency’s greatest failures, from the failure to predict the collapse of the Soviet Union to the botched National Intelligence Estimate regarding Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction, and yet somehow he endured. He was the man who knew too much. He was untouchable.
Like Paul Rousseau, he did not look the role of spymaster. With his tousled hair, outdated mustache, and underpowered voice, he might have been mistaken for a therapist who passed his days listening to confessions of affairs and inadequacies. His unthreatening appearance, like his flair for languages, had been a valuable asset, both in the field, where he had served with distinction in several postings, and at headquarters. Adversaries and allies alike tended to underestimate Carter, a blunder Gabriel had never made. He had worked closely with Carter on several high-profile operations—including the one in which Hannah Weinberg had played a small role—but America’s nuclear deal with Iran had altered the dynamics of their relationship. Where once Langley and the Office had worked hand-in-glove to sabotage Iran’s nuclear ambitions, the United States, under the deal’s provisions, was now sworn to protect what remained of Tehran’s atomic infrastructure. Gabriel planned to spy the daylights out of Iran to make sure it was not violating the agreement’s provisions. And if he saw any evidence that the mullahs were still enriching uranium or building delivery systems, he would advise his prime minister to strike militarily. And under no circumstances would he consult first with his good friend and ally Adrian Carter.
“Is he one of theirs,” asked Carter now, “or one of yours?”
“She,” said Gabriel. “And she’s one of ours.”
Carter swore softly. “Maybe you really have lost your mind.”
From a pump-action thermos flask atop a credenza, he drew himself a cup of coffee. They were in the sitting room of a redbrick Federal house on N Street in Georgetown, the crown jewel of the CIA’s vast network of safe houses in metropolitan Washington. Gabriel had been a frequent guest at the house during the salad days of the Office’s post–9/11 relationship with Langley. He had planned operations there, recruited agents there, and once, early in the American president’s first term, he had agreed to hunt down and kill a terrorist who happened to carry an American passport in his pocket. Such had been the nature of the relationship. Gabriel had willingly served as a black branch office of the CIA, carrying out operations that, for political reasons, Carter could not undertake himself. But soon Gabriel would be the chief of his service, which meant that, for protocol’s sake, he would outrank Carter. Secretly, Gabriel suspected that Carter wanted nothing more than to be a chief himself. His past, however, would not allow it. In the months after 9/11, he had locked terrorists in secret black sites, rendered them to countries that tortured, and subjected them to interrogation methods of the sort that Gabriel had just countenanced in a farmhouse in the north of France. In short, Carter had done the dirty work necessary to prevent another al-Qaeda spectacular on the American homeland. And for his punishment he would be forever forced to knock politely on the doors of lesser men.
“I didn’t realize the Office had any interest in going after ISIS,” he was saying.
“Someone has to do it,
Adrian. It might as well be us.”
Carter frowned at Gabriel over his shoulder. Pointedly, he neglected to offer Gabriel any of the coffee.
“The last time I talked to Uzi about Syria, he was more than content to let the crazies fight it out. The enemy of my enemy is my friend—isn’t that the golden rule in your charming little neighborhood? As long as the regime, the Iranians, Hezbollah, and the Sunni jihadists were all killing each other, the Office was content to sit in the orchestra section and enjoy the show. So don’t stand there and lecture me about sitting on my hands and doing nothing about ISIS.”
“Uzi isn’t going to be the chief for long.”
“That’s the rumor,” agreed Carter. “In fact, we were expecting the transition to occur several months ago and were quite surprised when Uzi let us know he would be staying on for an indefinite period of time. For a while we wondered whether the reports regarding the unfortunate death of Uzi’s chosen successor were true. Now we know the real reason why Uzi is still the chief. His successor has decided to try to penetrate ISIS’s global terror network with a live agent, a noble goal but incredibly dangerous.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“For the record,” said Carter, “I was very relieved to learn that the reports of your demise were premature. Maybe someday you’ll tell me why you did it.”
“Maybe someday. And, yes,” Gabriel added, “I’d love a coffee.”
Carter squeezed out a second cup. “I would have thought you’d had your fill of Syria after your last operation. How much did that one cost you? Eight billion dollars rings a bell.”
“Eight point two,” answered Gabriel. “But who’s counting?”
“Rather steep for a single human life.”
“It was the best deal I ever made. And you would have made the same one in my position.”
“But I wasn’t in your position,” said Carter, “because you didn’t tell us about that operation, either.”
“And you didn’t tell us that the administration was secretly negotiating with the Iranians, did you, Adrian? After all the work we did together to delay the program, you blindsided us.”
“I didn’t blindside you, my president did. I don’t make policy, I steal secrets and produce analysis. Actually,” Carter added after a thoughtful pause, “I don’t do much of that anymore. Mainly, I kill terrorists.”
“Not enough of them.”
“I take it you’re referring to our policy regarding ISIS.”
“If that’s what you want to call it. First, you failed to see the gathering storm. And then you refused to pack a raincoat and an umbrella.”
“We weren’t the only ones to miss the rise of ISIS. The Office missed it, too.”
“We were preoccupied with Iran at the time. You remember Iran, don’t you, Adrian?”
There was a silence. “Let’s not do this,” said Carter after a moment. “We accomplished too much together to allow a politician to come between us.”
It was an olive branch. With a nod, Gabriel accepted it.
“It’s true,” said Carter. “We were late to the ISIS party. It is also true that even after arriving at the party we avoided the buffet and the punch bowl. You see, after many years of attending such parties, we’ve grown weary of them. Our president has made it clear that the last one, the one in Iraq, was a crashing bore. Expensive, too, in American blood and treasure. And he has no interest in throwing another one in Syria, especially when it conflicts with the narrative.”
