Portrait of a Spy (20 page)

“Dead?”

Nadia made no reply. Her eyes moved slowly from face to face before coming to rest on Zoe’s.

“Do you know who these people are?”

“Of course.”

“Do you work for them?”

“I work for CNBC in New York.”

“So why are you here?”

“They need to talk to you. There was no other way.”

Nadia appeared to accept the explanation, at least for the moment. Again her gaze moved around the room. This time, it settled on Sarah.

“What is this about?”

“It’s about you, Nadia.”

“What about me?”

“You’re trying to change the Islamic world. We want to help.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Sarah Bancroft, the American girl who sold your father a painting by van Gogh. After that, he offered me a job as his personal art consultant. I went on your annual winter cruise in the Caribbean. Then I went away.”

“Are you a spy?” Nadia asked, but Sarah made no reply other than to extend her hand. Nadia’s journey was nearly complete. She had just one more stop to make. One last person to meet.

Chapter 29
Seraincourt, France

S
EPARATED FROM THE GRAND SALON
by a pair of stately double doors was a smaller, less formal drawing room with book-lined walls and overstuffed furnishings arranged before a large stone fireplace. It was both comforting and conspiratorial, a place where kisses had been stolen, sins had been confessed, and secret alliances had been forged. Shown into the room by Sarah, Nadia had led herself on a distracted tour of the perimeter before settling at one end of a long couch. Zoe sat at the other end, as if for balance, and Sarah sat opposite, with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her gaze slightly averted. The other members of the team were scattered about in various states of repose, as if resuming the party that had been interrupted by Nadia’s arrival. The one exception was Gabriel, who was standing before the unlit fire, one hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. At that instant, he was trying to decide how best to answer a simple question that had been put to him by Nadia a few seconds after he had slipped into the room. Frustrated by his silence, she posed the question again now, this time with more force.

“Who are you?”

Gabriel removed the hand from his chin and used it to help with the introductions. “These are the Fowlers, Thomas and Jenny. Thomas makes money. Jenny spends it. That rather melancholy girl in the corner is Emma. She and Thomas are old friends. Actually, they were lovers once, and in her darker moments, Jenny suspects they’re lovers still.” He paused for a moment to place a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “And you remember this woman, of course. This is Sarah, our star. Sarah has more degrees than the rest of us put together. Despite a costly education, paid for in full by a guilty father, she was working at a down-at-heel art gallery in London a few years ago when your father came looking for a van Gogh, the one artist missing from his collection. He was so impressed by Sarah that he fired his longtime art consultant and offered her the job at several times her existing salary. The perks included an invitation to cruise the Caribbean aboard the
Alexandra
. As I recall, you were quite standoffish at first. But by the time you reached the enchanted isle of St. Barts, you and Sarah had become good friends. Confidantes, I would say.”

Sarah acted as though she had heard none of it. Nadia examined her for a moment before turning back toward Gabriel.

“It was no accident that these four people all ended up on St. Barts at the same time. You see, Nadia, they are all professional intelligence officers. Thomas, Jenny, and Emma are employed by the foreign intelligence service of the State of Israel, as am I. Sarah works for the CIA. Her art expertise is quite genuine, which explains why she was selected for the operation against AAB Holdings. Your father was a secret philanthropist, just like you, Nadia. Unfortunately, his charity was directed to the opposite end of the Islamic spectrum. He gave to the inciters, the recruiters, and directly to the terrorists themselves. When your father discovered the truth about Sarah, he handed her over to be tortured and killed. But then you already knew that, didn’t you, Nadia? That’s why you were so surprised to see that your friend Sarah was still very much among the living and looking none the worse for wear.”

“You haven’t told me your name yet.”

