Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy» — ознакомительный отрывок электронной книги совершенно бесплатно, а после прочтения отрывка купить полную версию. В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Год выпуска: 2011, ISBN: 2011, Издательство: HarperCollins, Жанр: Триллер, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

Portrait of a Spy: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Gabriel Allon has been hailed as the most compelling creation since 'Ian Fleming put down his martini and invented James Bond' (
). A man with a deep appreciation for all that is beautiful, Gabriel is also an angel of vengeance, an international operative who will stop at nothing to see justice done. Sometimes he must journey far in search of evil. And sometimes evil comes to him.
In a dangerous world, one extraordinary woman can mean the difference between life and death. . . .  For Gabriel and his wife, Chiara, it was supposed to be the start of a pleasant weekend in London — a visit to a gallery in St. James's to authenticate a newly discovered painting by Titian, followed by a quiet lunch. But a pair of deadly bombings in Paris and Copenhagen has already marred this autumn day. And while walking toward Covent Garden, Gabriel notices a man he believes is about to carry out a third attack. Before Gabriel can draw his weapon, he is knocked to the pavement and can only watch as the nightmare unfolds.
 Haunted by his failure to stop the massacre of innocents, Gabriel returns to his isolated cottage on the cliffs of Cornwall, until a summons brings him to Washington and he is drawn into a confrontation with the new face of global terror. At the center of the threat is an American-born cleric in Yemen to whom Allah has granted 'a beautiful and seductive tongue.' A gifted deceiver, who was once a paid CIA asset, the mastermind is plotting a new wave of attacks.
 Gabriel and his team devise a daring plan to destroy the network of death from the inside, a gambit fraught with risk, both personal and professional. To succeed, Gabriel must reach into his violent past. A woman waits there — a reclusive heiress and art collector who can traverse the murky divide between Islam and the West. She is the daughter of an old enemy, a woman joined to Gabriel by a trail of blood. . . .
 Set against the disparate worlds of art and intelligence,
moves swiftly from the corridors of power in Washington to the glamorous auction houses of New York and London to the unforgiving landscape of the Saudi desert. Featuring a climax that will leave readers haunted long after they turn the final page, this deeply entertaining story is also a breathtaking portrait of courage in the face of unspeakable evil — and Daniel Silva's most extraordinary novel to date.

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“We don’t divulge the questions in advance of an interview.”

“Come, come, Zoe. We both know how this works.”

Zoe made a brief show of thought. “If I failed to ask you about your father, I would be brought up on charges of journalistic malpractice. It makes you a deeply compelling figure.”

“What it makes me is a woman without a father.” Nadia removed a packet of Virginia Slims from her handbag and ignited one with a rather ordinary-looking gold lighter.

“You were there that night in Cannes?”

“I was,” said Nadia. “One minute we were all enjoying a wonderful evening in our favorite restaurant. The next I was holding my father as he lay dying in the street.”

“You saw the men who killed him?”

“There were two,” she said, nodding her head. “They rode motorcycles, very fast, very skillfully. At first, I thought they were just French boys having a bit of fun on a warm summer night. Then I saw the weapons. They were obviously professionals.” She drew on her cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “After that, everything is a blur.”

“There were reports that witnesses heard you screaming for revenge.”

“I’m afraid that retribution is the Bedouin way,” Nadia said sadly. “I suppose it runs in my blood.”

“You admired your father,” Zoe pressed.

“I did,” Nadia said.

“He was an art collector.”

“A voracious one.”

“I understand you share your father’s passion.”

“My art collection is private,” Nadia said, reaching for her coffee.

“Not as private as you think.”

Nadia looked up sharply but said nothing.

“My sources tell me that you made an important acquisition last month. They tell me that you were the one who paid the record price for the Rothko at Christie’s in New York.”

“Your sources are mistaken, Zoe.”