“What narrative is that?”
“The one about how we overreacted to nine-eleven. The one about how terrorism is a nuisance, not a threat. The one about how we can absorb another strike like the one that brought our economy and transportation system to its knees, and be stronger as a result. And let us not forget,” Carter added, “the president’s unfortunate remarks about ISIS being the jayvee team. Presidents don’t like being proved wrong.”
“Neither do spies, for that matter.”
“I don’t make policy,” Carter repeated. “I produce intelligence. And at the moment, that intelligence is painting a dire picture of what we’re up against. The attacks in Paris and Amsterdam were but a preview of coming attractions. The movie is coming to theaters everywhere, including here in America.”
“If I had to guess,” said Gabriel, “it’s going to be a blockbuster.”
“The president’s closest advisers agree. They’re concerned an attack on the homeland so late in his second term will leave an indelible stain on his legacy. They’ve told the Agency in no uncertain terms to keep the beast at bay, at least until the president gets on Marine One for the last time.”
“Then I suggest you get busy, Adrian, because the beast is already at the gates.”
“We’re aware of that. But unfortunately the beast is largely immune to our dominance in cyberspace, and we have no human assets in ISIS to speak of.” Carter paused, then added, “Until now.”
Gabriel was silent.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were trying to get inside?”
“Because it’s our operation.”
“You’re working alone?”
“We have partners.”
“Where?”
“Western Europe and the region.”
“The French and the Jordanians?”
“The British crashed the party, too.”
“They’re a lot of fun, the British.” Carter paused, then asked, “So why are you coming to us now?”
“Because I’d like you to avoid dropping a bomb or firing a missile into an apartment building near al-Rasheed Park in downtown Raqqa.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
Carter smiled. “It’s good to have you back in town, Gabriel. It’s been too long since your last visit.”
35
N STREET, GEORGETOWN
IT WAS DEEP SUMMER in Washington, that inhospitable time of year when most well-heeled residents of Georgetown flee their little village for second homes in Maine or Martha’s Vineyard or the mountains of Sun Valley and Aspen. With good reason, thought Gabriel; the heat was equatorial. As always, he wondered why America’s founders had willingly placed their capital in the middle of a malarial swamp. Jerusalem had chosen the Jews. The Americans had only themselves to blame.
“Why are we walking, Adrian? Why can’t we sit in the air conditioning and drink mint juleps like everyone else?”
“I needed to stretch my legs. Besides, I would have thought you’d be accustomed to the heat. This is nothing compared to the Jezreel Valley.”
“There’s a reason why I love Cornwall. It isn’t hot there.”
“It will be soon. Langley estimates that because of global warming, the south of England will one day be among the world’s largest producers of premium wine.”
“If Langley believes that,” said Gabriel, “then I’m sure it won’t happen.”
They had reached the edge of Georgetown University, educator of future American diplomats, retirement home of many grounded spies. After leaving the safe house, Gabriel had told Carter about his unlikely partnership with Paul Rousseau and Fareed Barakat, and about an ISIS project manager in London named Jalal Nasser, and about an ISIS talent spotter in Brussels named Nabil Awad. Now, as they walked along Thirty-seventh Street, clinging to the thin shadows for cool, Gabriel told Carter the rest of it—that he and his team had made Nabil Awad disappear from the streets of Molenbeek without a trace, that they had kept him alive in the minds of ISIS in the tradition of the great wartime deceivers, that they had used him to feed Jalal Nasser the name of a promising recruit, a woman from a banlieue north of Paris. ISIS had sent her on an all-expenses-paid trip to Santorini and then spirited her to Turkey and across the border into Syria. Gabriel did not mention the woman’s name—not her cover name and certainly not her real name—and Carter had the professional good manners not to ask.
“She’s Jewish, this girl of yours?”
“Not so you’d know.�
��
“God help you, Gabriel.”
“He usually does.”
Carter smiled. “I don’t suppose this girl of yours referred to herself as Umm Ziad online, did she?”
Gabriel was silent.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Turbulence,” said Carter.
Gabriel knew the code name. Turbulence was an ultra-secret NSA computer surveillance program that constantly swept the Internet for militant Web sites and jihadist chat rooms.
“NSA identified her as a potential extremist not long after she popped up on the Web,” Carter explained. “They tried to plant surveillance software inside her computer, but it proved resistant to all forms of assault. They couldn’t even figure out where she was operating. Now we know why.” With a sidelong glance at Gabriel, he asked, “Who’s Ziad, by the way?”
“The dead boyfriend.”
“She’s a black widow, your girl?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Nice touch.”
They rounded the corner into P Street and walked beside a high stone wall bordering a cloistered convent. The redbrick pavements were empty except for Carter’s security detail. Two bodyguards walked before them, two behind.
“You’ll be happy to know,” said Carter, “that your new friend Fareed Barakat didn’t breathe a word of this to me when we spoke last. He never mentioned anything about Saladin, either.” He paused, then added, “I guess ten million dollars in a Swiss bank account only buys so much loyalty these days.”
“Does he exist?”
“Saladin? Without question, or someone like him. And there’s no way he’s Syrian.”
“Is he one of us?”
“A professional intelligence officer?”
“Yes.”
“We think he might be ex-Iraqi Mukhabarat.”
“So did Nabil Awad.”
“May he rest in peace.” Carter frowned. “Is he really dead, or was that shootout a ruse, too?”
