Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“What was the nature of this operation?”

“It was a targeted killing.”

“And who was the target?”

“Abdul Aziz al-Bakari.”

“Who ordered his assassination?”

“I don’t know.”

Rashid clearly did not believe him but appeared unwilling to waste valuable airtime on ancient history. “Did you take part in his actual killing?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see Nadia al-Bakari that night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When did you see her next?”

“In December.”

“Where?”

“At a château north of Paris.”

“What transpired next?”

What transpired, said Gabriel, was an elaborate operation to blackmail one of the richest women in the world into doing the bidding of Israeli and American intelligence. Through an informant, the CIA had learned that Rashid’s nascent network was desperately in need of financial assistance. The Agency wanted to provide the money to the network and then track it as it moved through the various cells and business fronts. There was only one problem. The money had to come from someone the terrorists trusted. The CIA asked Israeli intelligence whether it had any ideas. Israeli intelligence did. Her name was Nadia al-Bakari. An emissary of Israeli intelligence visited Miss al-Bakari in Paris under false pretenses and made it clear that AAB Holdings would be destroyed if she didn’t agree to cooperate.

“How was the company to be harmed?” asked Rashid.

“Through a campaign of well-orchestrated leaks to our friends in the media.”

“Jewish friends, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What would have been the nature of these leaks?”

“That AAB Holdings was a jihadist enterprise, the way it had been under her father.”

“Go on.”

Gabriel complied. For the camera, he adopted an expression of reticence. It was a lie, like the other lies that flowed from his swollen lips. He spun them slowly and in great detail. Rashid appeared to hang on every word.

“Your account is interesting,” Rashid said, “but I’m afraid it contradicts what we’ve already been told by Miss al-Bakari. She says she willingly helped you.”

“She was instructed to say that.”

“You threatened her?”

“Constantly.”

“Where did the money come from for the operation?”

“It was Nadia’s.”

“You forced her to use her own money?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why didn’t you use government money?”

“Budgets are tight.”

“You couldn’t find a wealthy Jewish donor to fund the project?”

“It was too sensitive.”

Rashid looked contemptuously at the camera, then at Gabriel. “Miss al-Bakari visited Dubai yesterday,” he said after a moment. “What was the purpose of the visit?”

“I believe she was there to conclude a major land and development deal.”

“The real purpose, Allon.”

“We sent her there to identify a senior operative in your network.”

“He was to be arrested?”

“No,” said Gabriel, “he was to be killed.”

The cleric smiled. His guest had just made an important admission, one Rashid could use to generate headlines around the world.

“It strikes me that this episode is typical of the entire so-called war on terror. You cannot defeat us, Allon. And each time you try, you only make us stronger.”

“You’re not getting stronger,” Gabriel countered. “In fact, you’re dying. The Arab world is changing. Your time has passed.”

Rashid’s smile evaporated. He spoke with the tone of a stern teacher frustrated with a dull pupil. “Surely, Allon, a man such as yourself is not so naïve as to think this great Arab Awakening is going to produce Western-style democracy in the Middle East. The revolt might have started with the students and the secularists, but the brothers will have the last word. We are the future. Regrettably, it is a future you will not be around to see. But before you leave this earth, I am obligated to ask you a final question. Do you wish to submit to the will of Islam and become a Muslim?”

“Only if it prevents you from killing Nadia.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Her crime is far worse than yours.”

“Then I’ll remain a Jew.”

“So be it.”

Rashid rose to his feet. Malik switched off the camera.

The Empty Quarter was ablaze with light by the time the first figures emerged from the tent. There were ten in all—five in white, five in black. They climbed quickly into the caravan of jeeps and pickup trucks and circled the encampment at high speed collecting the security men. A moment later, they were streaking southeast across the Sands toward Yemen.

“How much do you want to bet that one of those bastards is Rashid?” Adrian Carter asked helplessly.

“All the more reason you should take the shot,” said Navot.

“The White House won’t allow it. Not on Saudi soil. And not without knowing exactly who’s down there.”

“They’re terrorists and friends of terrorists,” Shamron said. “Take the shot.”

“And what if one of them is Gabriel?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Shamron.

“How can you be so certain?”

Shamron pointed wordlessly toward one of the screens.

“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Carter.

“I’d recognize that walk anywhere.”

THE TALIB WALKED ALONG THE base of a vast star-shaped dune. He carried his automatic weapon in one hand and with the other led Nadia by the binding at her wrists. As they rounded the dune, she saw the hole that had been dug in the desert floor. Next to it was a pyramid of stones. In the razor-sharp sun, they looked as white as exposed bone. Nadia tried to be brave, as she imagined Rena had been brave in the final moments before her death. Then she felt the desert begin to spin, and she collapsed.

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” the talib said, pulling her gently to her feet. “The first few will cause great pain. Then, inshallah , you will lose consciousness and you won’t feel a thing.”

“Please,” said Nadia, “you must find some way to spare me this.”

“It is the will of God,” said the talib . “There is nothing to be done.”

“It is not the will of God, Ali. It is the will of evil men.”

“Walk,” was all he said. “You have to walk.”

“Would you do this to Safia?”

“Walk.”

“Would you, Ali?”

“If she violated the laws of God, I would have no choice.”

“And what about Hanan? Would you stone your own child?”

This time, the talib said nothing. After a few paces, he began to recite verses of the Koran softly to himself, but to Nadia he spoke not another word.

On the other side of the mountainous dune, Gabriel padded barefoot across the sand with Malik at his side. Four other men surrounded them. Three had been with Malik in Dubai; the fourth was Rafiq al-Kamal. The bodyguard had been assigned the task of carrying the knife that would be used for Gabriel’s execution and the video camera that would record it. Malik and the others carried automatic weapons. They were old Soviet-issue AK-47s, the kind you could buy for a few riyals even in the most remote villages of Yemen. As Gabriel worked his wrists carefully against the silver duct tape, he tried to calculate the odds of getting his hands on one of the weapons. They were not good, he thought, but death by gunfire was surely better than death by beheading. If he were to die in the Empty Quarter on this morning, he planned to die on his own terms. And, if possible, he was going to take Malik al-Zubair with him.