Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“Are you suggesting that Nadia al-Bakari is in league with al-Qaeda?” asked McKenna.

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. In fact, it is my opinion that when the secret history of the global war on terror is finally written, Nadia will be regarded as one of the most valuable assets who ever worked on the side of the West. Which is why I would hate to lose her because we got greedy and sent her into a situation we shouldn’t have.”

“Malik isn’t inviting her to South Waziristan,” McKenna said. “He’s asking to meet with her in one of the most famous hotels in the world.”

“Actually,” Carter replied, “we don’t know whether it’s going to be Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“It violates tradecraft. You remember tradecraft, don’t you, Jim? Rule one says we control as many environmental factors as possible. We choose the time. We choose the place. We pick out the furniture. We order the drinks. And, if possible, we serve the drinks. And we sure as hell don’t let someone like Nadia al-Bakari get within a country mile of a man like Malik.”

“But sometimes we play the hand we’re dealt,” McKenna countered. “Isn’t that what you told the president the day after we lost those seven CIA officers?”

Gabriel noticed a rare flash of anger in Carter’s eyes, but when he spoke again, his voice was as calm and underpowered as ever. “My father was an Episcopal minister, Jim. I don’t play cards.”

“Then what are you recommending?”

“This operation has worked better than any of us ever dared to hope,” Carter said. “Maybe we shouldn’t push our luck with a risky pass play late in the fourth quarter.”

Shamron appeared annoyed. He considered the use of American sports metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. In Shamron’s opinion, intelligence officers did not blow fourth-quarter leads, or strike out, or fumble the ball. There was only success or failure—and the price of failure in a neighborhood like the Middle East was usually blood.

“Call it a day?” Shamron asked. “Is that what you’re saying, Adrian?”

“Why not? The president got his victory, and so did the Agency. Better still, everybody lives to fight another day.” Carter brushed the palms of his hands together twice and said, “Halas.”

McKenna seemed perplexed. Gabriel explained the reference to him.

“ Halas is the Arabic word for ‘finished.’ But Adrian knows all too well that this war will never be finished. It’s a forever war. And he’s afraid it will be a good deal bloodier if he allows a skilled mastermind like Malik to slip through his fingers.”

“No one wants Malik’s head on a pike more than I do,” Carter agreed. “He deserves it for the mayhem he caused in Iraq, and his removal from the face of the earth will make us all safer. Suicide bombers are a dime a dozen. But masterminds—true terror masterminds—are extremely hard to replace. Eliminate the masterminds like Malik, and you’re left with a bunch of jihadist wannabes trying to figure out how to mix their peroxide bombs in their mother’s basement.”

“So why not let Nadia make the meeting?” asked McKenna. “Why not let her listen to what Malik has to say about his future plans?”

“Because I’ve got that funny feeling at the back of my neck.”

“But they trust her. Why wouldn’t they? She’s Zizi’s daughter. She’s a descendant of Wahhab himself, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll grant you they trusted her once ,” Carter replied, “but it’s an open question whether they trust her now that their network has been rolled up.”

“You’re jumping at shadows,” McKenna said. “But I suppose that’s to be expected. After all, you’ve been at this a very long time. For the last ten years, you’ve been reading their e-mail and listening to their phone conversations, looking for hidden meaning. But sometimes there is none. Sometimes a wedding is just a wedding. And sometimes a meeting in a hotel is just a meeting in a hotel. Besides, if we can’t get a heavily guarded businesswoman like Nadia al-Bakari in and out of the Burj Al Arab safely, then maybe we’re in the wrong business.”

Carter was silent for a moment. “Any chance we can keep this professional, Jim?”

“I thought we were.”

“Should I assume you’re speaking for the White House?”

“No,” said McKenna. “You should assume I’m speaking for the president.”

“Since you’re so in tune with the president’s thinking, why don’t you tell us all what the president wants.”

“He wants what all presidents want. He wants a second term. Otherwise, the inmates will be running the asylum again, and all the progress we’ve made in the war against terrorism will be wiped away.”

“You mean extremism ,” said Carter, correcting him. “But what about the meeting in Dubai?”

“Both the president and I would like her to attend—with the good guys looking over her shoulder, of course. Listen to what he has to say. Take his picture. Get his fingerprints. Record his voice. Determine whether he’s Malik or some other heavyweight member of the network.”

“And what do we tell our friends in the Emirati security services?”

“Our friends in the Emirates have been less-than-reliable allies on a number of issues ranging from terrorism to money laundering to the illicit arms trade. Besides, in my experience, one never quite knows just whom one is speaking to in the Emirates. He might be a committed opponent of the jihadists, or he might be a second cousin once removed.”

“So we say nothing?” Carter asked.

“Nothing,” McKenna replied.

“And if we determine it’s Malik?”

“Then the president would like him taken out of circulation.”

“What does that mean?”

“Use your imagination, Adrian.”

“I did that after 9/11, Jim, and you said publicly that I should be put in jail for it. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to know exactly what the president is asking me to do.”

It was Shamron, not McKenna, who answered.

“He’s not asking you to do anything, Adrian.” Shamron looked at McKenna and asked, “Isn’t that correct?”

“I was told to watch my step around you.”

“I was told the same thing.”

McKenna seemed pleased by this. “The president is unwilling to authorize an American covert action in a quasi-friendly Arab country at a sensitive time like this,” he said. “He feels it could embarrass the regime and thus leave it vulnerable to the forces of change sweeping the Middle East.”

“But Israelis running amok in Dubai is another matter entirely.”

“It does happen to dovetail nicely with the facts.”

“What facts are those?”

“Malik has a great deal of Israeli blood on his hands, which means you have every reason to want him dead.”

“Well played, Mr. McKenna,” Shamron said. “But what do we get in return?”

“The gratitude of the most important and transformative American president in a generation.”

“Equity?” asked Shamron.

McKenna smiled and said, “Equity.”

IT WAS AT THIS POINT in the proceedings that James A. McKenna, special assistant to the president for homeland security and counterterrorism, thankfully chose to take his leave. Carter summoned his secret brethren to the sitting room and asked whether anyone could recall where Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, mastermind of the 9/11 plot, had been hiding the night of his capture. They all did, of course, but it was Chiara who answered.

“He was in a house in Rawalpindi, just down the road from the headquarters of the Pakistani military.”