Portrait of a Spy (8 page)

“I’m surprised he didn’t come here himself,” Gabriel said.

“He was tempted.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“It’s not so easy for him to travel.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“Everything,” Navot said, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “He rarely leaves Tiberias these days. He just sits on his terrace staring out at the lake. He’s driving Gilah to distraction. She’s been begging me to give him something to do.”

“Should I go see him?”

“He’s not on his deathbed, if that’s what you’re implying. But you should pay a visit sometime soon. Who knows? You might actually decide that you like your country again.”

“I love my country, Uzi.”

“Just not enough to live there.”

“You always did remind me a bit of Shamron,” Gabriel said with a frown, “but now the resemblance is uncanny.”

“Gilah told me the same thing not long ago.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Neither did she.” Navot added another spoonful of clotted cream to his scone with exaggerated care.

“So why are you here, Uzi?”

“I want to present you with a unique opportunity.”

“You sound like a salesman.”

“I’m a spy,” Navot said. “There’s not much of a difference.”

“What are you offering?”

“A chance to atone for a mistake.”

“What mistake was that?”

“You should have shot Farid Khan through the back of the head before he hit his detonator switch.” Navot lowered his voice and added confidingly, “That’s what I would have done, if I’d been in your shoes.”

“And how might I make amends for this lapse in judgment?”

“By accepting an invitation.”

“From whom?”

Navot gazed silently westward.

“The Americans?” asked Gabriel.

Navot smiled. “More tea?”

The rain ceased as abruptly as it began. Gabriel left money on the table and led Navot down the steep footpath to Polpeor Cove. The bodyguard was still leaning against the crumbled lifeboat ramp. He watched with feigned indifference as Gabriel and Navot made their way slowly across the rocky beach to the water’s edge. Navot cast a distracted glance at his stainless steel wristwatch and turned up his coat collar against the gusty wind rising from the sea. Gabriel was once again struck by the uncanny resemblance to Shamron. The likeness went beyond the superficial. It was as if Shamron, by the sheer force of his indomitable will, had somehow managed to take possession of Navot, body and soul. It was not the Shamron who had been weakened by age and infirmity, thought Gabriel, but Shamron in his prime. All that was missing were the wretched Turkish cigarettes that had ravaged Shamron’s health. Bella had never permitted Navot to smoke, not even for the sake of his cover.

“Who’s behind the bombings, Uzi?”

“Thus far, we’ve been unable to make a firm attribution. The Americans, however, seem to think he’s the future face of global jihadist terror—the new Bin Laden.”

“Does this new Bin Laden have a name?”

“The Americans insist on sharing that information with you face-to-face. They’d like you to come to Washington, all expenses paid, of course.”

“How was this invitation extended?”

“Adrian Carter called me personally.”

Adrian Carter was the director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.

“What’s the dress code?”

“Black,” said Navot. “Your visit to America will be entirely off the books.”

Gabriel regarded Navot in silence for a moment. “You obviously want me to go, Uzi. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Navot said. “At the very least, it will give us an opportunity to hear what the Americans have to say about the bombings. But there are other fringe benefits as well.”

“Such as?”

“Our relationship could use a bit of retouching.”

“What sort of retouching?”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s a new wind blowing through Washington. Change is in the air,” Navot added sarcastically. “The new American president is an idealist. He believes he can repair relations between the West and Islam, and he’s convinced himself that we’re part of the problem.”

“So the solution is to send
me
, a former assassin with the blood of several Palestinian and Islamic terrorists on his hands?”

“When spies play nicely together, it tends to spill over into the political realm, which is why the prime minister is eager for you to make the trip as well.”

“The prime minister? The next thing you’re going to tell me is that Shamron is involved, too.”

“He is.” Navot picked up a stone and hurled it into the sea. “After the Iran op, I allowed myself to think Shamron might finally fade gracefully into the background. I was wrong. He has no intention of allowing me to run the Office without his constant interference. But that’s not surprising, is it, Gabriel? We both know Shamron had someone else in mind for the job. I’m fated to go down in the history of our illustrious service as the accidental chief. And you’ll always be the chosen one.”

