Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“Here’s the man who’s going to help you buy a terror group,” Chiara said. “Samir Abbas, born in Amman in 1967, educated at the London School of Economics, and hired by TransArabian Bank in 1998.”

“Where does he live?”

“Up in Hottingen, near the university. If the weather is good, he walks to work, for the sake of his waistline. If it’s bad, he takes the streetcar from Römerhof down to the financial district.”

“Which one?”

“The Number Eight, of course. What else would he take?”

Chiara smiled. Her knowledge of European public transit, like Gabriel’s, was encyclopedic.

“Where’s his flat?”

“At Carmenstrasse Four. It’s a small postwar building with a stucco exterior, six flats in all.”

“Wife?”

“Take a look at the next picture.”

It showed a woman walking along the same street. She was wearing Western clothing except for a hijab that framed a childlike face. Holding her left hand was a boy of perhaps four. Holding her right was a girl who looked to be eight or nine.

“Her name is Johara, which means ‘jewel’ in Arabic. She works part-time as a teacher at an Islamic community center on the west side of the city. The older child attends classes there. The boy is in the day-care facility. Both children speak fluent Swiss German, but Johara is much more comfortable in Arabic.”

“Does Samir go to a mosque?”

“He prays in the apartment. The children like American cartoons, much to their father’s dismay. No music allowed, though. Music is strictly forbidden.”

“Does she know about Samir’s charitable endeavors?”

“Since they use the same computer, it would be hard to miss.”

“Where is it?”

“In the living room. We popped it the day after we arrived. It’s giving us fairly decent audio and visual coverage. We’re also reading his e-mail and monitoring his browsing. Your friend Samir enjoys his jihadi porn.”

“What about his mobile?”

“That took a bit of doing, but we got that, too.” Chiara pointed to the photograph of Samir. “He carries it in the right pocket of his overcoat. We got it on the streetcar while he was on his way to work.”

“We?”

“Yaakov handled the bump, Oded picked his pocket, and Mordecai did the technical stuff. He popped it while Samir was reading the newspaper. The whole thing took two minutes.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

“We didn’t want to bother you.”

“Is there anything else you neglected to tell me?”

“Just one thing,” Chiara said.

“What’s that?”

“We’re being watched.”

“By the Swiss?”

“No, not the Swiss.”

“Who then?”

“Three guesses. First two don’t count.”

Gabriel snatched up his secure BlackBerry and started typing.

IT TOOK THE BETTER PART of forty-eight hours for Adrian Carter to find his way to Zurich. He met Gabriel in the late afternoon on the prow of a ferry bound for the suburb of Rapperswil. He wore a tan mackintosh coat and carried a copy of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung beneath his arm. The newsprint was wet with snow.

“I’m surprised you’re not wearing your Agency credentials,” Gabriel said.

“I took precautions coming here.”

“How did you travel?”

“Economy plus,” Carter said resentfully.

“Did you tell the Swiss you were coming?”

“Surely you jest.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m not.”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder toward the skyline of Zurich, which was barely visible behind a cloak of low clouds and falling snow. The entire scene was devoid of color—a gray city by a gray lake. It suited Gabriel’s mood.

“When were you planning to tell me, Adrian?”

“Tell you what?”

Gabriel handed Carter an unmarked letter-sized envelope. Inside were eight surveillance photographs of eight different CIA field operatives.

“How long did it take you to spot them?” Carter asked, flipping morosely through the pictures.

“Do you really want me to answer that question?”

“I suppose not.” Carter closed the envelope. “My best field personnel are currently deployed elsewhere. I had to use what was available. A couple of them are fresh off the Farm, as we like to say.”

The Farm was the CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary, Virginia.

“You sent probationers to watch us? If I wasn’t so angry, I’d be insulted.”

“Try not to take it personally.”

“This little stunt of yours could have blown us all sky-high. The Swiss aren’t stupid, Adrian. In fact, they’re quite good. They watch. They listen, too. And they get extremely annoyed when spies operate on their soil without signing the guestbook on the way in. Even experienced field agents have gotten into trouble here, ours included. And what does Langley do? It sends eight fresh-faced kids who haven’t been to Europe since their junior year abroad. Do you know one of them actually bumped into Yaakov a couple of days ago because he was looking down at a Streetwise Zurich map? That’s one for the books, Adrian.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Not yet,” Gabriel said. “I want them out of here. Tonight.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“Because higher authority has taken an intense interest in your operation. And higher authority has decided it requires an American operational component.”

“Tell higher authority it already has an American operational component. Her name is Sarah Bancroft.”

“A single analyst from the CTC doesn’t count.”

“That single analyst could run circles around any of the eight dolts you sent here to keep watch over us.”

Carter stared at the lake but said nothing.

“What’s going on, Adrian?”

“It’s not what. It’s who.” Carter returned the envelope to Gabriel. “How much will it cost me to get you to burn those damn pictures?”

“Start talking.”

THERE WAS A SMALL CAFÉ on the upper deck of the passenger cabin. Carter drank muddy coffee. Gabriel had tea. Between them they shared a rubbery egg sandwich and a bag of stale potato chips. Carter kept the receipt for his expenses.

“I asked you to keep her name closely held,” Gabriel said.

“I tried to.”

“What happened?”

“Someone tipped off the White House. I was brought into the Oval Office for a bit of enhanced interrogation. McKenna and the president worked me over together, bad cop, bad cop. Stress positions, sleep deprivation, denial of food and drink—all the techniques we’re now forbidden to use against the enemy. It didn’t take long for them to break me. Suffice it to say the president now knows my name. He also knows the name of the Muslim woman with impeccable jihadist credentials you’re in bed with—operationally speaking, of course.”

“And?”

“He’s not happy about it.”

“Really?”

“He’s fearful that U.S.-Saudi relations will suffer grave damage if the operation ever crashes and burns. As a result, he’s no longer willing to allow Langley to be a mere passenger.”

“He wants you flying the plane?”

“Not just that,” Carter said. “He wants us maintaining the plane, fueling the plane, stocking the plane’s galleys, and loading the luggage into the plane’s cargo hold.”

“Total control? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“It makes no sense, Adrian.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, frankly. If we’re running the show, the president has complete deniability with the Saudis if something goes wrong. But if Langley is in charge, any chance of deniability goes right out the White House window. It’s as if he’s trying to block a blow with his chin.”