Portrait of a Spy ga-11

by Daniel Silva

  The impact on Dubai’s reeling economy promised to be immense. According to AAB’s own projections, the development would pump more than a hundred million dollars into Dubai’s economy on an annual basis. In the short term, it would send an unambiguous signal to the rest of the global financial community that the emirate was once again open for business. Which was why the minister appeared to be hanging on Nadia’s every word as she toured the site, blueprints in hand, a construction hard hat on her head. The image was carefully crafted on her part. No longer could the Muslim world oppress more than half its population simply because of gender. Only when the Arabs treated women as equals could they regain their former glory.

  After leaving the site, the delegations headed to the minister’s ornate offices to discuss a package of incentives that Dubai was proposing to help close the deal. At the conclusion of the meeting, Nadia was driven to the palace for a private word with the Ruler, after which she embarked on what was described as the private portion of her schedule. It included tea with members of the Dubai Women’s Business Forum, a visit to an Islamic school for girls, and a tour of the migrant workers camp at Sonapur. Moved to tears by the terrible conditions, she broke her long public silence, calling on government and business to impose minimum standards for pay and treatment of migrant workers. She also pledged twenty million dollars of her own money to help construct a new camp at Sonapur, complete with air-conditioned bunkhouses, running water, and basic recreational facilities. Neither Dubai TV nor the Khaleej Times dared to publicize the remarks. The minister had warned them not to.

  It was approaching six in the evening when Nadia left the camp and started back to Dubai city. Darkness had fallen by the time her motorcade reached the Jumeirah Beach district, and the famous dhow-shaped wings of the Burj Al Arab were lit the color of magenta. The general manager and his senior staff were waiting outside the entrance as Nadia emerged from the back of her car, the hem of her abaya soiled by the grime of Sonapur. Weary from a day of travel and meetings that had begun at dawn in Paris, she gave them a perfunctory greeting before heading directly to her usual suite on the forty-second floor. Two members of her security detail were already stationed outside the door. Rafiq al-Kamal gave the rooms a cursory inspection before allowing Nadia to enter.

  “My last meeting of the day will run from nine until ten or so,” she said, tossing the Prada handbag onto a divan in the sitting room. “Tell Mansur to book an eleven o’clock departure slot. And please ask Rahimah to be on time for once in her life. Otherwise, she can fly back to Paris on Air France.”

  “Perhaps I should tell her to be at the airport no later than eleven-thirty.”

  “It’s tempting,” Nadia said, smiling, “but I don’t think her father would appreciate that.”

  Al-Kamal seemed reluctant to leave.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “At the camp today . . .”

  “What is it, Rafiq?”

  “No one ever lifts a finger for those poor wretches. It’s about time someone spoke up. I’m glad it was you.” He paused, then added, “And I was proud to be at your side.”

  She smiled. “Nine o’clock,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  “Zizi’s rules,” he said.

  She nodded. “Zizi’s rules.”

  Alone, Nadia stripped off the abaya and headscarf and changed into the Chanel suit. She covered a portion of her hair with a matching scarf and slipped on the Harry Winston wristwatch. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Adhere to the truth when possible. Lie as a last resort. The truth was staring back at her in the glass. The lie was in the next room. She opened the communicating door to the adjoining suite and knocked twice. The door swung back instantly, revealing a woman who may or may not have been Sarah Bancroft. She placed a finger to her lips and drew Nadia silently inside.

  Chapter 56

  Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

  THE SUITE WAS REGISTERED UNDER the name Thomas Fowler. Thus the jungle of complimentary flowers, the platters of complimentary Arabian sweets, and the unopened bottle of complimentary Dom Pérignon sweating in a bucket of melted ice. The recipient of this largess was pacing the garish sitting room, working over the final details of a land and development deal he had no intention of actually making. Every few seconds, a member of his staff would pose a question or rattle off a few encouraging numbers—all for the benefit of the Ruler’s hidden microphones. None of the staff bothered to acknowledge Nadia’s presence, nor did they seem to think it odd when Sarah immediately led her into the bathroom. In the vanity area was a tentlike structure made of an opaque silver material. Sarah relieved Nadia of her BlackBerry before opening the flap. Gabriel was already seated inside. He gestured for Nadia to sit in the empty chair.

  “A tent in the bathroom,” said Nadia, smiling. “How Bedouin of you.”

  “You’re not the only people who come from the desert.”

  She looked around the interior, clearly intrigued. “What is it?”

  “We call it the chuppah. It allows us to speak freely in rooms we know are bugged.”

  “May I have it when we’re done?”

  He smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

  She touched the fabric. It had a metallic quality.

  “Isn’t the chuppah used in Jewish wedding ceremonies?”

  “We take our vows beneath the chuppah. They’re very important to us.”

  “So is this our wedding ceremony?” she asked, still stroking the fabric.

  “I’m already spoken for. Besides, I gave you a solemn vow in a manor house outside Paris.”

  She placed her hand in her lap. “Your script for today was a work of art,” she said. “I only hope I did it justice.”

