The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  “Was there any proof of life?”

  Khalid handed over a copy of the photograph. The child was holding the previous day’s edition of the Telegraph and staring directly into the lens of the camera. She had her father’s eyes. She looked exhausted and unkempt, but not at all frightened.

  Gabriel returned the photograph. “No father should ever have to see a picture like that.”

  “Perhaps I deserve it.”

  “Perhaps you do.” Gabriel laid a photograph of his own on the table. A man sitting in a café in Annecy. “Do you recognize him?”

  “No.”

  “What about this man?” Gabriel laid a second photo on the table. It was the DGSI surveillance shot of Rafiq al-Madani sitting next to Khalid aboard Tranquillity.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The Tatler.” Gabriel withdrew the photo. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I don’t have friends. I have subjects, houseguests, and family.”

  “Into which category does al-Madani fall?”

  “He is a temporary ally.”

  “I thought you were going to shut down the flow of money to the jihadis and the Salafists.”

  Khalid’s smile was condescending. “You don’t know much about Arabs, do you?” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “Shwaya, shwaya. Slowly, slowly. Little by little.”

  “Which means you’re still funding the extremists with the help of your friend Rafiq al-Madani.”

  “Which means I have to move carefully and with the support of someone like Rafiq. Someone who has the trust of important clerics. Someone who can provide me with the necessary cover. Otherwise, the House of Saud will crumble, and Arabia will be ruled by the sons of al-Qaeda and ISIS. Is that what you want?”

  “You’re playing the same old double game.”

  “I am holding a tiger by the ears. And if I let go, it will devour me.”

  “It already has.” Gabriel called up a message on his BlackBerry. It was the message he had received while sitting in Christopher Keller’s kitchen. “It was al-Madani who told you about the second demand letter. He did so at three twelve p.m. London time.”

  “I see you’re monitoring my phone.”

  “Not yours, al-Madani’s. And five minutes after he called you, he sent an encrypted message to someone else. Because we were seeing his keystrokes, we had no problem reading it.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Enough to make it clear he knows where your daughter is.”

  “May I see the message?”

  Gabriel handed over his phone.

  The Saudi swore softly in Arabic. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Perhaps you should find out where your daughter is first.”

  “That’s your job.”

  “My role in this affair is officially over. I’m not going to get myself into the middle of a Saudi family fight.”

  “You know what they say about family, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the other F-word.”

  Gabriel smiled in spite of himself.

  Khalid returned the BlackBerry. “Perhaps we can come to some sort of business arrangement.”

  “Save your money, Khalid.”

  “Will you at least help me?”

  “You’d like me to interrogate one of your government officials?”

  “Of course not. I’ll question him myself. It shouldn’t take long.” Khalid lowered his voice. “After all, I have something of a reputation.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Where shall we interrogate him?” asked Khalid.

  “It has to be somewhere isolated. Somewhere the police won’t find us.” Gabriel paused. “Somewhere the neighbors won’t hear a bit of noise.”

  “I have just the place.”

  “Can you get him there without making him suspicious?”

  Khalid smiled. “All I need is my phone.”

  26

  Haute-Savoie, France

  Khalid had a Gulfstream waiting at London City Airport. They stopped at Paris–Le Bourget long enough to collect Mikhail and Sarah and then flew on to Annecy, where a caravan of black Range Rovers waited on the darkened tarmac. It was a drive of twenty minutes to Khalid’s private Versailles. The household staff, a mixture of French and Saudi nationals, stood like a choir in the soaring entrance hall. Khalid greeted them curtly before escorting Gabriel and the others into the château’s main public room—the great hall, as he referred to it. It was long and rectangular, like a basilica, and hung with a portion of Khalid’s collection, including Salvator Mundi, his dubious Leonardo. Gabriel studied the panel carefully, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Then he crouched and examined the brushstrokes in raked lighting.

  “Well?” asked Sarah.

  “How could you let him buy this thing?”

  “Is it a Leonardo?”

  “Maybe a small portion of it, a long time ago. But it isn’t a Leonardo anymore.”

  Khalid joined them. “Magnificent, is it not?”

  “I don’t know what was dumber,” answered Gabriel. “Killing Omar Nawwaf or wasting a half billion dollars on an overrestored workshop devotional piece.”

  “Workshop? Miss Bancroft assured me it was an authentic Leonardo.”

  “Miss Bancroft studied art history at the Courtauld and Harvard. I’m confident she did no such thing.” Gabriel watched despairingly as one of the servants entered the hall bearing a tray of drinks. “This isn’t a party, Khalid.”

  “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have refreshment after our journey.”

  “How many staff are there?”

  “Twenty-two, I believe.”

  “How do you possibly manage?”

  The irony bounced harmlessly off Khalid. “The senior staff are Saudis,” he explained, “but most of my employees are French.”

  “Most?”

  “The gardeners are Moroccans and West Africans.” His tone was derogatory. “The Saudis live in a separate house at the northern end of the property. The others live in Annecy or nearby villages.”

  “Give them all the night off. The drivers, too.”

