Portrait of a Spy (35 page)

“I don’t consider jihadist terrorists to be members of my community or my faith, just as they surely don’t consider me to be members of theirs. Besides, haven’t you already used my money to identify and arrest more than sixty suspected terrorists?” She paused, then added, “Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but it seems to me that you are making a distinction without a difference.”

Gabriel leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and his agent. He wanted no misunderstandings, no ambiguity, and absolutely nothing lost in translation.

“Do you understand what will happen to this man if he turns out to be the one we’re looking for?”

“I shouldn’t think you would need to ask a question like that.”

“Can you live with a memory like that?”

“I already do.” She managed a smile. “Besides, as you know, Mr. Allon, nothing lasts forever.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and spent a moment contemplating his hands. This time he didn’t bother looking to Shamron for guidance. The decision was his and his alone.

“We need time to prepare you.”

Nadia drew a leather portfolio from her handbag and looked at her schedule. “I’m in Moscow tomorrow, Prague the next day, and Stockholm the day after that.”

“How’s your weekend look?”

“I was planning to go to Casablanca for a bit of sun.”

“We might need you to cancel that trip.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said stubbornly. “But I do happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Gabriel accepted a file folder from Uzi Navot. Inside was the last known photograph of Malik al-Zubair, along with several computer-generated photo illustrations. Gabriel laid them out in a row on the table.

“This is the man who may or may not be coming to see you next Thursday night at the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai,” he said, pointing to the old photograph. His hand moved to the photo illustrations. “Here he is with twenty extra pounds. Here he is with a beard. Here he is without a beard. With a mustache. With a prayer scar. Without a prayer scar. With eyeglasses. With short hair. Long hair. Gray hair. No hair at all . . .”

Chapter 53
The City, London

T
HE
F
INANCIAL
J
OURNAL
OF
L
ONDON
had lost much of its luster since being acquired by the Russian oligarch Viktor Orlov, yet it caused a commotion in the City the next morning when it reported that the mercenary house of Rogers & Cressey was assembling the pieces of a major project in Dubai. The story gained additional momentum when Zoe Reed of CNBC reported that the venture was being bankrolled in part by AAB Holdings, the Saudi investment firm controlled by the reclusive heiress Nadia al-Bakari. Reached for comment in Paris, AAB’s underworked spokeswoman Yvette Dubois issued a textbook non-denial denial, but in London that evening, the lights burned late in R&C’s Cannon Street offices. Veteran observers of the firm weren’t surprised. R&C, they said, always did its best work in the dark.

Had they been privy to R&C’s soundproof conference rooms and secure phone lines, they would have heard a language quite unlike any spoken elsewhere in the business world. Its etymology could be traced to a massacre at the Munich Olympic Games in September 1972 and to a secret operation of vengeance that followed. The world had changed much since then, but the principles enshrined in the series of assassinations remained inviolable.
Aleph
,
Bet
,
Ayin
,
Qoph
: four letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Four operational rules that were as timeless and durable as the man who had written them.

Within certain sections of R&C’s offices, he was known as Herr Heller. But once he entered the rooms reserved for Gabriel and his team, he was referred to as Ari, or the Old Man, or the
Memuneh
, the Hebrew word meaning “the one in charge.” Owing to a scrap of paper bearing Uzi Navot’s signature, Shamron was in fact the nominal commander of the operation, but for practical reasons, he ceded responsibility for the planning and execution to Gabriel and his able deputy, Eli Lavon. It was not a difficult concession for Shamron to make. Gabriel and Lavon shared Shamron’s methodology along with his basic instincts and deepest fears. To hear them speak was to hear the voice of the
Memuneh
. And to watch them meticulously plan the demise of a monster like Malik was to see Shamron in the prime of his life.

For many reasons, the operation would be among the most difficult Gabriel and his team had ever carried out. The hostile nature of the environment was only one obstacle. They did not know for certain the target would be there, or, if he did appear, whether they would be presented with an opportunity to kill him that did not risk exposure. Like Adrian Carter, Gabriel did not approve of games of chance. Therefore, on the first day of the planning, he drew a line in the sand that was not to be crossed. They were to leave the suicide missions to their enemies. If their prey could not be taken down without risk to the hunting party, they were to tag him and wait for another opportunity. And under no circumstances would they take a shot at
any
one unless they were certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the man they were aiming at was Malik al-Zubair.

They worked around the clock to eliminate as many other variables as possible. Housekeeping, the Office division responsible for safe accommodations, secured three apartments in Dubai, while Transport prepositioned a half-dozen cars and motorcycles at various points around the city-state. King Saul Boulevard also managed to create a reasonable bolt-hole. Its name was the
Neptune
, a Liberian-registered cargo vessel that in reality was a floating radar and eavesdropping station operated by AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. On board was a team of Sayeret Matkal commandos capable of rapid seaborne deployment. Securing the vessel for the operation had cost Navot dearly, and he made it clear that it was to be used only as a last resort. Nor were the Americans or the British ever to know of its existence, since the
Neptune
spent much of its time soaking up Anglo-American signals traffic flying through the airwaves of the Persian Gulf.

But the team’s primary source of anxiety during those days of hasty preparation revolved around the safety of their asset, Nadia al-Bakari. Once again, Gabriel laid down unmovable markers. The time Nadia spent on the ground in Dubai would be brief and highly choreographed. She would be surrounded at all times by two rings of security—one ring consisting of her own bodyguards and a second provided by the Office. After the meeting at the Burj Al Arab, she would return immediately to the airport and board her plane. At that point, the clandestine Office security ring would melt away, and Nadia would once again be entrusted to the sole care of her own detail.