“My sources are never mistaken. And they’ve told me other things about you as well. Apparently, you’re not as indifferent to the rights of women in the Islamic world as you pretend to be. You’ve quietly given millions of dollars to combat violence against women and millions more to promote female entrepreneurship, which you believe will have the effect of empowering Muslim women as never before. But your charitable works don’t stop there. I’m told you’ve used your fortune to promote free and independent media in the Arab world. You’ve also attempted to counter the spread of dangerous Wahhabi ideology by donating to organizations that promote a more tolerant version of Islam.” Zoe paused. “Taken together, your activities paint a portrait of a courageous woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East.”

Nadia managed a dismissive smile. “It’s an intriguing story,” she said after a moment. “It’s a shame none of it is true.”

“That’s too bad,” Zoe replied, “because there are people who would like to help you.”

“What sort of people?”

“People of discretion.”

“In the Middle East, people of discretion are either spies or terrorists.”

“I can assure you they’re not terrorists.”

“So they must be spies then.”

“I wasn’t told their affiliation.”

Nadia gave her a skeptical look. Zoe held out a card. It had no name, only the number of her BlackBerry.

“This is my private number. It is important that you proceed with caution. As you know, there are people around you who do not share your goal of changing the Islamic world for the better—including your own bodyguards.”

“What is your interest in this matter, Zoe?”

“I have no interest, other than obtaining an interview with a woman I greatly admire.”

Nadia hesitated. Then she accepted the card and slipped it into her handbag. At that instant, the door of the hotel suite opened again and Madame Dubois entered with Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. She was once again tapping her wristwatch. This time, Nadia rose. Looking suddenly fatigued, she extended her hand toward Zoe.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to lift the veil just yet,” she said, “but I’d like some time to consider your offer. Would it be possible for you to remain in Paris for a few days?”

“It will be a terrible hardship,” Zoe said jokingly, “but I’ll try to manage.”

Nadia released Zoe’s hand and followed her security chief into the corridor. Zoe remained behind for a moment longer before returning to her room three floors below. There she powered on her BlackBerry and called her producer in New York to explain that she would be staying on in Paris to continue the negotiations. Then she placed the BlackBerry on the bedside table and sat for a long time at the end of her bed. She smelled jasmine and lavender, the scent of Nadia, and recalled the instant of their parting. Nadia’s hand had been oddly cold to the touch. It was the hand of fear, thought Zoe. The hand of death.

Chapter 25

Seraincourt, France

ZOE’S CALL TO NEW YORK sounded in the high-ceilinged rooms of Château Treville like a fanfare of trumpets. Gabriel responded by immediately dispatching a secure cable to Adrian Carter, whereupon AAB Holdings and its owner, Nadia al-Bakari, became the target of NSA surveillance. It meant that Carter now knew the name of the wealthy Muslim with unimpeachable jihadist credentials whom Gabriel wanted to fund Rashid’s network. It also meant that, at any given moment, several dozen other members of the sprawling American intelligence community knew it, too. It was a risk Gabriel had no choice but to take. Israel’s signals intelligence service was formidable, but its capabilities paled in comparison to those of the NSA. America’s mastery of the digital world was unrivaled. It was the human factor—the ability to recruit spies and to penetrate the courts of their enemies—that eluded the Americans, and for that they had turned to the Office.

At Gabriel’s request, Carter went to great lengths to conceal Nadia’s name from the rest of official Washington. Despite the obvious potential implications for American-Saudi relations, he neglected to mention it to either the president or James McKenna at the weekly White House counterterrorism meeting. He also took care to safeguard the identity of the party who would be reviewing the NSA intercepts. They were sent first to Carter’s personal attention at Langley and then routed to the CIA station in Paris. The deputy chief, a man who owed his career to Carter, drove them personally to the grand manor house at Seraincourt, where they were signed over to Sarah Bancroft. Of particular interest to Gabriel and the team was the telephone and e-mail account of Rafiq al-Kamal, Nadia’s chief of security. Despite numerous calls placed to contacts inside the Saudi GID and Interior Ministry, al-Kamal never once mentioned the name Zoe Reed. That was not true, however, of Madame Dubois, who spent much of the next seventy-two hours burning up the lines between Paris and London, searching for dirt and gossip in Zoe’s professional past. Gabriel took this as an encouraging sign. It meant that, as far as AAB was concerned, the investigative reporter from CNBC was a public-relations problem, not a security threat.

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.”

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