  “But—”

  “And switch off the security cameras,” interjected Gabriel. “The way you did in Istanbul.”

  “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “Flip the little switch from on to off. That should do the trick.”

  Khalid had instructed Rafiq al-Madani to come to the château alone. Al-Madani, however, had promptly disobeyed his future king by requesting a car and driver from the embassy motor pool. They left the eighth arrondissement of Paris at six p.m. and, followed by a team of Office watchers, headed for the A6. Based on their conversation, which Gabriel and Khalid monitored via the compromised phone, it was clear the two men were well acquainted. It was also clear that both were armed.

  When they reached the town of Mâcon, Gabriel commandeered one of Khalid’s Range Rovers and drove with Sarah into the countryside. The night was cold and clear. He parked on a rise overlooking the intersection of the D14 and the D38, doused the headlamps, and switched off the engine.

  “What do we do if a gendarme happens upon us?”

  “Office doctrine dictates we pretend to be lovers.”

  Sarah smiled. “My wildest dream come true.”

  Gabriel’s BlackBerry lay on the console between them. It was emitting the audio feed from al-Madani’s phone. At present, it was limited to the drone of a German-made engine and a rhythmic rattling that sounded like the clicking of chess pieces.

  “What is that?”

  “Prayer beads.”

  “He sounds worried.”

  “Wouldn’t you be if Khalid sent for you in the middle of the night?”

  “He did it all the time.”

  “And you never suspected he wasn’t the great reformer he was made out to be?”

  “The Khalid I knew wouldn’t have countenanced the murder of
Omar Nawwaf. I suppose having all that power changed him. It was thrust upon him too quickly, and it brought out the hamartia in his character. The fatal flaw,” added Sarah.

  “I know what it means, Dr. Bancroft. Thanks to the Office, I never finished my formal education, but I’m not an idiot.”

  “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

  “If I’m so smart, why am I sitting by the side of a French road in the middle of the night?”

  “Trying to prevent our tragic hero from destroying himself.”

  “Maybe I should let it happen.”

  “You’re a restorer, Gabriel. You fix things.” From the BlackBerry came the clicking of the prayer beads. “Khalid always told me something like this would happen. He knew they would try to destroy him. He said it would be someone close to him. Someone from inside his family.”

  “It’s not a family, it’s a business. And the spoils go to those in power.”

  “Is that what this is about? Money?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Al-Madani’s phone pinged with an incoming text message. The clicking of the beads fell silent.

  “Who do you suppose it’s from?”

  A moment later Gabriel’s phone vibrated. The message was from the operations desk at Unit 8200. “It was Khalid. He was wondering when Rafiq might arrive.”

  They listened to al-Madani type out a response and send it to Khalid with a bloop. Then al-Madani typed and transmitted a second message. A transcript arrived on Gabriel’s phone a few seconds later, along with the number to which it had been sent.

  “He just told the kidnappers he’s about to meet with Khalid. He promised to send an update as soon as it’s over.”

  “There he is.”

  Sarah pointed toward a single car, a Mercedes S-Class sedan, moving across the landscape. It passed through the intersection where Khalid’s child had been taken—click-click, click-click, click-click—and disappeared from view. Gabriel allowed thirty seconds to elapse and then started the Range Rover’s engine.

  The rattle of the prayer beads grew more insistent as the Mercedes made the final run toward Khalid’s château. Rafiq al-Madani murmured an Arabic expression of surprise that the gold-crowned iron gate was open. He was surprised, too, to find none other than Khalid himself waiting outside in the cold of the motor court.

  There followed the opening and closing of a well-made car door and the usual Islamic greetings of peace. Next came the sound of footfalls, first on gravel, then marble. Al-Madani remarked about the lack of light in the entrance hall. Khalid explained, somewhat genially, that his four-hundred-million-euro palace had faulty wiring.

  The remark elicited from al-Madani a staccato laugh. It would be his last. There was a struggle, very brief, followed by the sound of several blows connecting with a cheekbone and jaw. Later, Gabriel would chastise Keller and Mikhail for using excessive force to neutralize their subject. Both took exception to his characterization. It was Khalid who had administered the terrible beating, they said, not they.

  By the time Gabriel turned into the motor court, the compromised phone had been switched off and was no longer emitting a signal. Mikhail was inflicting permanent damage to the right arm of the driver, who had foolishly refused a polite request to hand over his weapon. Inside the château, Keller was duct-taping a semiconscious Rafiq al-Madani to a chair in the great hall. His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud was twirling a set of prayer beads around the first two fingers of his left hand. And in his right hand was a gun.

  27

  Haute-Savoie, France

  It took Rafiq al-Madani another moment or two to fully appreciate the severity of his circumstances. Slowly, his chin rose from his chest and his eyes cast uncertainly around the enormous room. They settled first on his future regent, who was still fiddling with the prayer beads, and then on Gabriel. They were soft and brown, al-Madani’s eyes, like the eyes of a deer. With his elongated face and unruly dark hair, he bore an unfortunate resemblance to Osama bin Laden.