“Choose someone else, Uzi. I’m retired. Remember? Send someone else to Washington.”

“Adrian won’t hear of it,” Navot said, rubbing his shoulder. “And neither will Shamron. As for your so-called retirement, it ended the moment you decided to follow Farid Khan into Covent Garden.”

Gabriel stared out at the sea and pictured the aftermath of the shot not taken: body parts and blood, Baghdad on the Thames. Navot seemed to sense what he was thinking. He pressed his advantage.

“The Americans would like you in Washington first thing in the morning. There’s a Gulfstream waiting for you outside London. It was one of the planes they used for the rendition program. They’ve assured me the handcuffs and hypodermic needles have been removed.”

“What about Chiara?”

“The invitation is for one.”

“She can’t stay here alone.”

“Graham has agreed to send a security team from London.”

“I don’t trust them, Uzi. Take her back to Israel with you. She can help Gilah look after the old man for a few days until I get back.”

“She might be there awhile.”

Gabriel looked at Navot carefully. He clearly knew more than he was saying. He usually did.

“I just agreed to restore a picture for Julian Isherwood.”

“A
Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene
, formerly attributed to the Studio of Palma Vecchio, now tentatively attributed to Titian, pending peer review.”

“Very impressive, Uzi.”

“Bella’s been trying to broaden my horizons.”

“The painting can’t stay in an empty cottage by the sea.”

“Julian’s agreed to take it back. As you might expect, he’s rather disappointed.”

“I was supposed to be paid two hundred thousand pounds for that piece.”

“Don’t look at me, Gabriel. The cupboard is bare. I’ve been forced to institute across-the-board cuts in every department. The accountants are even after me to reduce my personal expenses. My per diem is a pittance.”

“Good thing you’re on a diet.”

Navot absently touched his midsection, as if checking to see whether it had expanded since leaving home.

“It’s a long drive back to London, Uzi. Maybe you should take along some of those scones.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You’re afraid Bella will find out?”

“I
know
she will.” Navot glared at the bodyguard leaning against the lifeboat ramp. “Those bastards tell her everything. It’s like living in a police state.”

Chapter 11
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

T
HE HOUSE STOOD IN THE 3300 BLOCK OF
N S
TREET
, one of an elegant terrace of Federal-style residences priced far beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest of Washingtonians. Gabriel climbed the curved front steps in the gray half-light of dawn and, as instructed, entered without ringing the bell. Adrian Carter waited in the foyer, dressed in wrinkled chinos, a crewneck sweater, and a tan corduroy blazer. The attire, combined with his tousled thinning hair and unfashionable mustache, gave him the air of a professor from a minor university, the sort who championed noble causes and was a constant thorn in the side of his dean. As director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, Carter had no cause these days other than keeping the American homeland safe from another terrorist attack—though twice each month, schedule permitting, he could be found in the basement of his Episcopal church in suburban Reston preparing meals for the homeless. For Carter, the volunteer work was a meditation, a rare opportunity to thrust his hands into something other than the internecine warfare that raged constantly in the conference rooms of America’s sprawling intelligence community.

He greeted Gabriel with the circumspection that comes naturally to men of the clandestine world and ushered him inside. Gabriel paused for a moment in the center hallway and looked around. Secret protocols had been made and broken in these drably furnished rooms; men had been seduced into betraying their countries for suitcases filled with American money and promises of American protection. Carter had used the property so often it was known throughout Langley as his Georgetown pied-à-terre. One Agency wit had christened it the Dar-al-Harb, Arabic for the “House of War.” It was covert war, of course, for Carter knew no other way to fight.

