Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“I would like to begin by offering you my sincerest apology,” she said.

Abbas appeared momentarily perplexed. “You’ve recently deposited two hundred million dollars in the financial institution for which I work, Miss al-Bakari. I cannot imagine why you would apologize.”

“Because not long after my father’s death, you asked me to make a donation to one of the Islamic charities with which you are associated. I turned you away—rather brusquely, if I remember correctly.”

“I was wrong to have approached you at so sensitive a time.”

“I know you only had my best interests at heart. Zakat is extremely important to our faith. In fact, my father believed the giving of alms to be the most important of the Five Pillars of Islam.”

“Your father was generous to a fault. I could always count on him when we were in need.”

“He always spoke very highly of you, Mr. Abbas.”

“And of you as well, Miss al-Bakari. Your father loved you dearly. I cannot imagine the pain of your loss. Take peace in the knowledge that your father is with God in Paradise.”

“ Inshallah, ” she said wistfully, “but I’m afraid I’ve not had a single day of peace since his murder. And my pain has been compounded by the fact that his killers have never been punished for their crime.”

“You have a right to your anger. We all do. Your father’s murder was an insult to all Muslims.”

“But what to do with this anger?”

“Are you asking me for advice, Miss al-Bakari?”

“Of the spiritual variety,” she said. “I know you are a man of great faith.”

“Like your father,” he said.

“Like my father,” she repeated softly.

Abbas looked directly into her eyes briefly before averting his gaze once more. “The Koran is more than a recitation of Allah’s word,” he said. “It is also a legal document that governs every aspect of our lives. And it is quite clear about what is to be done in the case of murder. It is known as al-quisas . As the surviving next of kin, you have three options. You may simply forgive the guilty party out of the goodness of your heart. You may accept a payment of blood money. Or you may do to the killer the same as he did to the victim, without killing anyone except the guilty party.”

“The men who killed my father were professional assassins. They were sent by others.”

“Then it is the men who dispatched the assassins who are ultimately responsible for your father’s death.”

“And if I cannot find it in my heart to forgive them?”

“Then, by the laws of Allah, you are entitled to kill them. Without killing anyone else,” he added hastily.

“A difficult proposition, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Abbas?”

The banker made no response other than to gaze directly into Nadia’s face for the first time without the slightest trace of Islamist decorum.

“Is something wrong?” asked Nadia.

“I know who killed your father, Miss al-Bakari. And I know why he was killed.”

“Then you also know that it is not possible for me to punish them under the laws of Islam.” She paused, then added, “Not without help.”

Abbas picked up Nadia’s disabled BlackBerry and examined it in silence.

“You have nothing to be nervous about,” she said quietly.

“Why would I be nervous? I manage accounts for high-net-worth individuals for TransArabian Bank. In my spare time, I solicit funds for legitimate charities to help ease the suffering of Muslims around the world.”

“Which is why I asked to see you.”

“You wish to make a contribution?”

“A substantial one.”

“To whom?”

“To the sort of men who can deliver to me the justice I am owed.”

Abbas returned Nadia’s BlackBerry to the table but said nothing. Nadia held his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment.

“We reside in the West, you and I, but we are children of the desert. My family came from the Nejd, yours from the Hejaz. We can say a great deal with very few words.”

“My father used to speak to me only with his eyes,” Abbas said wistfully.

“Mine, too,” said Nadia.

Abbas removed the cap from his bottle of mineral water and poured some slowly into a glass, as though it were the last water on the face of the earth. “The charities with which I am associated are entirely legitimate,” he said finally. “The money is used to build roads, schools, hospitals, and the like. Occasionally, some of it finds its way into the hands of a group based in the northwest tribal areas of Pakistan. I’m sure this group would be very grateful for any assistance. As you know, they lost their primary patron recently.”

“I’m not interested in the group based in the tribal areas of Pakistan,” Nadia said. “They’re no longer effective. Their time has passed.”

“Tell that to the people of Paris, Copenhagen, London, and Madrid.”

“It is my understanding that the group based in the tribal areas of Pakistan had nothing to do with those attacks.”

Abbas looked up sharply. “Who told you such a thing?”

“A man on my security staff who maintains close contact with the Saudi GID.”

Nadia was surprised at how easily the lie rose to her lips. Abbas screwed the cap back onto the bottle and appeared to consider her response carefully.

“One hears rumors about the Yemeni preacher,” he said finally. “The one who carries an American passport and speaks like one as well. One also hears rumors that he’s expanding his operations. His charitable operations, of course,” Abbas added.

“Do you know how to make contact with his organization?”

“If you are serious about trying to help them, I believe I can make an introduction.”

“The sooner the better,” she said.

“These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”

“I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”

“So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”

The meeting unwound in the same precise manner with which it had been planned and executed. Abbas returned to his office, Nadia to her airplane, Oded and Mordecai to the safe house on the western shore of the lake. Gabriel didn’t bother to acknowledge their arrival. He was hunched over the computer in the living room, headphones over his ears, resignation on his face. He clicked pause, then rewind, then play.

“These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”

“I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”

“So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”

“I have one request, Mr. Abbas. Because of what happened to my father, it is essential that I know who I will be meeting with and that I will be safe.”

“You needn’t worry, Miss al-Bakari. The person I have in mind poses absolutely no threat to your security.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”

Gabriel clicked pause, then rewind, then play.

“His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”

Gabriel pressed stop. Then, reluctantly, he forwarded the name to Adrian Carter at Langley. Carter’s response arrived five minutes later. It was a reservation for the morning flight back to Washington. Economy plus, of course. Carter’s revenge.