Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“Why would we tell him that?”

“I’ll answer that question in a moment,” Gabriel said. “But first I want you to listen to another recording.”

He reached for the remote and pressed play.

“WHAT’S HIS NAME?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. And knowing it would only place you in danger later.”

“You do think of everything.”

“We try, but sometimes even we make mistakes.”

She asked to hear the recording again. Gabriel pressed play.

“He sounds Jordanian to me,” Nadia said, listening intently.

“He is Jordanian.” Gabriel paused the recording. “He’s also one of the most brutal terrorists any of us have ever encountered. We’ve suspected for some time he was involved with Rashid’s network. Now we’re sure of it.”

“How?”

“The same way you know he’s a Jordanian.”

“The sound of his voice?”

Gabriel nodded. “Unfortunately, we know it too well. We heard it when he was dispatching shahid s to bomb the cafés and buses of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. And our American friends heard it on the airwaves of the Sunni Triangle when he was helping to bring chaos to Iraq. But it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him—so long, in fact, that some members of our fraternity actually deluded themselves into believing he was dead. Unfortunately, this call proves he’s very much alive.”

Nadia seemed to have run out of questions for now. She looked at Carter and Graham Seymour and frowned.

“I see you’ve brought along your partners.”

“We felt it was time for you to get acquainted.”

“Who are they?”

“The dignified gentleman with gray hair is Graham. He’s British.”

“Obviously.” Her gaze shifted to Carter. “And him?”

“That’s Adrian.”

“American?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her gaze swept across Gabriel and settled once again on Shamron.

“Where did you find this one?”

“In the deepest well of time.”

“Does he have a name?”

“He prefers to be called Herr Heller.”

“What does Herr Heller do?”

“Mostly, he steals secrets. Sometimes, he thinks of innovative ways to neutralize terrorist groups. It’s because of Herr Heller that you’re here now. It was his idea to ask you to penetrate Rashid’s network.”

“Does he think I should attend the meeting in Dubai next week?”

“It is an opportunity he finds hard to resist. But he has concerns about the authenticity of the invitation. And he would never allow you to go into a situation where he could not guarantee your safety.”

“I’ve stayed at the Burj Al Arab many times. It never struck me as a particularly dangerous place. Unless it’s filled with Brits,” she added with a glance at Graham Seymour. “Your countrymen tend to let their hair down a bit too much when they’re in Dubai.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She looked at Gabriel again and said, “I read in the newspapers that the terrorists suffered a major setback last week. The American president sounded very pleased.”

“He had a right to.”

“I assume my money had something to do with it.”

“Your money had every thing to do with it.”

“So you’ve dealt Rashid’s network a serious blow.”

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“But not a permanent blow?”

“Nothing about this business is permanent, Nadia.”

“Do you have enough information to locate Rashid?”

“Not at the moment.”

“What about the man whose name you won’t tell me?”

Gabriel shook his head. “We don’t know what name he’s using, what kind of passport he’s carrying, or even what he looks like.”

“But you do know that he would like to see me next Thursday evening in Dubai.” Nadia drew a cigarette from her handbag and ignited it. “It seems to me the choice is obvious, Mr. Allon. Having destroyed the network, you must now cut off the head. Otherwise, you’ll all be back here in a year or two, trying to figure out how to break a new network.”

Gabriel stared directly at Shamron without speaking. Finally, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, Shamron nudged him forward.

“We lie for a living,” Gabriel said, looking at Nadia again, “but we consider ourselves men of our word. To that end, we made a promise to you, and we would like to keep it.”

“What promise was that?”

“We asked you to help us by funneling money into a terrorist network. But we never said anything about asking you to identify a murderer face-to-face.”

“The situation has changed.”

“But our commitment to you hasn’t.”

She blew a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling and smiled. “Your concern for my safety is admirable, but it is entirely unwarranted. As you know, I am one of the most heavily protected private citizens in the world. While I’m on the ground in Dubai, I will be surrounded at all times by a very large team of security guards. They will search any room I enter and pat down anyone who comes into my presence. I’m the perfect person for an assignment like this because no harm can come to me.”

Gabriel shot another glance in Shamron’s direction. Once again, Shamron responded with a nod.

“It’s not just your physical safety that concerns us,” Gabriel said. “We also have to take into account your emotional and psychological well-being. There are some assets who think nothing of giving up someone from their own community for money or spite or respect or a dozen other reasons I could name. And there are others who find it a deeply traumatic experience that affects them profoundly for years afterward.”

“I don’t consider jihadist terrorists to be members of my community or my faith, just as they surely don’t consider me to be members of theirs. Besides, haven’t you already used my money to identify and arrest more than sixty suspected terrorists?” She paused, then added, “Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but it seems to me that you are making a distinction without a difference.”

Gabriel leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and his agent. He wanted no misunderstandings, no ambiguity, and absolutely nothing lost in translation.

“Do you understand what will happen to this man if he turns out to be the one we’re looking for?”

“I shouldn’t think you would need to ask a question like that.”

“Can you live with a memory like that?”

“I already do.” She managed a smile. “Besides, as you know, Mr. Allon, nothing lasts forever.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and spent a moment contemplating his hands. This time he didn’t bother looking to Shamron for guidance. The decision was his and his alone.

“We need time to prepare you.”

Nadia drew a leather portfolio from her handbag and looked at her schedule. “I’m in Moscow tomorrow, Prague the next day, and Stockholm the day after that.”

“How’s your weekend look?”

“I was planning to go to Casablanca for a bit of sun.”

“We might need you to cancel that trip.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said stubbornly. “But I do happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Gabriel accepted a file folder from Uzi Navot. Inside was the last known photograph of Malik al-Zubair, along with several computer-generated photo illustrations. Gabriel laid them out in a row on the table.

“This is the man who may or may not be coming to see you next Thursday night at the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai,” he said, pointing to the old photograph. His hand moved to the photo illustrations. “Here he is with twenty extra pounds. Here he is with a beard. Here he is without a beard. With a mustache. With a prayer scar. Without a prayer scar. With eyeglasses. With short hair. Long hair. Gray hair. No hair at all . . .”