Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“You want me to become a terrorist?”

“Exactly.”

“How would I do that?”

“By purchasing your own terrorist group. But don’t worry, Nadia. You won’t have to do it alone. Thomas and I are going to help you.”

THEY HAD COME TO A GOOD PLACE TO PAUSE—an oasis, thought Gabriel, who found himself suddenly bewitched by the iconography of the desert. The reason for Nadia’s summons had been successfully broached. It was now time to rest for a few moments and to reflect upon the journey thus far. It was also time to deal with a bit of unpleasant business. Gabriel had a few questions that needed answering before they could continue—questions dealing with the tangled politics and ancient hatreds of the Middle East. He posed the first while crouching before the fireplace, an unlit match between his fingertips.

“How do you feel about us?” he asked, striking the match on the stonework.

“About Israelis?”

“About Jews,” replied Gabriel, touching the match to the kindling. “Do you think we are children of the devil? Do you think we control the world’s finances and media? Do you think we brought the Holocaust upon ourselves? Do you even believe the Holocaust happened? Do you think we use the blood of non-Jewish children to prepare our unleavened bread? Do you believe we are apes and pigs, as your Wahhabi clerics and Saudi textbooks like to portray us?”

“I didn’t go to school in Saudi Arabia,” said Nadia without a trace of defensiveness.

“No,” said Gabriel, “you attended the most prestigious schools in Europe, just like your friend Sarah. And Sarah remembers quite clearly an incident on a beach in St. Barts when you said something quite unpleasant about a man you believed to be Jewish. She also recalls a fair amount of rough talk about Jews whenever your father and his entourage started discussing politics.”

Nadia stared at Sarah with a trace of sadness, as though a confidence had been betrayed. “My father’s opinions about Jews were well known,” she said after a moment. “Unfortunately, I was exposed to those opinions on a daily basis, and my father’s views briefly became my own.” She paused and looked at Gabriel. “Have you never said something you wish you could take back? Have you never done anything for which you are deeply ashamed?”

Gabriel blew softly on the kindling but said nothing.

“I sit atop a fortune worth many billions of dollars,” Nadia said. “So you’ll probably not find it surprising that I don’t believe Jews control the world’s financial system. Nor do I believe they control the media. I do believe the Holocaust took place, that six million people perished, and that to deny its truth is an act of hate speech. I also believe the ancient blood libel to be just that, a libel, and I cringe each time I hear one of Saudi Arabia’s so-called men of religion refer to Jews and Christians as apes and pigs.” She paused. “Have I left anything out?”

“The devil,” said Gabriel.

“I don’t believe in the devil.”

“And what about Israel, Nadia? Do you believe we have a right to live in peace? That we have a right to take our children to school or go to the market without fear of being blown to bits by a soldier of Allah?”

“I believe the State of Israel has a right to exist. I also believe it has a right to defend itself against those who seek to destroy it or to murder its citizens.”

“And what do you think would happen if tomorrow we walked away from the West Bank and Gaza and granted the Palestinians their state? Do you think the Islamic world would ever accept us, or are we doomed to forever be regarded as an alien entity, a cancer that must be removed?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” said Nadia, “but I’m trying to help you. It might be nice if, from time to time, you didn’t make things so difficult for me. Each and every day, in large ways and small, you humiliate the Palestinians and their supporters in the broader Islamic world. And when you mix humiliation with the ideology of the Wahhabis . . .”

“Bombs explode in the streets of Europe,” said Gabriel. “But it takes more than just humiliation and ideology to produce terrorism on a global scale. It also takes money. The masterminds need money to inspire, money to recruit and train, and money to operate. With money, they can strike at will. Without it, they are nothing. Your father understood the power of money. So do you. That’s why we went to so much trouble to speak with you, Nadia. That’s why you’re here.”

Eli Lavon had slipped silently into the room and was watching the proceedings impassively from a perch along the windows. Nadia regarded him carefully for a moment, as if trying to place him in the cluttered drawers of her memory.

“Is he in charge?” she inquired.

“Max?” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “No, Max isn’t in charge. I’m the one who’s been cursed with the responsibility of command. Max is merely my guilty conscience. Max is my worried soul.”

“He doesn’t look worried to me.”

“That’s because Max is a professional. And like all professionals, Max is very good at concealing his emotions.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, like me.”

She glanced at Lavon and asked, “What’s bothering him?”

“Max thinks I’ve lost a step. Max is trying to prevent me from making what he thinks will be the biggest mistake of an otherwise unblemished career.”

“What mistake is that?”

“You,” said Gabriel. “I’m convinced you are the answer to my prayers, that we can work together in order to eliminate a grave threat to the security of the West and the Middle East. But as you can see, Max is much older than I am, and he’s terribly set in his ways. He finds the idea of our partnership laughable and naïve. He believes that, as a Muslim woman from Saudi Arabia, you acquired your hatred of Jews with the milk of your mother’s breast. Max is also convinced that you are, first and foremost, your father’s daughter. And Max believes that, like your father, you have two faces—one you show to the West and another you show at home.”

Nadia smiled for the first time. “Perhaps you should remind Max that I’m not allowed to show my face at home, at least not in public. And perhaps you should also remind Max that I risk my life every day trying to change that.”

“Max is highly dubious about your philanthropic activities and the motivations behind them. Max believes they are a cover for your real agenda, which is much more in keeping with that of your late father. Max believes you are a jihadist. Simply put, Max believes you are a liar.”

“Maybe you are the liar.”

“I’m an intelligence officer, Nadia, which means I lie for a living.”

“Are you lying to me now?”

“Just a little,” said Gabriel contritely. “I’m afraid that crumpled little soul over there isn’t really named Max.”

“But he still believes I’m a liar?”

“He’s hopeful that’s not the case. But he needs to know that we’re all on the same side before this conversation can continue.”

“What side is that?”

“The side of the angels, of course.”

“The same angels who murdered my father in cold blood.”

“There’s that word again, Nadia. Your father wasn’t murdered. He was killed by enemy forces on a battlefield of his choosing. He died a martyr’s death in the service of the great jihad. Unfortunately, the violent ideology he helped to propagate didn’t die with him. It lives on in a crescent of sacred rage stretching from the tribal areas of Pakistan to the streets of London. And it lives on in a lethal new terror network based in the mountains of Yemen. This network has a charismatic leader, a skilled operational mastermind, and a cadre of willing shahid s. What it lacks is the one thing you can provide.”