  “You were magnificent, Nadia, but that was a rather expensive ad lib at Sonapur.”

  “Twenty million dollars for a new camp? It was the least I could do for them.”

  “Shall I ask the CIA to pick up the tab?”

  “My treat,” she said.

  Gabriel examined Nadia’s Chanel suit. “It fits you well.”

  “Better than the ones I have custom made.”

  “We’re tailors by trade, highly specialized tailors. That suit can do everything except walk into a meeting with a monster who has a great deal of blood on his hands. For that, we need you.” He paused, then said, “Last chance, Nadia.”

  “To back out?”

  “We wouldn’t think of it like that. And none of us would think any less of you.”

  “I don’t break commitments, Mr. Allon—not anymore. Besides, we both know that there isn’t time for second thoughts now.” She looked at the Harry Winston watch. “In fact, I’m expecting a call from my banker any minute. So if you have any final words of advice . . .”

  “Just remember who you are, Nadia. You’re the daughter of Zizi al-Bakari, a descendant of Wahhab. No one tells you where to go, or what to do. And no one ever changes the plan. If they try to change the plan, you tell them the meeting is off. Then you call Mansur and tell him to move up the departure slot. Are we clear?”

  She nodded.

  “We assume the meeting will take place in a suite rather than in a public part of the hotel. It is critical that you make Samir say the room number before you leave the lobby. Insist on it. And if he tries to mumble it, repeat it loudly enough for us to hear. Understood?”

  She nodded again.

  “We’ll try to send someone up in the elevator with you, but he’ll have to get off on a separate floor. After that, you’ll be beyond our reach, and Rafiq will be your only protection. Under no circumstances are you to enter the room without him. This is another red line. If they try to talk you into it, leave immediately. If everything goes smoothly, go inside and start the meeting. This isn’t a social gathering or a political discussion. This is a business transaction. You listen to what he has to say, you tell him what he wants to hear, and then you leave for the airport. Your plane is your lifeboat. And your eleven
o’clock departure slot is your excuse to keep things moving. At ten o’clock you’re—”

  “Out the door,” she said.

  Gabriel nodded. “Remember your BlackBerry etiquette. Offer to switch yours off as a show of your good intentions. Ask them to power off their devices and remove SIM cards. If they refuse or say it isn’t necessary, don’t draw any lines in the sand. It’s not important.”

  “Where are the bugs?”

  “What bugs?”

  “Let’s not play games, Mr. Allon.”

  He tapped the side of the Prada bag and nodded toward the front of the Chanel suit. “It’s possible they’ll ask you to leave the bag in another room. If they do, agree without hesitation. There’s no way they’ll ever find what’s hidden in there.”

  “And if they ask me to remove my clothing?”

  “They’re holy warriors. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Nadia looked down at her bustline.

  “Don’t bother looking for the microphones. You’ll never find them. We could have concealed a camera in the suit as well, but for your safety, we chose not to.”

  “So you won’t be able to see what’s going on in the room?”

  “Once you switch off the BlackBerry, we’ll be blind. That means you’ll be the only one to know what he looks like. If it’s safe—and only if it’s safe—call me after the meeting and tell me something about his appearance. Just a few details. Then hang up and head to the airport. We’ll follow you for as long as we can.”

  “And after that?”

  “You go home to Paris and forget we ever existed.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

  “It won’t be as difficult as you think.” He took hold of her hand. “It’s been an honor to work with you, Nadia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see each other again after tonight.”

  “I will not wish such a thing.” She looked at her watch, the watch her father had given to Sarah, and noticed it was three minutes past nine. “He’s late,” she said. “The Arab disease.”

  “We set it fast intentionally to keep you moving.”

  “What time is it really?” she asked, but before Gabriel could answer, the BlackBerry started to ring. It was nine o’clock sharp. It was time for Nadia to go.

  Chapter 57

  Langley, Virginia

  IT WAS A CURIOSITY OF Ari Shamron’s long and storied career that he had spent almost no time at Langley, a feat he considered one of his greatest accomplishments. Therefore, he was predictably appalled to learn that Uzi Navot had agreed to establish his command post at Langley’s glittering Rashidistan op center. For Shamron, it was an admission of weakness to accept the American invitation, a cardinal sin in the world of espionage, but Navot saw it in more pragmatic terms. The Americans were not the enemy—at least not tonight—and they had technological capabilities that were far too valuable to refuse merely out of professional pride.

  In a minor concession to Shamron, Rashidistan was cleared of the nonessential and uninitiated, leaving only a skeleton crew of the battle-hardened and unrepentant. At 9 p.m. Dubai time, most were hovering anxiously around the pod in the center of the room, where Shamron, Navot, and Adrian Carter sat staring at the latest secure transmission from the Burj Al Arab team. It stated that Nadia al-Bakari was heading to the lobby, with her trusted chief of security Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. The three spymasters knew the message had already been eclipsed by events on the ground, because they were listening to Nadia and al-Kamal striding across the Burj’s soaring 590-foot atrium. The source of the audio was her compromised BlackBerry, which was tucked inside her compromised Prada handbag.