“For the moment, my name is not important. I prefer to think of myself as a gatherer of sparks.” He paused, then added, “Just like you, Nadia.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Some of our ancient rabbis believed that when God was creating the universe, He placed His divine light into special celestial containers. But it turns out Creation didn’t go quite according to God’s plan, and an accident occurred. The vessels were broken, and the universe became filled with sparks of divine light and shards of broken vessels. The rabbis believed the task of Creation wouldn’t be complete until those sparks were gathered together. We call it Tikkun Olam, or Repair of the World. The people in this room are trying to repair the world, Nadia, and we believe that you are, too. You’re trying to gather the shards of hatred that have been spread by Wahhabi preachers. You’re trying to repair the damage caused by your father’s support of terrorism. We applaud your efforts. And we want to help.”

“How do you know all this about me?”

“Because we’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“Why?”

“Prudence,” said Gabriel. “After your father was killed in Cannes, we were afraid you would attempt to make good on your vow to avenge his death. And the last thing the world needed was another rich Saudi filling the pockets of terrorists with money. Our fears increased substantially when you quietly retained the services of a former Saudi GID officer named Faisal Qahtani to investigate the circumstances surrounding your father’s death. Mr. Qahtani reported that your father had been killed by the Israeli secret service, with the blessing of the CIA and the American president. He then went on to give you chapter and verse on your father’s long history of supporting the global jihadist movement.” Gabriel paused. “I’ve always wondered which aspect of your father’s life bothered you most, Nadia—that your father was a mass murderer, or that he lied to you. It can be very traumatic to learn that one has been misled by a parent.”

Nadia made no response. Gabriel pressed forward.

“We know what Mr. Qahtani told you because he gave the same briefing to us for the very reasonable price of one hundred thousand American dollars, deposited into a numbered Swiss bank account.” Gabriel permitted himself a brief smile. “Mr. Qahtani is a man with impeccable sources but suspect loyalties. He also has a fondness for beautiful women of the professional variety.”

“Was the information accurate?”

“Which part?”

“The part about the Israeli secret service murdering my father with the blessing of the CIA and the American president.”

Gabriel glanced at Zoe, who was doing an admirable job of concealing her curiosity. Now that her assignment was complete, she should have been quietly shown the door. But Gabriel had decided to allow her to remain in the room for now. His motives were purely selfish. He was acutely aware of the bond that had formed between his target and his agent of introduction. He was aware, too, that Zoe could be a powerful asset in helping to close the final deal. By her very presence, Zoe conferred legitimacy onto Gabriel’s cause and nobility onto his intent.

“Murder is hardly the correct word to describe what happened to your father,” he said. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I would prefer to continue for a moment longer on the topic of our mutual acquaintance, the duplicitous Mr. Qahtani. He did more than simply compile a postmortem on your father’s death. He also delivered a message from none other than the Saudi monarch himself. This message made it clear that certain elements of the House of Saud had known about your father’s activities and had tacitly approved of them. It also made it clear that under no circumstances were you to take any retributive actions against Israeli or American targets. The House of Saud was under tremendous pressure from Washington at that time to end the Kingdom’s support of extremist Islam and terrorism. The king didn’t want you to cause any further complications between Riyadh and Washington.”

“You were told this by Mr. Qahtani as well?”

“It was included in the original package, at no additional charge.”

“Did Mr. Qahtani characterize my reaction?”

“He did,” said Gabriel. “He said the warning from the House of Saud was probably needless because, in Mr. Qahtani’s opinion, you had no intention of following through on your vow to avenge your father’s death. What Mr. Qahtani didn’t realize was that you were repulsed by what you learned about your father—so repulsed, in fact, that you became something of an extremist yourself. After consolidating your grip on AAB Holdings, you decided to use your father’s fortune to undo the damage he had caused. You became a repairer of the world, a gatherer of sparks.”

Nadia gave a dismissive smile. “As I said to your friend Zoe at lunch the other day, it’s an interesting story, but it happens not to be true.”

Gabriel sensed that her denial lacked conviction. He decided the best course of action was to ignore it completely.

