Portrait of a Spy (41 page)

“How long now until the baby comes?”

“Three months,” he said.

“
Inshallah
, it will be a boy.”

“Actually, the doctors say we will have a girl.”

“You don’t sound displeased.”

“I’m not.”

“Have you chosen a name?”

“We’re going to call her Hanan.”

In Arabic, it meant “mercy.” Perhaps there was hope after all.

The
talib
began to recite verses of the Koran softly to himself. Nadia rolled onto her back and gazed up at the stars. They seemed close enough to touch. There was only the sound of the Koran and a distant hum of some sort. For a moment, she assumed it was another hallucination caused by the drugs—or perhaps, she thought, by the abnormality in her brain. Then she closed her eyes, silencing the voice of the
talib
, and listened intently. It was no hallucination, she concluded. It was an aircraft of some sort. And it was getting closer.

A single narrow road links the Emirati oasis town of Liwa with the Shaybah oil facility on the other side of the border in Saudi Arabia. Nadia had passed through the checkpoint as the sleeping, veiled wife of one of her captors. Gabriel was made to suffer the same indignity, though, unlike Nadia, he was fully aware of what was happening.

Beneath his veil, he wore the blue coveralls of a Dubai laborer. They had been given to him in a produce warehouse in al-Khaznah, a desert town in the Emirate of Abu Dhabi, after he had been stripped of his own clothing and searched for beacons and listening devices. He had also been given a second beating, with Rafiq al-Kamal doing most of the heavy lifting. Gabriel supposed the Saudi had a right to be cross with him. After all, Gabriel had killed his old boss and then recruited the boss’s daughter as an agent. Al-Kamal’s involvement in Nadia’s abduction puzzled Gabriel. At whose behest, he wondered, was the Saudi here? The terrorists? Or the al-Saud?

For now, it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Nadia alive. It would require one last lie. One last deception. He conceived the lie on the road to Shaybah while wearing the blue coveralls of a laborer and the black veil of a woman. Then he told it to himself again and again, until he believed every word of it to be true.

On the giant plasma screens of Langley, Gabriel was but a smudge of winking green light making its way across the Empty Quarter. A cluster of five more lights blinked near the oasis town of Liwa. They represented the positions of Mikhail Abramov and the Sayeret Matkal team.

“There’s no way they’re going to get through that border checkpoint,” said Carter.

“So they’ll go around it,” said Shamron.

“There’s a fence along the entire border.”

“Fences mean nothing to the Sayeret.”

“How are they going to get a Land Cruiser over it?”

“They have
two
Land Cruisers,” said Shamron, “but I’m afraid neither one is going over that fence.”

“What are you saying?”

“We wait until Gabriel stops moving.”

“And then?”

“They walk.”

“In the Empty Quarter?” Carter asked incredulously.

“That’s what they’re trained to do.”

“What happens if they run into a Saudi military patrol?”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to say Kaddish for the patrol,” said Shamron. “Because if they bump into Mikhail Abramov and Yoav Savir, they will cease to exist.”

There was an all-night gas station and market in Liwa that catered to foreign laborers and truck drivers. The Indian behind the counter looked as though he hadn’t slept in a month. Yoav, the Arab who was not an Arab, bought enough food and water for a small army, along with a few cheap
ghutra
s and some loose-fitting cotton clothing favored by Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. He told the Indian that he and his friends planned to spend a day or two in the dunes communing with God and nature. The night manager told him about a particularly inspiring formation north of Liwa, along the Saudi border. “But be careful,” he said. “The area is full of smugglers and al-Qaeda. Very dangerous.” Yoav thanked the Indian for the warning. Then he paid the bill without haggling and headed outside to the Land Cruisers.

They started northward as the Indian had suggested, but once clear of the town, made an abrupt turn to the south. The dunes were the color of rose and as high as the Judean Hills. They drove for an hour, keeping always to the hard sand flats, before coming to a stop near the Saudi border fence. With dawn fast approaching, they covered the Land Cruisers in camouflage netting and changed into the clothing they had bought in Liwa. Yoav and the other Sayeret men looked like Arabs, but Mikhail looked like a Western explorer who had come in search of the lost city of Arabia. His expedition commenced thirty minutes later, when the green smudge of light that was Gabriel Allon finally stopped moving at a point forty miles due west of the team’s position. They loaded their packs with as much weaponry and water as they could carry. Then they scaled the Saudi border fence and started walking.

Chapter 64
The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

T
HE 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.”

Chapter 65
The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

R
ASHID 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.”

“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.