  Another moment passed before al-Madani recognized the face of Israel’s intelligence chief. The soft brown eyes widened. The Saudi was frightened, observed Gabriel, but not surprised.

  Al-Madani looked contemptuously at Khalid and addressed him in Saudi Arabic. “I see you brought along your friend the Jew to do your dirty work. And you wonder why you have so many enemies at home.”

  Khalid lashed out with the butt of the pistol. Al-Madani glared at Sarah as blood flowed from a gash above his left eye. “Cover your face in my presence, you American bitch!”

  Khalid raised the weapon in anger.

  “No!” shouted Sarah. “Not again.”

  When Khalid lowered the gun, al-Madani managed to smile through his pain. “Taking orders from a woman? Soon you’ll be dressing like one, too.”

  Khalid struck him again. Sarah winced at the sound of bone cracking.

  “Where is she?” demanded Khalid.

  “Who?” asked al-Madani through a mouthful of blood.

  “My daughter.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because you’re in contact with the kidnappers.” Khalid seized al-Madani’s phone from Keller. “Shall I show you the text messages?”

  Al-Madani said nothing.

  Khalid quickly pressed his advantage. “Why did you harm my daughter, Rafiq? Why didn’t you just kill me instead?”

  “I tried, but it couldn’t be done. You were too well protected.”

  The sudden confession surprised even Khalid. “I treated you well, did I not?”

  “You treated me like a servant. You used me as a means of keeping the ulema in line while you gave women the right to drive and befriended the Americans and the Jews.”

  “We have to change, Rafiq.”

  “Islam is the answer!”

  “Islam is the problem, habibi.”

  “You are an apostate,” seethed al-Madani.

  There was no greater insult in Islam. Khalid endured the charge with admirable restraint. “Who put you up to this, Rafiq?”

  “I acted alone.”

  “You’re not smart enough to plan something like this.”

  Al-Madani managed a contemptuous smile. “Reema might think otherwise.”

  The blow was sudden and vicious. “Her name is Princess Reema.” Khalid’s face was contorted with rage. “And you, Rafiq, are not fit to lick the bottom of her shoes.”

  “She is the daughter of an apostate. And if you don’t abdicate by midnight tomorrow, she will die.”

  Khalid held the gun before al-Madani’s eyes.

  “What are you going to do? Kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I do tell you? What then?” Al-Madani answered his own question. “I’m already dead.”

  Khalid ground the end of the barrel into the center of al-Madani’s forehead.

  “Kill me, Your Royal Highness. It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

  Khalid laid his finger on the trigger.

  “Don’t do it,” said Gabriel calmly.

  Khalid glanced over his shoulder and saw Gabriel studying the screen of his BlackBerry.

  “We located the position of the phone at the other end of those text messages.”

  “Where is it?”

  “A house in the Basque Country of Spain.”

  Rafiq al-Madani spat a mouthful of blood and mucus in Gabriel’s direction. “Jew!”

  Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his pocket. “On second thought,” he said, “go ahead and kill him.”

  After breaking the driver’s arm and dislocating his shoulder, Mikhail had forced him into the boot of the Mercedes S-Class sedan. Now, with Keller’s help, he added Rafiq al-Madani. Khalid looked on in approval, the gun in his hand.

  He turned to Gabriel. “What shall we do with them?”

  “I suppose we could take them to Spain.”

  “It’s a long way to ride in the boot of a car. Per
haps we should leave them in some deserted wood here in the Haute-Savoie.”

  “It will be a long, cold night.”

  “The colder the better.” Khalid approached the back of the car and stared down at the two men squeezed into the confined space. “Perhaps there’s something we can do to make them a bit more comfortable.”

  “Like what?”

  Khalid raised the pistol and emptied the magazine into his two subjects. Then he looked over his shoulder at Gabriel and smiled, unaware of the blood spattered on his face. “You didn’t think I was going to kill them in the house, did you? That place cost me a fortune.”

  Gabriel gazed down at the two bullet-torn bodies. “What are we going to do with them now?”

  “Don’t worry.” Khalid slammed the lid. “I’ll take care of it.”

  28

  Auvergne–Rhône–Alpes

  “For the record, I was only joking when I said you should kill him.”

  “Were you? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  They were racing westward along the A89 Autoroute, the chief of the Israeli secret intelligence service and the future king of Saudi Arabia. Gabriel was at the wheel, Khalid was slouched wearily in the passenger seat. Between them, drawing power from the adapter, was Rafiq al-Madani’s iPhone. A few minutes earlier, imitating al-Madani’s cryptic style, Khalid had sent an update to the kidnappers. The gist of the message was that His Royal Highness was desperate to secure the release of his daughter and was preparing to abdicate. As yet, there had been no reply.

  Khalid checked the phone again, then slammed it onto the console.

  “Careful, Prince Hothead. Phones break.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It means you probably shouldn’t have killed Rafiq before we were certain your daughter was really at that address in Spain.”

  “You were the one who said she was there.”

  “What I said,” replied Gabriel, “was that we located the phone. I would have preferred to test the proposition against a living, breathing witness.”