“You’re among friends, Nadia,” he said gently. “Admirers, actually. Not only do we admire the courage of your work, but we are also in awe of the skill with which you’ve concealed it. In fact, it took us quite some time to figure out that you were using cleverly constructed art transactions to launder money and put it in the hands of people you were trying to help. As professionals, we salute your tradecraft. In all honesty, we couldn’t have done it any better ourselves.”

Nadia looked up sharply, but this time she offered no denial. Gabriel sailed on.

“As a result of your skillful dealings, you’ve managed to keep your work secret from Saudi intelligence and the al-Saud. It’s a remarkable achievement, given the fact that you are surrounded day and night by your father’s old employees and security men. At first we were puzzled by your decision to retain their services. In retrospect, the reasons are quite obvious.”

“Are they?”

“You had no other choice. Your father was a wily businessman, but he didn’t exactly come by his fortune honestly. The House of Zizi was bought and paid for by the House of Saud, which means the al-Saud could break you with a snap of their royal fingers.”

Gabriel looked to Nadia for a reaction. Her face remained placid.

“It means you’re playing a dangerous game,” Gabriel continued. “You’re using the monarch’s money to spread ideas that could eventually threaten the monarch’s grip on his throne. That makes you a subversive. A heretic. And we both know what happens to subversives and heretics who threaten the House of Saud. One way or another, they’re eliminated.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you want to help me. In fact, it sounds as though you intend to blackmail me into doing your bidding.”

“Our only interest is that your work continues. We would, however, like to give you one piece of advice.”

“What sort of advice?”

“Investment advice,” said Gabriel. “We think now might be a good time to make a few changes in your portfolio—changes that are more in keeping with your birthright as the one and only child of the late Zizi al-Bakari.”

“My father was a financier of terrorism.”

“No, Nadia, he wasn’t just
any
financier of terrorism. Your father was unrivaled. Your father was Jihad Incorporated.”

“Forgive me,” Nadia said, “but I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“It’s simple. We want you to follow in your father’s footsteps. We want you to pick up the banner of jihad that fell from his grasp that terrible night in Cannes. We want you to avenge his death.”

“You want
me
to become a terrorist?”

“Exactly.”

“How would I do that?”

“By purchasing your own terrorist group. But don’t worry, Nadia. You won’t have to do it alone. Thomas and I are going to help you.”

Chapter 30
Seraincourt, France

T
HEY HAD COME TO A GOOD PLACE TO PAUSE
—an oasis, thought Gabriel, who found himself suddenly bewitched by the iconography of the desert. The reason for Nadia’s summons had been successfully broached. It was now time to rest for a few moments and to reflect upon the journey thus far. It was also time to deal with a bit of unpleasant business. Gabriel had a few questions that needed answering before they could continue—questions dealing with the tangled politics and ancient hatreds of the Middle East. He posed the first while crouching before the fireplace, an unlit match between his fingertips.

“How do you feel about us?” he asked, striking the match on the stonework.

“About Israelis?”

“About Jews,” replied Gabriel, touching the match to the kindling. “Do you think we are children of the devil? Do you think we control the world’s finances and media? Do you think we brought the Holocaust upon ourselves? Do you even believe the Holocaust happened? Do you think we use the blood of non-Jewish children to prepare our unleavened bread? Do you believe we are apes and pigs, as your Wahhabi clerics and Saudi textbooks like to portray us?”

“I didn’t go to school in Saudi Arabia,” said Nadia without a trace of defensiveness.

“No,” said Gabriel, “you attended the most prestigious schools in Europe, just like your friend Sarah. And Sarah remembers quite clearly an incident on a beach in St. Barts when you said something quite unpleasant about a man you believed to be Jewish. She also recalls a fair amount of rough talk about Jews whenever your father and his entourage started discussing politics.”

Nadia stared at Sarah with a trace of sadness, as though a confidence had been betrayed. “My father’s opinions about Jews were well known,” she said after a moment. “Unfortunately, I was exposed to those opinions on a daily basis, and my father’s views briefly became my own.” She paused and looked at Gabriel. “Have you never said something you wish you could take back? Have you never done anything for which you are deeply ashamed?”