Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

Carter watched the two men intently as they headed down the drive—one crisp and precise in his movements, the other graceful and loose limbed. As they were nearing the walkway leading to the Oval Office, they paused suddenly and turned in unison to face one another. Even from a distance, and even in the darkness, Carter could see that the exchange was not altogether pleasant.

Their dispute apparently resolved, they set off again, past the putting green and the small playground that had been erected for the president’s young children, and disappeared from view. The agent-runner in Carter compelled him to mark the time on his secure Motorola cell phone, which he did a second time when Gabriel and the president reappeared. The president’s hands were now in the pockets of his trousers, and he was bent forward slightly at the waist, as if leaning into a stiff headwind. Gabriel appeared to be doing most of the talking. He was stabbing at the air with his finger, as if trying to reinforce a particularly important point.

Their circuit of the South Lawn complete, the two men arrived back at the Diplomatic Entrance, where they had one final exchange. Gabriel appeared resolute at the end of it, as did the president. He placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, then, with a final nod of his head, entered the White House. Gabriel stood there for a moment, entirely alone. Then he turned and headed back down the drive to the Escalade. Carter said nothing until they had navigated their way through the security labyrinth and were back on Fifteenth Street.

“How was he?”

“He definitely knows your name,” Gabriel said. “And he admires you a great deal.”

“Perhaps he could say something to his terrorism czar.”

“I’m working on that.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

Carter smiled. “Good man.”

THE VENTURE CAPITAL FIRM OF Rogers & Cressey occupied the ninth floor of a glass-and-steel affront to architecture located on Cannon Street, not far from Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Within London financial circles, R&C had a well-deserved reputation for stealth and low cunning. Therefore, it came as no surprise that the acquisition of Thomas Fowler Associates was conducted with a discretion bordering on state secrecy. There was a brief press release no one noticed and a curiously out-of-focus publicity picture that appeared only on R&C’s tedious Web site. The picture had been posed by a man who was highly skilled in the visual arts and snapped by a photographer who did most of his work in surveillance vans and darkened windows.

As expected, Thomas Fowler and his team of associates, of which there were twelve, hit the ground running. They moved into a corner suite of offices on a Tuesday morning and by that evening were busy assembling the pieces of their first deal as part of the R&C family. It was a complex deal, with many variables, much risk, and a host of competing interests. But when stripped to its barest form, it involved a patch of vacant waterfront property in Dubai and a billionaire Saudi investor named Nadia al-Bakari.

Fowler and his team were well acquainted with Miss al-Bakari, having conducted a series of secret meetings with her at a château north of Paris. They exchanged e-mails with the heiress on Wednesday, and by Thursday morning, her private plane was touching down at London’s Stansted Airport. R&C provided the ground transportation with clandestine assistance from MI5. The fee for the two armored Bentleys raised eyebrows among the accountants at Thames House, which was watching its bottom line like every other department in Her Majesty’s cash-strapped government. Any misgivings were assuaged when Graham Seymour sent the bills along to Langley for immediate payment. Langley mumbled something about shared sacrifice and a special relationship. Then it paid the bill through one of its seemingly bottomless accounts, and the matter was never raised in polite company again.

It is not unusual to see Bentley limousines in Cannon Street, though a few heads did turn at the sight of Nadia al-Bakari emerging from one into a crowd of dark-suited security men. They guided her into the lobby of R&C’s unpardonable building, where a young man with a face like a parson stood waiting to receive her. If he offered a name, no one happened to catch it. In truth, he was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov.

Whitcombe led Nadia and her bodyguards into a waiting elevator and with the press of a button sent it upward to the ninth floor. Waiting in the foyer were R&C’s senior partners, including the newest addition to the team, Thomas Fowler, who was known in some circles as Yossi Gavish. He was wearing a gray chalk-stripe suit by Anthony Sinclair of Savile Row and a smile that promised lavish profits. He greeted Nadia as though she were an old friend; then, with Whitcombe trailing, he led her to R&C’s regal conference room. Whitcombe invited her bodyguards to have a seat in the corridor, which they did without objection. Then he followed Yossi and Nadia into the conference room and closed the doors with a reassuring thump .

The blinds were tightly drawn, the lighting tastefully subdued. There was a polished mahogany table around which sat the members of Gabriel’s team, who were polished as well. Even Gabriel was dressed for the occasion. He was seated in the power position of the table along the windows, with Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour to one side and Ari Shamron and Uzi Navot on the other. Shamron watched Nadia carefully as she lowered herself into a chair next to Sarah, who was almost unrecognizable in a dark wig and glasses.

Still playing the role of Thomas Fowler, Yossi made a round of animated but pseudonymous introductions. It was a mere formality; the room was soundproof and electronically impenetrable. As a result, Gabriel had no misgivings about playing an NSA intercept over the sound system. It had been recorded five days earlier, at 10:36 a.m. Central European Time. The first voice belonged to Samir Abbas of TransArabian Bank.

“The associate’s schedule is very busy. It will be his one and only chance to meet with you for the foreseeable future.”

“When does he need an answer?”

“I’m afraid he needs it now.”

“What time would he like to see me?”

“Nine in the evening.”

“My bodyguards won’t permit any changes.”

“The associate assures me there won’t be any.”

“Then please tell him I’ll be at the Burj next Thursday evening at nine p.m. And tell him not to be late. Because I never invest money with people who are late for meetings.”

Gabriel pressed the stop button on the remote control and looked at Nadia. “I would like to begin this meeting by thanking you. By saying yes to Samir, you bought us some much-needed time to contemplate our next move. We were all impressed, Nadia. You handled yourself amazingly well for an amateur.”

“I’ve been living in two different worlds for a long time, Mr. Allon. I’m not an amateur.” Her gaze traveled around the table before settling on Shamron. “I see your numbers have grown since the last time we were together.”

“I’m afraid this is just the traveling ensemble.”

“There are others elsewhere?”

“A multitude,” said Gabriel. “And at this moment, many of them are fretting over a single question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether we should allow you to go to Dubai or whether we should call Samir back and tell him you’re too busy to make the trip.”