Portrait of a Spy ga-11

by Daniel Silva

  Zoe remained blissfully unaware of the intrigue swirling around her. Following Gabriel’s carefully prepared script, she refrained from further contact with AAB or its employees. To help fill the empty hours, she visited museums and took long walks along the Seine, which allowed Eli Lavon and the rest of the field operatives to determine that she was free of any surveillance. As two more days slipped past with no word from Nadia, Zoe’s producer in New York began to grow impatient. “I want you back in the States on Monday at the latest,” he told her by telephone, “with or without the exclusive. It’s simply a question of money. Nadia has barrels full of it. We’re pinching every penny.”

  The call darkened the mood at the Seraincourt safe house, as did the speech given by the French president that afternoon to an emergency session of the National Assembly. “It is not a question of whether France will be attacked by terrorists again,” the president warned, “but only a question of when and where. It is a sad fact that more lives will be lost to the fires of extremism. Regrettably, this is what it means to be a citizen of Europe in the twenty-first century.”

  A few minutes after the speech ended, a message arrived from the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. It was just four characters in length—two letters followed by two numbers—but its meaning was unambiguous. God was cooling his heels in a Montmartre safe flat. And God wanted a word with Gabriel in private.

  Chapter 26

  Montmartre, Paris

  THE APARTMENT HOUSE STOOD ON the rue Lepic, not far from the cemetery. It was gray in color and seven floors in height, with wrought-iron balustrades and garret rooms across the top. A single leafless tree rose from the center courtyard and from the neat foyer spiraled a staircase with a well-worn runner that muffled Gabriel’s footfalls as he ascended swiftly to the third floor. The door to apartment 3A hung slightly ajar; in the sitting room was an elderly man dressed in pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. He had settled himself at the edge of a brocade-covered wing chair with his legs slightly splayed and his large hands bunched atop the crook of his olive wood cane, like a traveler on a rail platform resigned to a long wait. Between two yellowed fingers burned the stub of a filterless cigarette. Acrid smoke swirled above his head like a private storm cloud.

  “You’re looking well,” said Ari Shamron. “Being back in the field obviously agrees with you.”

  “It’s not exactly how I’d planned to spend the winter.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have followed a suicide bomber into Covent Garden.”

  Shamron gave a mirthless smile, then crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. Six other stubs were already there, lined in a neat row, like bullets waiting to be loaded into a gun. He added the seventh and peered thoughtfully at Gabriel through the fog of smoke.

  “It’s good to see you, my son. I thought our meeting in Cornwall last summer was going to be our last.”

  “Actually, I was hoping it would be.”

  “Can you at least pretend to have some regard for my feelings?”

  “No.”

  Shamron ignited another cigarette with his old Zippo lighter and purposely blew smoke in Gabriel’s direction.

  “How eloquent,” said Gabriel.

  “Words sometimes fail me. Fortunately, my enemies rarely do. And once again, they’ve managed to deliver you back into the arms of King Saul Boulevard, where you belong.”

  “Temporarily.”

  “Ah, yes,” Shamron agreed with disingenuous haste. “By all means, this arrangement is purely temporary.”

  Gabriel went to the French doors overlooking the rue Lepic and opened one. A chill draft entered the room, bringing with it the sound of the evening traffic.

  “Must you?” Shamron asked, frowning. “My doctor says I should avoid drafts.”

  “Mine says I should avoid secondhand smoke. Thanks to you, I have the lungs of a man who smokes forty cigarettes a day.”

  “At some point you’re going to have to stop blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong with your life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s counterproductive.”

  “It also happens to be the truth.”

  “I’ve always found it best to avoid the truth. It invariably leads to unnecessary complications.”

  Gabriel closed the door, muting the sound of the traffic, and asked Shamron why he had come to Paris.

  “Uzi thought you could use some extra help on the ground.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me you were coming?”

  “It must have slipped his mind.”

  “Does he even know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  Gabriel couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s try this one more time, Ari. Why are you in Paris?”

  “I was worried.”

  “About the operation?”

  “About you,” Shamron said. “That’s what it means to be a father. We worry about our children until the day we die.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Forgive me, my son,” Shamron said after a moment. “I should have known better. After all, that’s my fault, too.”

  He pushed himself upright and, leaning heavily on his cane, moved into the kitchen. The components of a coffee press lay scattered across the countertop, along with an empty teakettle and an open bag of Carte Noir. Shamron made a feeble attempt to light the gas stove before raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. Gabriel nudged him toward the small café-style table and lifted the bag of coffee cautiously to his nose. It smelled like dust.

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” Shamron said, lowering himself into the chair, “it’s the same coffee we drank the last time we were here.”

  “There’s a market next door. Do you think you can survive alone until I get back?”

  With a dismissive wave of his hand, Shamron indicated the coffee was good enough. Gabriel filled the teakettle with water and placed it on the stove to boil.

