Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

At that moment, though, the prospect of failure was the farthest thing from Lavon’s thoughts. Bundled in several layers of wool, remnants of operations past, he was plodding along the grassy shoulder of the rue des Vallées, a walking stick in one hand, his head seemingly in the clouds. He paused briefly to stare at the passing Maybach limousine—to do otherwise would have been odd—but paid no attention to the little Renault hatchback that followed in the big sedan’s wake like a poor relation. Behind the Renault the road was deserted, which is precisely what Lavon was hoping for. He lifted his hand to his mouth and, feigning a cough, informed Gabriel that the target was proceeding as instructed, with no surveillance other than that of the home team.

By then, the Maybach had already made the turn onto the Route des Hèdes and was sweeping past the old vineyard at flank speed. It ducked through the imposing front gate of the château, then headed up the long straight gravel drive, at the end of which stood Yossi in a pose of idleness only money could buy. He waited until the car had come to a stop before advancing slowly toward it, but froze when al-Kamal emerged in an aggressive black blur. The Saudi bodyguard stood beside the car for several seconds, his eyes flickering over the façade of the grand manor house, before finally opening the rear passenger door at a strict forty-five-degree angle. Nadia emerged slowly and in stages—a costly boot upon the gravel, a jeweled hand across the top of the door, a flash of silken hair that seemed to gather the remaining light of the afternoon.

For reasons Gabriel did not share with the others, he had decided to mark the occasion with a photograph, which resides in the file rooms of King Saul Boulevard to this day. Snapped by Chiara from a window on the second floor, it shows Nadia taking her first step across the forecourt with Zoe at her side, one hand stretched hesitantly toward Thomas Fowler, the other clutching the bottle of Latour by the neck. Her brow is already slightly furrowed, and in her eyes is the faintest flicker of recognition. It was true that she had once seen this man on the island of St. Barts, in a charming little patio bar overlooking the salt marshes of Saline. Nadia had been drinking daiquiris that day; the man, burned by the sun, had nursed a beer a few tables away. He had been accompanied by a scantily dressed woman with sandstone-colored hair and generous hips—the same woman who was now stepping from the front entrance of the house in clothing that matched Nadia’s in cost and style. A woman who was now holding on to Nadia’s hand as though she had no intention of ever letting go. “I’m Jenny Fowler,” said Rimona Stern. “I’m so thrilled you’re joining us. Please come inside before we all catch our death.”

The first leg of Nadia’s journey complete, they turned in unison and started toward the entrance of the house. The bodyguard briefly attempted to follow, but Nadia, in her first act of conspiracy, stilled him with a gesture of her hand and a few reassuring words of murmured Arabic. If she thought her hosts would not understand, she was mistaken; the Fowlers were both fluent Arabic speakers, as was the petite woman with dark hair waiting beneath the chandelier in the grand main foyer. Again Nadia’s expression was one of distant recollection. “I’m Emma,” said Dina Sarid. “I’m an old friend of the Fowlers. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Nadia grasped the outstretched hand, another stage of the journey complete, and allowed Dina to draw her into the vaulted great room. Standing before a row of French doors, her gaze fixed on the elaborate terraced garden, was a woman with pale blond hair and skin the color of alabaster. Hearing the sound of footsteps, the woman turned slowly and stared at Nadia for a long moment with expressionless blue eyes. She didn’t bother to offer a false name. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.

“Hello, Nadia,” Sarah Bancroft said finally. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Nadia recoiled slightly and seemed frightened for the first time. “My God,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “Is it really you? I was afraid you were . . .”

“Dead?”

Nadia made no reply. Her eyes moved slowly from face to face before coming to rest on Zoe’s.

“Do you know who these people are?”

“Of course.”

“Do you work for them?”

“I work for CNBC in New York.”

“So why are you here?”

“They need to talk to you. There was no other way.”

Nadia appeared to accept the explanation, at least for the moment. Again her gaze moved around the room. This time, it settled on Sarah.

“What is this about?”

“It’s about you, Nadia.”

“What about me?”

“You’re trying to change the Islamic world. We want to help.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Sarah Bancroft, the American girl who sold your father a painting by van Gogh. After that, he offered me a job as his personal art consultant. I went on your annual winter cruise in the Caribbean. Then I went away.”

“Are you a spy?” Nadia asked, but Sarah made no reply other than to extend her hand. Nadia’s journey was nearly complete. She had just one more stop to make. One last person to meet.

SEPARATED FROM THE GRAND SALON by a pair of stately double doors was a smaller, less formal drawing room with book-lined walls and overstuffed furnishings arranged before a large stone fireplace. It was both comforting and conspiratorial, a place where kisses had been stolen, sins had been confessed, and secret alliances had been forged. Shown into the room by Sarah, Nadia had led herself on a distracted tour of the perimeter before settling at one end of a long couch. Zoe sat at the other end, as if for balance, and Sarah sat opposite, with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her gaze slightly averted. The other members of the team were scattered about in various states of repose, as if resuming the party that had been interrupted by Nadia’s arrival. The one exception was Gabriel, who was standing before the unlit fire, one hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. At that instant, he was trying to decide how best to answer a simple question that had been put to him by Nadia a few seconds after he had slipped into the room. Frustrated by his silence, she posed the question again now, this time with more force.

“Who are you?”

Gabriel removed the hand from his chin and used it to help with the introductions. “These are the Fowlers, Thomas and Jenny. Thomas makes money. Jenny spends it. That rather melancholy girl in the corner is Emma. She and Thomas are old friends. Actually, they were lovers once, and in her darker moments, Jenny suspects they’re lovers still.” He paused for a moment to place a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “And you remember this woman, of course. This is Sarah, our star. Sarah has more degrees than the rest of us put together. Despite a costly education, paid for in full by a guilty father, she was working at a down-at-heel art gallery in London a few years ago when your father came looking for a van Gogh, the one artist missing from his collection. He was so impressed by Sarah that he fired his longtime art consultant and offered her the job at several times her existing salary. The perks included an invitation to cruise the Caribbean aboard the Alexandra . As I recall, you were quite standoffish at first. But by the time you reached the enchanted isle of St. Barts, you and Sarah had become good friends. Confidantes, I would say.”

Sarah acted as though she had heard none of it. Nadia examined her for a moment before turning back toward Gabriel.

“It was no accident that these four people all ended up on St. Barts at the same time. You see, Nadia, they are all professional intelligence officers. Thomas, Jenny, and Emma are employed by the foreign intelligence service of the State of Israel, as am I. Sarah works for the CIA. Her art expertise is quite genuine, which explains why she was selected for the operation against AAB Holdings. Your father was a secret philanthropist, just like you, Nadia. Unfortunately, his charity was directed to the opposite end of the Islamic spectrum. He gave to the inciters, the recruiters, and directly to the terrorists themselves. When your father discovered the truth about Sarah, he handed her over to be tortured and killed. But then you already knew that, didn’t you, Nadia? That’s why you were so surprised to see that your friend Sarah was still very much among the living and looking none the worse for wear.”