Portrait of a Spy (34 page)

The inspection complete, the SUV maneuvered its way through a labyrinth of reinforced concrete and steel to the parking lot located along East Executive Drive. Carter and Chiara remained inside the vehicle while Gabriel set out alone up the gentle slope of the drive toward the Executive Mansion. Waiting beneath the awning of the Diplomatic Entrance was a tall, trim figure dressed in a dark suit and an open-neck white shirt. The greeting was cordial but restrained—a brief handshake, followed by a languid gesture of the arm that suggested a stroll around the most heavily guarded eighteen acres on earth. Gabriel gave a terse nod, and when the president of the United States turned to his right, toward the old magnolia tree that had never quite recovered from being struck by an airplane, Gabriel followed.

Carter watched the two men intently as they headed down the drive—one crisp and precise in his movements, the other graceful and loose limbed. As they were nearing the walkway leading to the Oval Office, they paused suddenly and turned in unison to face one another. Even from a distance, and even in the darkness, Carter could see that the exchange was not altogether pleasant.

Their dispute apparently resolved, they set off again, past the putting green and the small playground that had been erected for the president’s young children, and disappeared from view. The agent-runner in Carter compelled him to mark the time on his secure Motorola cell phone, which he did a second time when Gabriel and the president reappeared. The president’s hands were now in the pockets of his trousers, and he was bent forward slightly at the waist, as if leaning into a stiff headwind. Gabriel appeared to be doing most of the talking. He was stabbing at the air with his finger, as if trying to reinforce a particularly important point.

Their circuit of the South Lawn complete, the two men arrived back at the Diplomatic Entrance, where they had one final exchange. Gabriel appeared resolute at the end of it, as did the president. He placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, then, with a final nod of his head, entered the White House. Gabriel stood there for a moment, entirely alone. Then he turned and headed back down the drive to the Escalade. Carter said nothing until they had navigated their way through the security labyrinth and were back on Fifteenth Street.

“How was he?”

“He definitely knows your name,” Gabriel said. “And he admires you a great deal.”

“Perhaps he could say something to his terrorism czar.”

“I’m working on that.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

Carter smiled. “Good man.”

Chapter 51
The City, London

T
HE VENTURE CAPITAL FIRM OF
Rogers & Cressey occupied the ninth floor of a glass-and-steel affront to architecture located on Cannon Street, not far from Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Within London financial circles, R&C had a well-deserved reputation for stealth and low cunning. Therefore, it came as no surprise that the acquisition of Thomas Fowler Associates was conducted with a discretion bordering on state secrecy. There was a brief press release no one noticed and a curiously out-of-focus publicity picture that appeared only on R&C’s tedious Web site. The picture had been posed by a man who was highly skilled in the visual arts and snapped by a photographer who did most of his work in surveillance vans and darkened windows.

As expected, Thomas Fowler and his team of associates, of which there were twelve, hit the ground running. They moved into a corner suite of offices on a Tuesday morning and by that evening were busy assembling the pieces of their first deal as part of the R&C family. It was a complex deal, with many variables, much risk, and a host of competing interests. But when stripped to its barest form, it involved a patch of vacant waterfront property in Dubai and a billionaire Saudi investor named Nadia al-Bakari.

Fowler and his team were well acquainted with Miss al-Bakari, having conducted a series of secret meetings with her at a château north of Paris. They exchanged e-mails with the heiress on Wednesday, and by Thursday morning, her private plane was touching down at London’s Stansted Airport. R&C provided the ground transportation with clandestine assistance from MI5. The fee for the two armored Bentleys raised eyebrows among the accountants at Thames House, which was watching its bottom line like every other department in Her Majesty’s cash-strapped government. Any misgivings were assuaged when Graham Seymour sent the bills along to Langley for immediate payment. Langley mumbled something about shared sacrifice and a special relationship. Then it paid the bill through one of its seemingly bottomless accounts, and the matter was never raised in polite company again.

It is not unusual to see Bentley limousines in Cannon Street, though a few heads did turn at the sight of Nadia al-Bakari emerging from one into a crowd of dark-suited security men. They guided her into the lobby of R&C’s unpardonable building, where a young man with a face like a parson stood waiting to receive her. If he offered a name, no one happened to catch it. In truth, he was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov.

Whitcombe led Nadia and her bodyguards into a waiting elevator and with the press of a button sent it upward to the ninth floor. Waiting in the foyer were R&C’s senior partners, including the newest addition to the team, Thomas Fowler, who was known in some circles as Yossi Gavish. He was wearing a gray chalk-stripe suit by Anthony Sinclair of Savile Row and a smile that promised lavish profits. He greeted Nadia as though she were an old friend; then, with Whitcombe trailing, he led her to R&C’s regal conference room. Whitcombe invited her bodyguards to have a seat in the corridor, which they did without objection. Then he followed Yossi and Nadia into the conference room and closed the doors with a reassuring
thump
.

The blinds were tightly drawn, the lighting tastefully subdued. There was a polished mahogany table around which sat the members of Gabriel’s team, who were polished as well. Even Gabriel was dressed for the occasion. He was seated in the power position of the table along the windows, with Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour to one side and Ari Shamron and Uzi Navot on the other. Shamron watched Nadia carefully as she lowered herself into a chair next to Sarah, who was almost unrecognizable in a dark wig and glasses.

Still playing the role of Thomas Fowler, Yossi made a round of animated but pseudonymous introductions. It was a mere formality; the room was soundproof and electronically impenetrable. As a result, Gabriel had no misgivings about playing an NSA intercept over the sound system. It had been recorded five days earlier, at 10:36 a.m. Central European Time. The first voice belonged to Samir Abbas of TransArabian Bank.

