Daniel Silva - The New Girl

He went onto the terrace. There were two wrought-iron chairs and a small table, upon which was the plate Shamron had commandeered for his ashtray. Six cigarette butts lay side by side, like spent cartridges. Shamron was in the process of igniting a seventh with his old Zippo lighter when Gabriel plucked the cigarette from his lips.

Shamron frowned. “One more won’t kill me.”

“It might.”

“Do you know how many of those I’ve smoked in my life?”

“All the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore.”

“You shouldn’t borrow from Genesis when discussing a vice like smoking. It’s bad karma.”

“Jews don’t believe in karma.”

“Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

Shamron extracted another cigarette from his packet with a tremulous liver-spotted hand. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. He had damaged the garment the night a Palestinian master terrorist named Tariq al-Hourani planted a bomb beneath Gabriel’s car in Vienna. Daniel, Gabriel’s young son, was killed in the explosion. Leah, his first wife, suffered catastrophic burns. She lived now in a psychiatric hospital atop Mount Herzl, trapped in a prison of memory and a body ravaged by fire. And Gabriel lived here on Narkiss Street, with his beautiful Italian-born wife and two young children. From them, he hid his unending grief. But not from Shamron. Death had joined them in the beginning. And death remained the foundation of their bond.

Gabriel sat down. “Who told you?”

“About your flying visit to Saudi Arabia?” Shamron’s smile was mischievous. “I believe it was Uzi.”

Uzi Navot was the previous director-general and, like Gabriel, one of Shamron’s acolytes. In a break with Office tradition, he had agreed to remain at King Saul Boulevard, thus allowing Gabriel to function as an operational chief.

“How much were you able to beat out of him?”

“No coercion was necessary. Uzi was deeply concerned about your decision to return to the country where you spent nearly a month in captivity. Needless to say,” said Shamron, “I shared his opinion.”

“You traveled secretly to Arab countries when you were the chief.”

“Jordan, yes. Morocco, of course. I even went to Egypt after Sadat made his visit to Jerusalem. But I never set foot in Saudi Arabia.”

“I wasn’t in danger.”

“With all due respect, Gabriel, I doubt that was the case. You should have conducted the meeting on neutral ground, in an environment controlled by the Office. He has a tempestuous streak, the crown prince. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like that journalist he killed in Istanbul.”

“I’ve always found journalists to be much more useful alive than dead.”

Shamron smiled. “Did you read the piece they wrote about Khalid in the New York Times ? They said the Arab Spring had finally come to Saudi Arabia. They said an untested boy was going to transform a country founded on a shotgun marriage between Wahhabism and a desert tribe from the Nejd.” Shamron shook his head. “I didn’t believe the story then, and I surely don’t believe it now. Khalid bin Mohammed is interested in two things. The first is power. The second is money. For the Al Saud, they are one and the same. Without power, there is no money. And without money, there is no power.”

“But he fears the Iranians as much as we do. For that reason alone, he can prove quite useful.”

“Which is why you agreed to find his daughter.” Shamron gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “That is why he wanted to see you, isn’t it?”

Gabriel handed Shamron the demand note, which he read by the flickering light of the Zippo. “It looks as though you’ve gotten yourself into the middle of a royal family feud.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like.”

“It’s not without risk.”

“Nothing worth doing is.”

“I agree.” Shamron closed the lighter with a snap of his thick wrist. “Even if you fail to find her, your efforts will pay dividends in the royal court of Riyadh. And if you succeed …” Shamron shrugged. “The crown prince will be forever in your debt. For all intents and purposes, he will be an asset of the Office.”

“So you approve?”

“I would have done exactly the same thing.” Shamron returned the note to Gabriel. “But why did Khalid offer you this opportunity to compromise him? Why turn to the Office? Why didn’t he ask his good friend in the White House for help?”

“Perhaps he thinks I might prove more effective.”

“Or more ruthless.”

“That, too.”

“You should consider one possibility,” said Shamron after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“That Khalid knows full well who kidnapped his daughter, and he’s using you to do his dirty work.”

“He’s proven himself more than willing to do his own.”

“Which is why you should make no more trips to Saudi Arabia.” Shamron looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “I was in Langley that night—do you remember? I watched the entire thing through the camera of that Predator drone. I saw them leading you and Nadia into the desert to be executed. I pleaded with the Americans to drop a Hellfire missile on you to spare you the pain of the knife. I’ve had many terrible nights in my life, but that might have been the worst. If she hadn’t stepped in front of that bullet …” Shamron looked at his big stainless-steel wristwatch. “You should get some sleep.”

“It’s too late now,” said Gabriel. “Stay with me, Abba. I’ll sleep on the way to Paris.”

“I didn’t think you could sleep on airplanes.”

“I can’t.”

Shamron watched the wind moving in the eucalyptus trees. “I never could, either.”

PRINCESS REEMA BINT KHALID ABDULAZIZ AL SAUD endured the many indignities of her captivity with as much grace as possible, but the bucket was the last straw.

It was pale blue and plastic, the sort of thing an Al Saud never touched. They had placed it in Reema’s cell after she had misbehaved during a visit to the toilet. According to a typewritten note taped to the side, Reema was to use it until further notice. Only when her conduct returned to normal would her bathroom privileges be restored. Reema refused to relieve herself in such a shameful manner and did so on the floor of her cell instead. At which point her captors, again in writing, threatened to withhold food and water. “Fine!” Reema shouted at the masked figure who delivered the note. She would rather starve to death than eat another wretched meal that tasted as though it had been cooked in its own can. The food was not fit for pigs, let alone the daughter of the future king of Saudi Arabia.

The cell was small—smaller, perhaps, than any room in which Reema had ever set foot. Her cot consumed most of the space. The walls were white and smooth and cold, and in the ceiling a light burned always. Reema had no concept of time, even day or night. She slept when she was tired, which was often, and dreamed of her old life. She had taken it all for granted, the unimaginable wealth and luxury, and now it was gone.

They did not chain her to the floor the way they did in the American movies her father used to allow her to watch. Nor did they gag her or bind her hands and feet or force her to wear a hood—only for a few hours, during the long drive after she was taken. Once she was safely in the cell, they were the ones to cover their faces. There were four in all. Reema could tell them apart by their size and shape and the color of their eyes. Three were men, one was a woman. None were Arabs.