Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

THE TENT HAD BEEN ERECTED in the cleft of an enormous horseshoe-shaped dune. It was made of black goat hair in the tradition of the Bedouin and surrounded by several sun-bleached pickup trucks and jeeps. A few feet from the entrance, four veiled women with henna tattoos on their hands brewed coffee with cardamom seeds around a small fire. None seemed to notice the beaten man in blue coveralls who stumbled from the back of a Denali SUV, shivering in the cold morning air.

The cleft of the dune was still in darkness, but light glowed faintly above its ridgeline and the stars were in full retreat. Prodded by al-Kamal, Gabriel started unsteadily toward the tent. His head throbbed but his thoughts remained clear. They were focused on a lie. He would pay it out slowly, morsel by morsel, like cakes sweetened with honey. He would make himself irresistible to them. He would buy time for Mikhail and the Sayeret team to home in on the signal emanating from the device in his bowels. He pushed the beacon from his thoughts. There was no beacon, he reminded himself. There was only Nadia al-Bakari, a woman of impeccable jihadist credentials whom Gabriel had blackmailed into doing his bidding.

Malik was now standing in the opening of the tent. He had traded his gleaming white kandoura for a gray thobe . His feet were bare, though his head was wrapped in a red-checkered ghutra . He regarded Gabriel menacingly, as though debating where to place the first blow, then stepped to one side. Al-Kamal responded by shoving Gabriel forcefully between the shoulder blades, propelling him headlong into the tent.

The undignified nature of his arrival seemed to bring enormous pleasure to the men gathered inside. Eight in all, they were seated in a semicircle, drinking the cardamom-scented coffee from thimble-sized cups. A few wore the traditional curved jambia daggers of Yemeni men, but one was peering into the screen of a notebook computer. His face was familiar to Gabriel, as was the sound of his voice when finally he spoke. It was the voice of a man to whom Allah had granted a beautiful and seductive tongue. It was the voice of Rashid.

To the thermal-imaging cameras of the Predator drone circling overhead, the gathering in the goat-hair Bedouin tent appeared as eleven amoeba-like orbs of light. Nearby there were several other human heat sources as well. There were four figures seated around a small fire. There was a ring of security posts scattered amid the dunes. And there were two figures about a thousand yards from the tent’s southern flank—one lying supine on the desert floor, the other seated cross-legged. As dawn slowly broke, Shamron asked Carter whether it might be possible to have a look at the two figures through a normal lens. Another five minutes would elapse until there was sufficient light, but when the image appeared on the screens of Langley, it was remarkably clear. It showed a raven-haired woman in white being guarded by a bearded man holding what appeared to be an AK-47. A short distance away, on the other side of a large dune, a cylindrical hole had been dug in the desert floor. Next to the hole was a pile of stones.

When the staff at Rashidistan regained its composure, Carter said, “There’s no way Mikhail and the Sayeret team can get there in time. And even if they do, they’re going to be spotted.”

“Yes, Adrian,” Shamron said, “I realize that.”

“Let me call Prince Nabil at the Interior Ministry.”

“Why would you waste time doing that?”

“Maybe he can do something to prevent them from being killed.”

“Maybe,” said Shamron. “Or maybe this is all Nabil’s doing.”

“You think Nabil sold her out to Rashid and Malik?”

“As far as Nabil is concerned, she’s a heretic and a dissident. What better way to get rid of her than hand her over to the bearded ones to be executed?”

Carter swore softly. Shamron looked at the image from the desert.

“I take it the Predators are fully armed?” he asked.

“Hellfire missiles,” replied Carter.

“Have you ever fired one into Saudi Arabia?”

“Not a chance.”

“I assume you would need clearance from the president before doing so.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Then please call him now, Adrian.”

RASHID BEGAN WITH A LECTURE. He was part poet, part preacher, part professor of jihad. He warned that Israel would soon go the way of Pharaoh’s regime in Egypt. He predicted sharia was coming to Europe whether Europe wanted it or not. He declared that the American century was finally over, al-hamdu lillah . It was one of the few Arabic expressions he used. The rest was delivered in his impeccable colloquial English. It was like being tutored in the principles of the Salaf by a kid from Best Buy.

He spoke not to Gabriel but to a digital camera mounted atop a tripod. Occasionally, he wagged a long finger for emphasis or pointed it toward his famous captive, who was seated a few feet away, squinting slightly in the glare of two standing lamps. Gabriel could only imagine how the heat blooms must have appeared to the Predator drones overhead. He felt as though he were sitting in the jihadi version of a television studio, with Rashid playing the role of confrontational host. Malik, master of terror, was pacing slowly behind the cameras. That was the nature of their relationship, thought Gabriel. Rashid was the on-camera talent. Malik was the dogged producer who saw to the messy details. Rashid inspired. Malik maimed and murdered, all in the name of Allah.

When Rashid finally concluded his opening monologue, he turned to the main portion of this morning’s program: the interview. He began by asking Gabriel to state his name and place of residence. When Gabriel answered, “Roland Devereaux, Quebec City, Canada,” Rashid showed a flash of anger. There was a petulance to it that Gabriel might have found amusing if he were not surrounded by men with curved jambia daggers. Rashid’s ideas were monstrous, but in person he was oddly unthreatening. That’s what Malik was for.

“Your real name,” Rashid snapped. “Tell me the name you were given at your birth.”

“You know my real name.”

“Why won’t you say it now?” asked Rashid. “Are you ashamed of it?”

“No,” said Gabriel, “I just don’t use it often.”

“Say it now.”

Gabriel did.

“Where were you born?”

“In the Valley of Jezreel, in the State of Israel.”

“And where were your parents born?”

“Germany.”

Rashid clearly saw this as proof of a great historical crime. “Your parents were survivors of the so-called Holocaust?” he asked.

“No, they were survivors of the actual Holocaust.”

“Are you employed by the intelligence service of the State of Israel?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you an assassin?”

“I have killed in the line of duty.”

“You consider yourself a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“You have killed many Palestinians?”

“Yes, many.”

“Are you proud of your work?”

“No,” Gabriel said.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because of people like you.”

“Our cause is just.”

“Your cause is grotesque.”

Rashid seemed suddenly rattled. His exclusive was not going as planned. He guided it back onto firmer ground.

“Where were you on the evening of August 24, 2006?”

“I was in Cannes,” Gabriel said without hesitation.

“In France?”

“Yes, in France.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“I was supervising an operation.”