  “There’s still one thing I don’t understand,” Shamron said, watching him carefully.

  “It’s really not that complicated, Ari. First you pour in the coffee, then you add the water, then you push the little plunger.”

  “I was referring to Covent Garden. Why did you follow him? Why didn’t you simply warn Graham Seymour and go back to your cottage by the sea?”

  Gabriel made no response.

  “Will you allow me to offer a possible explanation?”

  “If you insist.”

  “You went after him because you knew full well the British had neither the courage nor the resolve to stop him on their own. Our European friends are in the midst of a full-blown existential crisis. I’m convinced it’s one of the reasons they despise us. We have a purpose. We believe our cause is just. They believe in nothing except their thirty-five-hour workweek, their global warming, and their annual six-week vacation in the south. What boggles the mind is why you choose to live among them.”

  “Because once upon a time they actually believed in God, and their faith inspired them to paint like angels.”

  “That’s true,” Shamron said. “But faith in God now resides almost exclusively in the jihadis. Unfortunately, it’s a faith that was born of Wahhabi intolerance and fed by Saudi money. After 9/11, the Saudis promised to put an end to the incitement that gave rise to Bin Laden and al-Qaeda. But now, just ten years later, Saudi money is once again fueling the hatred, with scarcely a word of protest from the Americans.”

  “They’ve managed to convince themselves that the Saudis are an important ally in the fight against terrorism.”

  “They’re delusional,” Shamron said. “But it’s not entirely their fault. Oil isn’t the only thing flowing from Saudi Arabia to the West. There’s also a great deal of intelligence in the pipeline. The Saudi GID is constantly tipping off the CIA and the European services about potential plots and suspicious individuals. O
ccasionally, the tips contain actionable intelligence, but most of it is complete and utter crap.”

  “You’re not actually suggesting,” Gabriel said sardonically, “that Saudi intelligence is playing the same old double game of combating the jihadists while at the same time supporting them?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. And the Americans are so economically weak at the moment they’re in no position to do anything about it.”

  The teakettle began to hiss. Gabriel filled the press with boiling water and stood over it while waiting for the coffee to steep. He glanced at Shamron. The dour expression on his face made it abundantly clear he was still thinking about the Americans.

  “Every American administration has its buzzwords. This one likes to speak in terms of equity. They’re constantly reminding us of the equity they have invested across the Middle East. They have equity in Iraq, equity in Afghanistan, and equity in maintaining a stable price of oil. At the moment, we don’t count for much on the American balance sheet. But if you succeed in neutralizing Rashid’s network . . .”

  “It might add a bit of much-needed equity to our account.”

  Shamron nodded grimly. “That doesn’t mean, however, that we have to conduct ourselves like a wholly owned subsidiary of the CIA. In fact, the prime minister is adamant that we use this opportunity to take care of some unfinished business.”

  “Like Malik al-Zubair?”

  Shamron nodded.

  “Something tells me you knew Malik was involved in this from the beginning.”

  “Let’s just say I had a strong suspicion that might be the case.”

  “So when Adrian Carter asked me to come to Washington—”

  “I set aside my usual misgivings and agreed without hesitation.”

  “How generous of you,” said Gabriel. “So why are you worried now?”

  “Nadia.”

  “She was your idea.”

  “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s been fooling us all these years. Maybe she’s more like her father than we think.” He paused, then added, “Maybe we should cut her loose and find someone else.”

  “That person doesn’t exist.”

  “So forge him,” Shamron said. “I hear you’re quite good at that.”

  “It’s not possible, and you know it.”

  Gabriel carried the coffee to the table and poured out two cups. Shamron dumped sugar into his and stirred it thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Even if Nadia al-Bakari agrees to work for you,” Shamron said, “you will have no means of keeping her under discipline. We have our traditional methods. Kesef, kavod, kussit—money, respect, sex. Nadia al-Bakari has no need for any of those things. Therefore, she cannot be controlled.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll just have to trust each other.”

  “Trust?” Shamron asked. “I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I’m not familiar with that word.” He drank some of his coffee and grimaced. “There’s an old proverb that I’m particularly fond of. It says the veil that hides the future from us is woven by an angel of mercy. Unfortunately, there’s no veil that can shield us from our past. It’s filled with ghosts. The ghosts of loved ones. The ghosts of enemies. They’re with us always. They’re here with us now.” His rheumy blue eyes searched the tiny kitchen for a moment before settling again on Gabriel. “Perhaps it’s better to leave the past undisturbed. Better for Nadia. Better for you.”

  Gabriel examined Shamron carefully. “Am I mistaken, Ari, or are you actually feeling guilty about pulling me back in?”

  “You made your wishes clear last summer in Cornwall. I should have respected them.”

  “You never did before. Why start now?”

