Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

That was not true, however, of the lanky blond-haired Russian who entered the Odessa with a flourish a few minutes after midnight. He sauntered over to the bar to pat a couple of the more shapely backsides before making his way to the table where Gabriel sat. One of the girls immediately tried to join them, but the lanky Russian waved her away with a long, pale hand. When the waitress finally came, he ordered vodka for himself and another for his friend.

“Drink something,” said Mikhail. “Otherwise, no one will think you’re really a Russian.”

“I don’t want to be a Russian.”

“Neither do I. That’s why I moved to Israel.”

“Was I followed from my hotel?”

Mikhail shook his head.

Gabriel poured his drink between the seat cushions of the banquette and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Mikhail spoke only Russian as they walked to the apartment house near the Corniche. It was a typical Gulf-style building, a four-level blockhouse with a few covered parking spaces on the ground level. The stairwell smelled of chickpeas and cumin, as did the flat on the top floor. It had a two-burner stove in the kitchen and a pullout couch in the sitting room. Powdery desert sand covered every surface. “The neighbors are from Bangladesh,” Mikhail said. “There are at least twelve of them in there. They sleep in shifts. Someone needs to tell the world the way these people are really treated here.”

“Let it be someone other than you, Mikhail.”

“Me? I’m just an enterprising young man from Moscow trying to make his fortune in the city of gold.”

“Looks like you came at the wrong time.”

“No kidding,” said Mikhail. “A few years ago, this place was swimming in money. The Russian mafia used the real estate industry to launder their fortunes. They’d buy apartments and villas and then sell them a week later. These days, even the girls at the Odessa are struggling to make ends meet.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage somehow.”

Mikhail removed a suitcase from the only closet and popped the latches. Inside were eight pistols—four Berettas and four Glocks. Each had matching suppressors.

“The Berettas are nines,” Mikhail said. “The Glocks are forty-fives. Man-stoppers. They make big holes and a lot of noise, even with the suppressors. This weapon, however, makes no noise at all.”

He removed a zippered cosmetics bag. Inside were hypodermic needles and several vials labeled INSULIN. Gabriel took two needles and two bottles of the drug and slipped them into his coat pocket.

“How about a gun?” asked Mikhail.

“They’re frowned upon at the Burj Al Arab.”

Mikhail handed over a Beretta, along with a spare magazine filled with rounds. Gabriel slipped them into the waistband of his trousers and asked, “What kind of cars did Transport get for us?”

“BMWs and Toyota Land Cruisers, the new ship of the desert. If we decide that the associate of the Yemeni is Malik, we shouldn’t have any trouble tailing him once he leaves the hotel. This isn’t Cairo or Gaza. The roads are all very straight and wide. If he heads for one of the other emirates, we can follow him. But if he makes a run for Saudi, we’ll have to hit him before he gets to the border. That could get messy.”

“I’d like to avoid a desert shoot-out, if at all possible.”

“So would I. Who knows? With a bit of luck, he’ll decide to spend the night at his apartment in Jumeirah Beach. We’ll give him a bit of medicine to help him sleep and then . . .” Mikhail’s voice trailed off. “So how’s life at the Burj?”

“Just what you’d expect from the world’s only seven-star hotel.”

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Mikhail said resentfully.

“If you’d listened to me, you’d be living in America now with Sarah.”

“Doing what?”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “It’s not too late, Mikhail,” he said finally. “For some reason, she’s still in love with you. Even a fool like you should be able to see that.”

“It’s just not going to work out for us.”

“Why?” Gabriel looked around the filthy little apartment. “Because you want to live like this?”

“You’re one to talk.” Mikhail closed the suitcase and returned it to the closet. “Did she ask you to say something?”

“She’d kill me if she knew.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That you behaved rather badly.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Something you swore you wouldn’t do.”

“I didn’t mistreat her, Gabriel. I just—”

“Went through hell in Switzerland.”

Mikhail made no response.

“Do yourself a favor when this is over,” Gabriel said. “Find an excuse to go to America. Spend some time with her. If there’s anyone in the world who understands what you’ve been through, it’s Sarah Bancroft. Don’t let her slip away. She’s special.”

Mikhail smiled sadly, the way the young always smile at foolish old men. “Go back to your hotel,” he said. “Try to sleep. And make sure you hide those vials somewhere the maids won’t find them. There’s a huge black market for stolen medicine. I wouldn’t want there to be a tragic accident.”

“Any other advice?”

“Take a taxi back to the Burj. They drive worse than we do. Only the poor and the suicidal walk in Dubai.”

Contrary to Mikhail’s advice, Gabriel made his way on foot through the teeming alleyways of Deira to the embankment of Dubai Creek. Not far from the main souk was an abra station. It was Dubai’s version of Venice’s traghetto , a small ferry that shuttled passengers from one side of the creek to the other. During the crossing, Gabriel fell into conversation with a weary-looking man from the border regions of Pakistan. The man had come to Dubai to escape the Taliban and al-Qaeda and was hoping to earn enough money to send for his wife and four children. So far, he had only been able to find odd jobs that left him barely able to support himself, let alone a family of six.

As they were getting off the ferry, Gabriel slipped five hundred dirhams into the pocket of the man’s baggy trousers. Then he stopped at an all-night kiosk to pick up a copy of the Khaleej Times , Dubai’s English-language newspaper. On the front page was a story about the upcoming visit by Nadia al-Bakari, chairwoman of AAB Holdings. Gabriel slipped the newspaper beneath his arm and walked a short distance before flagging down a passing taxi. Mikhail was right, he thought, climbing into the safety of the backseat. Only the poor and suicidal walked in Dubai.

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE MINISTER OF FINANCE, stood at the edge of the sunlit tarmac, resplendent in his gold-and-crystal-trimmed robes. To his right stood ten identically attired junior ministers, and to their right loitered a flock of bored-looking reporters. The ministers and the reporters were about to engage in a time-honored ritual in the Sunni Arab kingdoms of the Gulf: the airport arrival. In a world with no tradition of independent reporting, airport comings and goings were regarded as the pinnacle of journalism. See the dignitary land. See the dignitary fly away after productive talks characterized by mutual respect. Truth was rarely spoken at these events, and the hamstrung press never dared to report it. Today’s ceremony would be something of a milestone, for in a few minutes’ time, even the princes would be deceived.

The first aircraft appeared shortly after noon, a flash of silver-white above a cloud of pinkish dust from the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia. On board was an English tycoon named Thomas Fowler who was not an Englishman at all and, in truth, hadn’t a penny to his name. Descending the passenger stairs, he was trailed by a wife who was not really his wife and by three female aides who knew much more about Islamic terrorism than business and finance. One worked for the Central Intelligence Agency while the other two were employed by the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. The team of bodyguards protecting the party also worked for Israeli intelligence, though their passports identified them as citizens of Australia and New Zealand.