Adrian Carter had not actively sought power. It had been foisted upon his narrow shoulders block by unwanted block. Recruited by the Agency while still an undergraduate, he had spent most of his career waging secret war against the Russians—first in Poland, where he funneled money and mimeograph machines to Solidarity; then in Moscow, where he served as station chief; and finally in Afghanistan, where he encouraged and armed the soldiers of Allah, even though he knew that one day they would rain fire and death upon him. If Afghanistan would prove to be the Evil Empire’s undoing, it would provide Carter with a ticket to career advancement. He monitored the collapse of the Soviet Union not from the field but from a comfortable office at Langley, where he had recently been promoted to chief of the European Division. While his subordinates openly cheered the demise of their enemy, Carter watched the events unfold with a sense of foreboding. His beloved Agency had failed to predict Communism’s collapse, a blunder that would haunt Langley for years. Worse still, in the blink of an eye, the CIA had lost its very reason for existence.

That changed on the morning of September 11, 2001. The war that would follow would be a war fought in the shadows, a place Adrian Carter knew well. While the Pentagon had struggled to come up with a military response to the horror of 9/11, it was Carter and his staff at the Counterterrorism Center who produced a bold plan to destroy al-Qaeda’s Afghan sanctuary with a CIA-funded guerrilla war guided by a small force of American special operatives. And when the commanders and foot soldiers of al-Qaeda began falling into American hands, it was Carter, from his desk at Langley, who often served as their judge and jury. The black sites, the extraordinary renditions, the enhanced interrogation methods—they all bore Carter’s fingerprints. He felt no remorse over his actions; he hadn’t that luxury. For Adrian Carter, every morning was September 12. Never again, he vowed, would he watch Americans hurling themselves from burning skyscrapers because they could no longer bear the heat of a terrorist fire.

For ten years, Carter had managed to keep that promise. No one had done more to protect the American homeland from the much-anticipated second attack, and for his many secret sins, he had been pilloried in the press and threatened with criminal prosecution. On the advice of Agency lawyers, he had retained the services of a high-priced Washington attorney, an extravagance that had steadily drained his savings and forced his wife, Margaret, to return to teaching. Friends had urged Carter to forsake the Agency and take a lucrative position in Washington’s flourishing private security industry, but he refused. His failure to prevent the attacks of 9/11 haunted him still. And the ghosts of the three thousand compelled him to keep fighting until his enemy was vanquished.

The war had taken its toll on Carter—not only on his family life, which was a shambles, but on his health as well. His face was gaunt and drawn, and Gabriel noticed a slight tremor in Carter’s right hand as he joylessly filled a plate with the government-issue treats arrayed atop the sideboard in the dining room. “High blood pressure,” Carter explained, as he drew coffee from a pump-action thermos. “It started on Inauguration Day, and it rises and falls in relation to the terrorist threat level. It’s sad to say, but after ten years of fighting Islamic terror, I seem to have become a living, breathing National Threat Advisory.”

“What level are we today?”

“Didn’t you hear?” asked Carter. “We’ve abandoned the old color-coded system.”

“What’s your blood pressure telling you?”

“Red,” said Carter dourly. “Bright red.”

“Not according to your director of homeland security. She says there’s no immediate threat.”

“She doesn’t always write her own lines.”

“Who does?”

“The White House,” said Carter. “And the president doesn’t like to needlessly alarm the American people. Besides, raising the threat level would conflict with the convenient narrative making its way around the Washington chattering classes these days.”

“Which narrative is that?”

“The one that says America overreacted to 9/11. The one that says al-Qaeda is no longer a threat to anyone, let alone the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. The one that says it’s time to declare victory in the global war on terror and turn our attention inward.” Carter frowned. “God, but I hate it when journalists use the word ‘narrative.’ There was a time when novelists wrote narrative and journalists were content to report facts. And the facts are quite simple. There exists in the world today an organized force that seeks to weaken or even destroy the West through acts of indiscriminate violence. This force is a part of a broader radical movement to impose
sharia
law and restore the Islamic Caliphate. And no amount of wishful thinking will make it go away.”