Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

The question managed to take Gabriel by surprise. He found no reason to answer with anything but the truth. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “she didn’t have long to live.”

“We’d heard rumors to that effect for some time,” the Saudi replied, “but we were never sure.”

“She kept it a secret from everyone, including her staff. Even her closest friends knew nothing.”

“But you knew?”

“She took me into her confidence because of the operation.”

“And the nature of this illness?” the Saudi asked, his pencil hovering over his notebook as if Nadia’s illness were but a small detail that needed clearing up for the official record.

“She suffered from a disorder called arteriovenous malformation,” Gabriel replied evenly. “It’s an abnormal connection between the veins and arteries in the brain. Her doctors had told her she couldn’t be treated. She knew it was only a matter of time before she suffered a devastating hemorrhagic stroke. It was possible she could have died at any moment.”

“So she committed suicide in the desert by stepping in front of a bullet meant for you?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “She sacrificed herself.” He paused, then added, “For all of us.”

Khalid looked down at his file again. “Unfortunately, she’s become a martyr to our more progressive women. Questions are being raised about her philanthropic activities. Apparently, she was something of a reformer.”

“Is that why you had her killed?”

Khalid’s face remained expressionless. “Miss al-Bakari was killed by Rashid and Malik.”

“That’s true,” said Gabriel, “but someone told them she was working for us.”

“Perhaps they had a source close to your operation.”

“Or perhaps you did,” Gabriel responded. “Perhaps Rashid and Malik were just pawns, a convenient means of eliminating a grave danger to the House of Saud.”

“That is mere conjecture on your part.”

“True,” said Gabriel, “but it’s supported by history. Whenever the al-Saud feel threatened, they turn to the bearded ones.”

“The bearded ones, as you call them, are more of a threat to us than they are to you.”

“Then why are you still supporting them? It’s been ten years since 9/11. Ten years ,” Gabriel repeated, “and Saudi Arabia is still a cash machine for terrorists and Sunni extremist groups. There’s only one possible explanation. The deal with the devil has been renewed. The House of Saud is willing to turn a blind eye to Islamic terror as long as the sacred rage is directed outward, away from the oil fields.”

“We’re not as blind as you think.”

“I funneled tens of millions of dollars into a Sunni terrorist group in a deal struck on Saudi soil.”

“Which is why you now find yourself here.”

“Then I assume Sheikh Bin Tayyib is in custody somewhere in the building as well?”

Khalid smiled uncomfortably but made no response. He posed a few more questions, none of any significance, then the session was concluded. Afterward, he took the unusual step of walking Gabriel back to his cell. He lingered for a moment in the corridor before unlocking the door. “I’m told the American president has taken an intense personal interest in your case,” he said. “If I had to guess, I’d say your stay with us is almost over.”

“When am I leaving?”

“Midnight.”

“What time is it now?”

The falcon smiled. “Five past.”

A fresh suit of clothing had been laid upon the bed in Gabriel’s cell. Khalid gave him a moment of privacy to dress. Then he escorted Gabriel up several flights of stairs to an internal courtyard. An SUV idled in the moonlight. It was large and American, as were the four men standing around it. “I left two things for you in the breast pocket of the suit,” Khalid said quietly as they crossed the courtyard. “One is the bullet that passed through Nadia and struck you. The other is a note for Adrian Carter. Think of it as a small parting gift to help you remember your stay with us.”

“What is it?”

“Some information he might find helpful. I’d appreciate it if you kept my name out of it.”

“Is it any good?”

“The information? I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that word.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from her?” Khalid nodded toward the SUV. “I’d get in quickly, if I were you. His Highness has been known to change his mind.”

Gabriel shook the Saudi’s hand before surrendering himself to the Americans. They drove at high speed to a military air base north of Riyadh and hustled him onto a waiting Gulfstream. There was an Agency doctor on board; he spent much of the flight pumping fluid into Gabriel’s emaciated body and fretting over the condition of the wound in his side. Finally, he permitted Gabriel to sleep. Tormented by dreams of Nadia’s death, he woke with a start as the plane bumped onto the runway at London City Airport. When the cabin door opened, he saw Chiara and Shamron waiting on the tarmac. He suspected they were the only two people on earth who looked worse than he did.

SHAMRON SETTLED INTO THE SPARE bedroom. He gave every indication his stay was permanent. The nightmare in the Empty Quarter, he told Chiara, had given him one last mission.

He appointed himself Gabriel’s personal bodyguard, physician, and grief counselor. He offered advice that was not solicited and suffered his patient’s depression and mood swings in stoic silence. Rarely did he allow Gabriel to stray out of his sight. He stalked him through the rooms of the cottage, walked with him along the sand beach in the cove, and even followed him when he went into the village to do the marketing. Gabriel told the shopkeepers that Shamron was his uncle from Milan. In public, he spoke to Shamron only in Italian, of which Shamron understood not a word.

Within days of Gabriel’s return to Cornwall, the weather turned rainy, which suited all their moods. Chiara cooked elaborate meals and watched with relief as Gabriel regained some of the weight he had lost in the Saudi prison. His emotional state, however, remained unchanged. He slept little and seemed incapable of talking about what had happened in the desert. Uzi Navot dispatched a doctor to examine him. “Guilt,” said the doctor after spending an hour alone with Gabriel. “Enormous, unfathomable, unremitting guilt. He promised to protect her, but in the end, he let her down. He doesn’t like to fail women.”

“What can we do?” Chiara asked.

“Give him time and space,” the doctor said. “And don’t ask too much of him for a while.”

“I’m not sure having Ari around is helping matters.”

“Good luck trying to dislodge him,” the doctor said. “Gabriel will eventually recover, but I’m not so sure about the Old Man. Let him stay as long as he wants. He’ll know when it’s time to leave.”

A daily routine eluded Gabriel. Unable to sleep at night, he slept in daylight, when his conscience allowed it. He moped, he stared at the rain and the sea, he walked in the cove. Sometimes, he sat on the veranda and worked with charcoal on paper. The sketches he produced were all of the operation. Many were of Nadia. Alarmed, Chiara secretly photographed the sketches and e-mailed the pictures to the doctor for analysis. “He’s his own best therapist,” said the doctor reassuringly. “Let him work it out on his own.”

Nadia was with them always. They made no effort to keep her at bay; even if they had tried, events in the Middle East would have made it impossible. From Morocco to the Emirates, the Arab world was aflame with a new wave of popular unrest. This time, even the old Sunni monarchies appeared vulnerable. Emboldened by Nadia’s brutal murder, Arab women poured into the streets by the thousands. Nadia was their martyr and patron saint. They chanted her name and carried signs bearing her photograph. In a macabre twisting of her message and beliefs, some said they wanted to emulate her by dying as martyrs, too.