Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“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.”

“Who?”

“It’s not important. What’s important is that you come.”

“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“You wouldn’t be, for heaven’s sake. Besides, it’s my birthday, and I insist.”

“Where exactly is your friend’s home located?”

“Just north of Paris. The hotel’s arranged a car for me.”

“Tell the hotel to cancel it. We’ll take my car instead. It will give us a chance to talk.”

“Wonderful. Thomas says the dress code is château casual. But let’s go light on the security, shall we? Thomas is a bit of a fanny patter, but he’s otherwise quite harmless.”

“I’ll see you at noon, Zoe.”

The call went dead. Gabriel clicked on the stop icon and then looked up to find Yossi leaning in the doorway, looking every inch the prosperous private equity mogul who was spending the weekend at his French country retreat. “For the record,” he said in his lazy Oxford drawl, “I didn’t appreciate the bit about a lamppost.”

“I’m sure she meant it as a term of endearment.”

“How would you feel if someone compared you to a lamppost?”

“Endeared.”

Yossi smoothed the front of his Bond Street cashmere jacket. “Have we achieved château casual?”

“I believe we have.”

“Ascot or no ascot?”

“No ascot.”

“Ascot,” said Lavon. “Definitely ascot.”

Yossi went out. Gabriel reached for the computer mouse again, but Lavon stilled his hand.

“She knows it’s us, and she’s still coming. Besides,” Lavon added, “it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

Gabriel looked at the other computer screen. The elevation reading on the icon indicated that Zoe was sinking slowly toward the lobby. This was confirmed a few seconds later when Gabriel heard the sound of the elevator doors opening, followed by the clatter of Zoe’s heels as she headed across the lobby. She bade good day to Herr Schmidt, thanked Isabelle for the complimentary fruit basket that had been left in her room the previous evening, and blew a kiss to Monsieur Didier, who was at that moment attempting to secure a reservation at the Jules Verne for Chiara and Yaakov—a reservation which, regrettably, they would later be forced to cancel. Next came a burst of traffic noise as Zoe stepped outside, followed in turn by the heavy thud of a limousine door closing. The ensuing silence was coffinlike. It was broken by the pleasant voice of a woman with unimpeachable jihadist credentials.

“It’s so lovely to see you again, Zoe,” said Nadia al-Bakari. “I brought your friend a bottle of Latour as a château-warming gift. I hope he likes red.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t be silly.”

And with that, the icon was once again in motion, pursued by three other flashing beacons representing the surveillance teams. A moment later, they were all headed westward along the Champs-Élysées at a speed of thirty-three miles per hour. As they neared the Arc de Triomphe, Zoe offered to switch off her BlackBerry. “Don’t bother,” said Nadia quietly. “I trust you now, Zoe. No matter what happens, I will always consider you a friend.”

THE BANLIEUES OF NORTHEASTERN PARIS seemed to stretch for an eternity, but gradually the vulgar apartment blocks fell away and the first patches of green appeared. Even in winter, with the sky low and heavy, the French countryside looked as though it had been groomed for a family portrait. They roared through it in the black Maybach sedan with no escort vehicles, at least none that Zoe could see. Rafiq al-Kamal, the pumice-faced security chief, sat scowling in the front passenger seat. He wore his usual dark suit but, in deference to the informality of the occasion, no necktie. Nadia wore a rich cream-colored cashmere sweater, trim-fitting tan suede trousers, and low-heeled boots suitable for walking along wooded country lanes. To hide her nerves, she spoke without pause. About the French. About the appalling fashions that winter. About an article she had read in the Financial Journal that very morning regarding the deplorable financial straits of the Euro-zone economies. The heat inside the car was tropical. Zoe was perspiring beneath her clothing, but Nadia appeared slightly chilled. Her hands were curiously bloodless. Noticing Zoe’s interest, she blamed it on the damp Parisian weather, of which she spoke without interruption until a road sign warned that they were approaching the village of Seraincourt.

At that instant, a motorcycle overtook them. It was a high-powered Japanese model of the sort that compelled the driver to lean forward at an uncomfortable-looking angle. He looked into Zoe’s window as he passed, as though curious about the occupants of so fine an automobile, then made an obscene gesture at the driver before vanishing behind a cloud of road spray. Hello, Mikhail , thought Zoe. So nice to see you again .

She drew the BlackBerry from her handbag and dialed. The voice that answered was vaguely familiar. Of course it was, she reminded herself quickly. It belonged to her old friend Thomas Fowler from London. Thomas who made a bundle investing in God only knew what. Thomas who met Nadia a few years ago at a seaside bar in St. Barts. Thomas who was now giving Zoe directions to his showy new château—right on the rue de Vexin, left on the rue des Vallées, right on the Route des Hèdes. The gate was on the left side of the road, he said, just beyond the old vineyard. Never mind the warning sign about the dogs. It was just a bluff, for security’s sake. Thomas was concerned about security. Thomas had good reason to be.

Zoe severed the connection and returned the BlackBerry to her handbag. Looking up again, she caught Rafiq al-Kamal eyeing her warily in his mirror. Nadia was gazing gloomily out her window at the passing countryside. Smile , thought Zoe. We’re going to a party, after all. It’s important you try to smile .

There was no formal precedent for what they were attempting to do, no established doctrine, no Office tradition upon which to draw. During the endless rehearsal sessions, Gabriel likened it to an unveiling, with Nadia as the potential buyer and Gabriel himself as the painting propped upon a display pedestal. The event would be preceded by a brief journey—a journey, he explained, that would take Nadia and the team from the present into the not-too-distant past. The nature of this trip would have to be carefully calibrated. It would have to be pleasant enough so as not to scare Nadia away, yet forceful enough to leave her no opportunity to turn back. Even Gabriel, who had devised the strategy, placed their chances of success at no better than one in three. Eli Lavon was still more pessimistic. But then Lavon, a student of biblical disasters, was a worrier by nature.