Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“A tent in the bathroom,” said Nadia, smiling. “How Bedouin of you.”

“You’re not the only people who come from the desert.”

She looked around the interior, clearly intrigued. “What is it?”

“We call it the chuppah . It allows us to speak freely in rooms we know are bugged.”

“May I have it when we’re done?”

He smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

She touched the fabric. It had a metallic quality.

“Isn’t the chuppah used in Jewish wedding ceremonies?”

“We take our vows beneath the chuppah . They’re very important to us.”

“So is this our wedding ceremony?” she asked, still stroking the fabric.

“I’m already spoken for. Besides, I gave you a solemn vow in a manor house outside Paris.”

She placed her hand in her lap. “Your script for today was a work of art,” she said. “I only hope I did it justice.”

“You were magnificent, Nadia, but that was a rather expensive ad lib at Sonapur.”

“Twenty million dollars for a new camp? It was the least I could do for them.”

“Shall I ask the CIA to pick up the tab?”

“My treat,” she said.

Gabriel examined Nadia’s Chanel suit. “It fits you well.”

“Better than the ones I have custom made.”

“We’re tailors by trade, highly specialized tailors. That suit can do everything except walk into a meeting with a monster who has a great deal of blood on his hands. For that, we need you.” He paused, then said, “Last chance, Nadia.”

“To back out?”

“We wouldn’t think of it like that. And none of us would think any less of you.”

“I don’t break commitments, Mr. Allon—not anymore. Besides, we both know that there isn’t time for second thoughts now.” She looked at the Harry Winston watch. “In fact, I’m expecting a call from my banker any minute. So if you have any final words of advice . . .”

“Just remember who you are, Nadia. You’re the daughter of Zizi al-Bakari, a descendant of Wahhab. No one tells you where to go, or what to do. And no one ever changes the plan. If they try to change the plan, you tell them the meeting is off. Then you call Mansur and tell him to move up the departure slot. Are we clear?”

She nodded.

“We assume the meeting will take place in a suite rather than in a public part of the hotel. It is critical that you make Samir say the room number before you leave the lobby. Insist on it. And if he tries to mumble it, repeat it loudly enough for us to hear. Understood?”

She nodded again.

“We’ll try to send someone up in the elevator with you, but he’ll have to get off on a separate floor. After that, you’ll be beyond our reach, and Rafiq will be your only protection. Under no circumstances are you to enter the room without him. This is another red line. If they try to talk you into it, leave immediately. If everything goes smoothly, go inside and start the meeting. This isn’t a social gathering or a political discussion. This is a business transaction. You listen to what he has to say, you tell him what he wants to hear, and then you leave for the airport. Your plane is your lifeboat. And your eleven o’clock departure slot is your excuse to keep things moving. At ten o’clock you’re—”

“Out the door,” she said.

Gabriel nodded. “Remember your BlackBerry etiquette. Offer to switch yours off as a show of your good intentions. Ask them to power off their devices and remove SIM cards. If they refuse or say it isn’t necessary, don’t draw any lines in the sand. It’s not important.”

“Where are the bugs?”

“What bugs?”

“Let’s not play games, Mr. Allon.”

He tapped the side of the Prada bag and nodded toward the front of the Chanel suit. “It’s possible they’ll ask you to leave the bag in another room. If they do, agree without hesitation. There’s no way they’ll ever find what’s hidden in there.”

“And if they ask me to remove my clothing?”

“They’re holy warriors. They wouldn’t dare.”

“You’d be surprised.” Nadia looked down at her bustline.

“Don’t bother looking for the microphones. You’ll never find them. We could have concealed a camera in the suit as well, but for your safety, we chose not to.”

“So you won’t be able to see what’s going on in the room?”

“Once you switch off the BlackBerry, we’ll be blind. That means you’ll be the only one to know what he looks like. If it’s safe—and only if it’s safe—call me after the meeting and tell me something about his appearance. Just a few details. Then hang up and head to the airport. We’ll follow you for as long as we can.”

“And after that?”

“You go home to Paris and forget we ever existed.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

“It won’t be as difficult as you think.” He took hold of her hand. “It’s been an honor to work with you, Nadia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see each other again after tonight.”

“I will not wish such a thing.” She looked at her watch, the watch her father had given to Sarah, and noticed it was three minutes past nine. “He’s late,” she said. “The Arab disease.”

“We set it fast intentionally to keep you moving.”

“What time is it really?” she asked, but before Gabriel could answer, the BlackBerry started to ring. It was nine o’clock sharp. It was time for Nadia to go.

IT WAS A CURIOSITY OF Ari Shamron’s long and storied career that he had spent almost no time at Langley, a feat he considered one of his greatest accomplishments. Therefore, he was predictably appalled to learn that Uzi Navot had agreed to establish his command post at Langley’s glittering Rashidistan op center. For Shamron, it was an admission of weakness to accept the American invitation, a cardinal sin in the world of espionage, but Navot saw it in more pragmatic terms. The Americans were not the enemy—at least not tonight—and they had technological capabilities that were far too valuable to refuse merely out of professional pride.

In a minor concession to Shamron, Rashidistan was cleared of the nonessential and uninitiated, leaving only a skeleton crew of the battle-hardened and unrepentant. At 9 p.m. Dubai time, most were hovering anxiously around the pod in the center of the room, where Shamron, Navot, and Adrian Carter sat staring at the latest secure transmission from the Burj Al Arab team. It stated that Nadia al-Bakari was heading to the lobby, with her trusted chief of security Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. The three spymasters knew the message had already been eclipsed by events on the ground, because they were listening to Nadia and al-Kamal striding across the Burj’s soaring 590-foot atrium. The source of the audio was her compromised BlackBerry, which was tucked inside her compromised Prada handbag.

At 9:04 local time, the device captured a brief conversation between Nadia and her banker, Samir Abbas. Because it was conducted in rapid colloquial Arabic, Carter did not understand it. That was not true, however, for Navot and Shamron.

“Well?” asked Carter.

“She’s going upstairs to meet with someone,” Navot said. “Whether it’s Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody remains to be seen.”

“Were you able to understand the room number?”

Navot nodded his head.

“Shall we send it to Gabriel?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“He heard it?”

“Clear as a bell.”

The elevator doors slid open without a sound. Nadia allowed Abbas and al-Kamal to step into the corridor first, before following closely after them. Curiously, she felt nothing like fear, only resolution. It was oddly similar to the sense of determination she had carried into her first important business meeting after solidifying her control of AAB Holdings. There had been many members of her father’s team quietly hoping for her to fail—and a few who’d actually conspired against her—but Nadia had managed to surprise them all. When it came to matters of business, she had proven to be her father’s equal. Now she would have to be his equal in a part of his life never written about in the pages of Forbes and the Wall Street Journal . Just a few minutes, she reminded herself. That’s all it would take. A few minutes in one of the safest hotels in the world, and a monster with the blood of thousands on his hands would receive the justice he deserved.