  At 9:04 local time, the device captured a brief conversation between Nadia and her banker, Samir Abbas. Because it was conducted in rapid colloquial Arabic, Carter did not understand it. That was not true, however, for Navot and Shamron.

  “Well?” asked Carter.

  “She’s going upstairs to meet with someone,” Navot said. “Whether it’s Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody remains to be seen.”

  “Were you able to understand the room number?”

  Navot nodded his head.

  “Shall we send it to Gabriel?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “He heard it?”

  “Clear as a bell.”

  The elevator doors slid open without a sound. Nadia allowed Abbas and al-Kamal to step into the corridor first, before following closely after them. Curiously, she felt nothing like fear, only resolution. It was oddly similar to the sense of determination she had carried into her first important business meeting after solidifying her control of AAB Holdings. There had been many members of her father’s team quietly hoping for her to fail—and a few who’d actually conspired against her—but Nadia had managed to surprise them all. When it came to matters of business, she had proven to be her father’s equal. Now she would have to be his equal in a part of his life never written about in the pages of Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. Just a few minutes, she reminded herself. That’s all it would take. A few minutes in one of the safest hotels in the world, and a monster with the blood of thousands on his hands would receive the justice he deserved.

  Abbas stopped at Room 1437 and knocked with the same softness with which Esmeralda tapped on Nadia’s door each morning in Paris. Quite unexpectedly, she thought of the Thomas Tompion clock on her bedside table and of the many unsmiling photographs of her father framed in silver. As she waited for the door to open, she resolved to finally send the clock out for repair. She also vowed to dispose of the photographs. After tonight, she thought, the pretense would come to an end. Her time on earth was limited, and she had no wish to spend her final days beneath the juhayman of a murderer.

  When Abbas knocked a second time, the door retreated halfway, revealing a broad-shouldered man dressed in the white kandoura and ghutra of a native Emirati. He wore tinted eyeglasses rimmed in gold and a neatly trimmed beard with patches of gray around the chin. In the center of his flat forehead was a pronounced zebiba prayer scar that looked as though it had been recently irritated. He looked nothing at all like any of the photo illustrations Nadia had been shown in London.

  The robed figure opened the door a few inches wider and with a movement of his eyes invited Nadia to enter. He permitted Rafiq al-Kamal to follow, but instructed Abbas to return to the lobby. The robed figure had the accent of a man from Upper Egypt. Behind him stood two more men in pristine white robes and headdresses. They, too, were wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses and trimmed beards flecked with gray. When the door closed, the Egyptian raised his hand to his ear and said softly, “Your mobile phone, please.”

  Nadia drew the BlackBerry from her handbag and surrendered it. The Egyptian immediately handed the device to one of his clones, who disabled it with a swiftness that suggested a facility with technology.

  “Now yours,” said Nadia in a clear voice. She nodded toward the other two men and added, “Theirs, too.”

  The broad-shouldered Egyptian was clearly unaccustomed to being addressed by women in anything but a subservient manner. He looked toward his two colleagues and with a nod instructed them to disable their mobile devices. They did so without protest.

  “Are we finished?” asked Nadia.

  “Your bodyguard’s phone,” he said. “And your bag.”

  “What about my bag?”

  “We would feel more comfortable if you left it here by the door. I assure you that your valuables will be safe.”

  Nadia let the bag slip from her shoulder in a way that suggested her patience was at an end. “We don’t have all night, my brothers. If you would like to petition me for another donation, I suggest we get on with it.”

  “Forgive us, Miss al-Bakari, but our enemies have enormous technical resources. Surely a woman in your position knows what can happen when people get careless.”

  Nadia looked at al-Kamal, who responded by handing ove
r his phone.

  “I’m told that you wish to have your bodyguard present during the meeting,” the Egyptian said.

  “No,” Nadia said, “I insist on it.”

  “You trust this man?” he replied, glancing at al-Kamal.

  “With my life.”

  “Very well,” he said. “This way, please.”

  She followed the three robed men into the sitting room of the suite, where two more men in Emirati dress waited in the half-light. One was seated on a couch watching an account of the latest bombing in Pakistan on Al Jazeera. The other was admiring the view of the skyscrapers along Sheikh Zayed Road. He rotated slowly around, like a statue atop a plinth, and appraised Nadia thoughtfully through tinted glasses rimmed in gold. He did not speak. Neither did Nadia. In fact, at that instant, she was not at all certain she was capable of speech.

  “Is something wrong, Miss al-Bakari?” he asked in Jordanian Arabic.

  “You just happen to look a great deal like a man who used to work for my father,” she replied without hesitation.

  He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he glanced at the television screen and said, “You just missed yourself on the evening news. You’ve had quite a busy day today. My compliments, Miss al-Bakari. Your father would have played it the same way. I hear he was always very skillful in the way he mixed legitimate business with zakat.”

  “He taught me well.”

  “Do you really intend to build it?”

  “The resort?” She gave an ambivalent shrug. “The last thing Dubai needs right now is another hotel.”