Their preparation time with her was limited, as they had known it would be. After agreeing to cancel her trip to Morocco, she returned to London on Saturday to attend an intimate dinner party at the Fowlers’ Mayfair town house at which no food was actually consumed. On Sunday, she was in Milan for an important fashion show, but she managed to find her way back to Cannon Street on Monday for a final briefing. At the conclusion, they gave her a Prada handbag, a Chanel suit, and a Harry Winston wristwatch. The handbag contained a well-hidden transmitter capable of broadcasting securely to a range of five kilometers. A backup transmitter was sewn into the lining of the Chanel suit, along with two miniature GPS tracking beacons. A third tracking beacon was hidden inside the Harry Winston watch. It was the same watch that Nadia’s father had given to Sarah five years earlier as an inducement to come to work for him. A jeweler employed by Identity had buffed out the original inscription and replaced it with
To the future, Thomas
. Nadia’s eyes glistened as she read it. Leaving, she embraced Gabriel in a way that made Shamron visibly uncomfortable.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me about our girl?” he asked Gabriel as they stood in the window watching Nadia climb into her car.

“She’s one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met. And if any harm comes to her, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Now tell me something I
don’t
know,” Shamron said.

“She knows who killed her father. And she forgives him.”

The team assumed that their enemies were watching and their friends were listening, and so they conducted themselves accordingly. For the most part, they remained barricaded inside the Cannon Street offices of Rogers & Cressey, with all outside errands handled by British personnel who had no direct connection to the operation. Shamron spent most of his time in an Office flat on Bayswater Road that was known to MI5. Gabriel dropped by once a day to walk with him on the footpaths of Kensington Gardens. On their last day in London, the British followed them. So did the Americans.

“I’ve always preferred to do my killing alone,” Shamron said, looking glumly at the watchers trailing them along the edge of the Long Water. “I’m surprised your friend the president didn’t insist on going to the U.N. for a resolution.”

“I managed to talk him out of it.”

“What
did
you talk about with him?”

“Adrian Carter,” said Gabriel. “I told the president that we would take care of Malik only if the Justice Department dropped its investigation into Adrian’s handling of the war on terror.”

“He agreed?”

“It was somewhat veiled,” said Gabriel, “but unmistakable. He also agreed to my second demand.”

“Which was?”

“That he fire James McKenna before he gets us all killed.”

“We always assumed the president and McKenna were inseparable.”

“In Washington, no two people are ever inseparable.”

Shamron was beginning to tire. They walked to the Italian Gardens and sat on a bench overlooking a fountain. Shamron did a poor job of concealing his irritation. Waterworks, like all other forms of human amusement, bored him.

“You should know that your efforts have already earned us valuable political capital with the Americans,” he said. “Last night, the secretary of state quietly agreed to all our conditions for resuming the peace process with the Palestinians. She also hinted that the president might be willing to pay a visit to Jerusalem in the near future. We assume it will take place
before
the next election.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“I never have,” Shamron said, “but I’m not sure I envy him. The great Arab Awakening has occurred on his watch, and his actions will help to determine whether the Middle East tips toward people like Nadia al-Bakari or the jihadists like Rashid al-Husseini.” Shamron paused. “I’ll admit even I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I only know that killing a man like Malik will make it easier for the forces of progress and decency to prevail.”

“Are you saying the entire future of the Middle East depends on the outcome of my operation?”

“That would be hyperbolic on my part,” Shamron said. “And I’ve always tried to avoid hyperbole at all costs.”

“Except when it suits your purposes.”

Shamron gave a trace of a smile and lit one of his Turkish cigarettes. “Have you given any thought to who’s going to enforce the sentence that’s been imposed on Malik?”

“In all likelihood, that decision will be made by Malik himself.”

“Which is just one of many things about this operation that I don’t care for.” Shamron smoked in silence for a moment. “I know you’ve always preferred the finality of a firearm, but in this case, the needle is a far better option. A noisy kill will only make it harder for you and your team to escape. Hit him with a healthy dose of suxamethonium chloride. He’ll feel a pinprick. Then he’ll have trouble breathing as the paralysis sets in. Within a few minutes, he’ll be dead. And you’ll be boarding a private plane at the airport.”

“Suxamethonium has one thing in common with a bullet,” Gabriel said. “It stays in the body long after the victim is dead. Eventually, the medical examiners in Dubai will find it, and the police will be able to piece together exactly what happened.”

“It’s the price we pay for operating in modern hotels. Just do your best to shield that face of yours from the cameras. If your picture ends up in the newspaper again, it will complicate your return to civilian life.” Shamron observed Gabriel in silence for a moment. “That
is
what you wish to do, is it not?”

Gabriel made no reply. Shamron dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his heel.

“You can’t fault me for trying,” Shamron said.

“I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

“I actually permitted myself to hope your answer might be different this time.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re allowing your wife to go to Dubai.”

“I didn’t have a choice. She insisted.”

“You tell the president of the United States to fire one of his closest aides but you acquiesce to an ultimatum from your wife?” Shamron shook his head and said, “Maybe I should have chosen
her
to be the next chief of the Office.”

“Make Bella Navot her deputy.”

“Bella?” Shamron smiled. “The Arab world would tremble.”

They parted, ten minutes later, at Lancaster Gate. Shamron returned to the Office safe flat while Gabriel headed to Heathrow Airport. By the time he arrived, he was Roland Devereaux, formerly of Grenoble, France, lately of Quebec City, Canada. He had the passport of a man who traveled too much and a demeanor to match. After sailing through check-in and passport control, he made his way under covert MI5 escort to the first-class passenger lounge of British Airways. There he found a quiet place far from the in-flight alcoholics and watched the news on television. Bored by an ill-informed discussion of the current terror threat, he opened his businessman’s notebook and from memory sketched a beautiful young woman with raven hair. It was a portrait of an unveiled woman, thought Gabriel. A portrait of a spy.