  “Because you’ve earned it. And the last thing you need at this stage of your life is a confrontation with the child of a man you killed in cold blood.”

  “I don’t plan to confess my sins.”

  “You might not have a choice in the matter,” Shamron said. “But promise me one thing, Gabriel. If you insist on using her, be certain you don’t make the same mistake the Americans made with Rashid. Assume she is a mortal enemy and treat her accordingly.”

  “Why don’t you join us? We have plenty of room at the safe house for one more.”

  “I’m an old man,” Shamron said gloomily. “I’d just be in the way.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to sit here alone and worry. These days that seems to be my lot in life.”

  “Don’t start worrying just yet, Ari. It’s possible Nadia won’t come.”

  “She’ll come,” Shamron said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because in her heart she knows that you are the one whispering in her ear. And she won’t be able to resist the opportunity to have a look at your face.”

  Operational doctrine dictated that Gabriel return immediately to Château Treville, but anger obliged him to make a pilgrimage to the Champs-Élysées. He arrived shortly after midnight to find that all evidence of the bombing had been carefully erased. The shops and restaurants had been repaired. The buildings had been given new windows and a fresh coat of paint. The paving stones had been washed of the blood. There was no expression of outrage, no memorial to the dead, no plea for sanity in a world gone mad. Indeed, were it not for the pair of gendarmes standing watch over the street corner, it might have been possible to imagine that nothing disagreeable had ever occurred there. For a moment, Gabriel regretted his decision to come, but as he was leaving, a secure e-mail from the team at Seraincourt unexpectedly lifted his spirits. It said that Nadia al-Bakari, the daughter of a man whom Gabriel had killed in the Old Port of Cannes, had just been overheard canceling a trip to Saint Petersburg. Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his coat pocket and walked on through the lamplight. The veil that hid his future had been torn in two. He saw a beautiful woman with raven hair crossing the forecourt of a château north of Paris. And an old man sitting alone in a Montmartre apartment, worrying himself to death.

  Chapter 27

  Paris

  NADIA AL-BAKARI PERSONALLY TELEPHONED Zoe Reed at 10:22 a.m. the next morning to invite her to tea at her mansion on the Avenue Foch. Zoe politely declined. It seemed she already had plans.

  “I’m spending the afternoon with an old friend from London. He made a pile of money in private equity and bought himself a château in the Val-d’Oise. I’m afraid he’s throwing a small party in my honor.”

  “A birthday party?”

  “How did you know?”

  “My security staff conducted a discreet background check before our lunch at the Crillon. As of today you are thirty—”

  “Please don’t say it aloud. I’m trying to pretend it’s just a bad dream.”

  Nadia managed to laugh. Then she asked the name of Zoe’s friend from London.

  “Fowler. Thomas Fowler.”

  “What firm is he with?”

  “Thomas doesn’t do firms. Thomas is militantly independent. Apparently, you met him a few years ago in the Caribbean. One of the French islands. Can’t remember which. St. Barts, I think it was. Or maybe it was Antigua.”

  “I’ve never set foot on Antigua.”

  “So it must have been St. Barts.”

  There was silence.

  “Did I lose you?” asked Zoe.

  “No, I’m still here.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Where did I meet him?”

  “He said it was in a bar near one of the beaches.”

  “Which bar?”

  “Not sure about that.”

  “Which beach?”

  “Don’t think Thomas mentioned it.”

  “Was Thomas alone that day?”

  “Actually, he was with his wife. Lovely girl. Bit on the pushy side, but I suppose that comes with the territory.”

  “Which territory is that?”

  “Being the wife of a billionaire like Thomas.”

  More silence, longer than the first.
r />   “I’m afraid I don’t remember him.”

  “He certainly remembers you.”

  “Describe him, please.”

  “Tallish chap. Built like a lamppost. A bit more interesting, once you get to know him. I think he did a deal a few years ago with an associate of your father.”

  “Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”

  “Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”

  “What are you saying, Zoe?”

  On the second floor of Château Treville was a somber music room with walls covered in red silk and lavish window treatments to match. At one end of the room was a harpsichord with gilded moldings and a pastoral oil painting on the lid. At the other was an antique French Renaissance table with walnut inlay where Gabriel and Eli Lavon sat staring into a pair of computers. On one was a blinking light showing Zoe Reed’s current location and altitude. On the other was a recording of the conversation she had conducted at 10:22 with Nadia al-Bakari. Ten times Gabriel and Lavon had listened to it. Ten times they could find no excuse not to proceed. It was now 11:55. Lavon frowned as Gabriel clicked the play icon one final time.

  “Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”

  “Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”

  “What are you saying, Zoe?”

  “I’m saying you should come to the party. I know Thomas would simply adore it, and it would give us a chance to spend some more time together.”

  “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because your friend . . . forgive me, Zoe, but please tell me his name again.”

  “Thomas Fowler. Like the character in the Graham Greene novel.”