“The associate’s schedule is very busy. It will be his one and only chance to meet with you for the foreseeable future.”

“When does he need an answer?”

“I’m afraid he needs it now.”

“What time would he like to see me?”

“Nine in the evening.”

“My bodyguards won’t permit any changes.”

“The associate assures me there won’t be any.”

“Then please tell him I’ll be at the Burj next Thursday evening at nine p.m. And tell him not to be late. Because I never invest money with people who are late for meetings.”

Gabriel pressed the stop button on the remote control and looked at Nadia. “I would like to begin this meeting by thanking you. By saying yes to Samir, you bought us some much-needed time to contemplate our next move. We were all impressed, Nadia. You handled yourself amazingly well for an amateur.”

“I’ve been living in two different worlds for a long time, Mr. Allon. I’m not an amateur.” Her gaze traveled around the table before settling on Shamron. “I see your numbers have grown since the last time we were together.”

“I’m afraid this is just the traveling ensemble.”

“There are others elsewhere?”

“A multitude,” said Gabriel. “And at this moment, many of them are fretting over a single question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether we should allow you to go to Dubai or whether we should call Samir back and tell him you’re too busy to make the trip.”

“Why would we tell him that?”

“I’ll answer that question in a moment,” Gabriel said. “But first I want you to listen to another recording.”

He reached for the remote and pressed play.

Chapter 52
The City, London

W
HAT’S HIS NAME
?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. And knowing it would only place you in danger later.”

“You do think of everything.”

“We try, but sometimes even we make mistakes.”

She asked to hear the recording again. Gabriel pressed play.

“He sounds Jordanian to me,” Nadia said, listening intently.

“He
is
Jordanian.” Gabriel paused the recording. “He’s also one of the most brutal terrorists any of us have ever encountered. We’ve suspected for some time he was involved with Rashid’s network. Now we’re sure of it.”

“How?”

“The same way you know he’s a Jordanian.”

“The sound of his voice?”

Gabriel nodded. “Unfortunately, we know it too well. We heard it when he was dispatching
shahid
s to bomb the cafés and buses of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. And our American friends heard it on the airwaves of the Sunni Triangle when he was helping to bring chaos to Iraq. But it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him—so long, in fact, that some members of our fraternity actually deluded themselves into believing he was dead. Unfortunately, this call proves he’s very much alive.”

Nadia seemed to have run out of questions for now. She looked at Carter and Graham Seymour and frowned.

“I see you’ve brought along your partners.”

“We felt it was time for you to get acquainted.”

“Who are they?”

“The dignified gentleman with gray hair is Graham. He’s British.”

“Obviously.” Her gaze shifted to Carter. “And him?”

“That’s Adrian.”

“American?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her gaze swept across Gabriel and settled once again on Shamron.

“Where did you find this one?”

“In the deepest well of time.”

“Does he have a name?”

“He prefers to be called Herr Heller.”

“What does Herr Heller do?”

“Mostly, he steals secrets. Sometimes, he thinks of innovative ways to neutralize terrorist groups. It’s because of Herr Heller that you’re here now. It was his idea to ask you to penetrate Rashid’s network.”

“Does he think I should attend the meeting in Dubai next week?”

“It is an opportunity he finds hard to resist. But he has concerns about the authenticity of the invitation. And he would never allow you to go into a situation where he could not guarantee your safety.”

“I’ve stayed at the Burj Al Arab many times. It never struck me as a particularly dangerous place. Unless it’s filled with Brits,” she added with a glance at Graham Seymour. “Your countrymen tend to let their hair down a bit too much when they’re in Dubai.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She looked at Gabriel again and said, “I read in the newspapers that the terrorists suffered a major setback last week. The American president sounded very pleased.”

“He had a right to.”

“I assume my money had something to do with it.”

“Your money had
every
thing to do with it.”

“So you’ve dealt Rashid’s network a serious blow.”

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“But not a permanent blow?”

“Nothing about this business is permanent, Nadia.”

“Do you have enough information to locate Rashid?”

“Not at the moment.”

“What about the man whose name you won’t tell me?”

Gabriel shook his head. “We don’t know what name he’s using, what kind of passport he’s carrying, or even what he looks like.”

“But you
do
know that he would like to see me next Thursday evening in Dubai.” Nadia drew a cigarette from her handbag and ignited it. “It seems to me the choice is obvious, Mr. Allon. Having destroyed the network, you must now cut off the head. Otherwise, you’ll all be back here in a year or two, trying to figure out how to break a
new
network.”

Gabriel stared directly at Shamron without speaking. Finally, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, Shamron nudged him forward.

“We lie for a living,” Gabriel said, looking at Nadia again, “but we consider ourselves men of our word. To that end, we made a promise to you, and we would like to keep it.”

“What promise was that?”

“We asked you to help us by funneling money into a terrorist network. But we never said anything about asking you to identify a murderer face-to-face.”

“The situation has changed.”

“But our commitment to you hasn’t.”

She blew a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling and smiled. “Your concern for my safety is admirable, but it is entirely unwarranted. As you know, I am one of the most heavily protected private citizens in the world. While I’m on the ground in Dubai, I will be surrounded at all times by a very large team of security guards. They will search any room I enter and pat down anyone who comes into my presence. I’m the perfect person for an assignment like this because no harm can come to me.”

Gabriel shot another glance in Shamron’s direction. Once again, Shamron responded with a nod.

“It’s not just your physical safety that concerns us,” Gabriel said. “We also have to take into account your emotional and psychological well-being. There are some assets who think nothing of giving up someone from their own community for money or spite or respect or a dozen other reasons I could name. And there are others who find it a deeply traumatic experience that affects them profoundly for years afterward.”