House of Spies

by Daniel Silva

  “Not yet,” said Mikhail. “First, you tell me a little bit about him. Then I’ll decide whether I want to meet with him.”

  “He is a revolutionary,” said Bakkar. “I assure you, his cause is just.”

  “They always are,” said Mikhail skeptically. “Where’s he from?”

  “He has no country, not in the Western sense of the word. Borders are meaningless to him.”

  “Interesting. But where will I ship his arms?”

  Bakkar’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Surely you are aware that the recent political turmoil in our region has erased many of the old borders drawn by diplomats in Paris and London. My associate comes from such a place. A place of great upheaval.”

  “Upheaval is what keeps me in business.”

  “I should think so,” said Bakkar.

  “What is your associate’s name?”

  “You may call him Khalil.”

  “And before the upheaval?” asked Mikhail quickly, as though the name meant nothing to him. “Where was he from?”

  “As a child he lived along the banks of one of the rivers that flowed from the Garden of Eden.”

  “There were four,” said Mikhail.

  “That’s correct. The Pishon, the Gihon, the Euphrates, and the Tigris. My associate lived along the banks of the Tigris.”

  “So your associate is an Iraqi.”

  “He was once. He’s not any longer. My associate is a subject of the Islamic caliphate.”

  “I trust he’s not in the caliphate now.”

  “No. He’s right over there.” Bakkar inclined his head toward the Toyota. Then he looked at Mikhail and asked, “Are you carrying a weapon, Monsieur Antonov?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Would you mind terribly if one of my men searched you?” Bakkar smiled amiably. “You are an arms dealer, after all.”

  There was a gathering at the driver’s-side door of the Toyota—five men by Gabriel’s count, all armed. Finally, the door swung open, and with some difficulty the man inside climbed out. He remained next to the vehicle, protected by a circle of guards, for another long moment while Mikhail was thoroughly searched. And only when the search was complete did he make his way toward the center court of the camp. The armed guards surrounded him in a tight scrum. Even so, Gabriel could see that he was favoring the right leg. Step one of the two-step authentication process was complete. Step two, however, could not be accomplished from on high, with the use of an American drone. Only a face-to-face encounter would suffice.

  Gabriel dispatched a message to Christopher Keller, stating that the subject had just entered the camp and that he had walked with a noticeable limp. Then he watched as the subject extended a hand toward an officer of Israeli intelligence.

  “Dmitri Antonov,” said Gabriel softly, “I’d like you to meet my friend Saladin. Saladin, this is Dmitri Antonov.”

  There were two Israeli officers at the remote desert camp who could potentially provide the second stage of the authentication required to launch a targeted killing operation on the soil of a sometime ally in the war on terror. The first was seated before the subject himself, with no weapon or communications device. The second was a few feet away in a comfortably furnished tent. The officer outside had had only a fleeting encounter with the subject in a famous Georgetown restaurant. But not the officer in the tent. She had spent several days with the subject in a house of many rooms and courts near Mosul and had spoken to him at length. She had also, in a cabin at the edge of the Shenandoah in Virginia, heard the subject sentence her to death. It was not a sound she would ever forget. She did not need to see the subject’s face to know it was him. His voice told her it was so.

  There was a third officer who had seen the subject in person as well—the officer who was waiting anxiously in a haunted house, in the old colonial section of Casablanca. When the confirmation of the subject’s identity landed on his computer, he forwarded it immediately to the Black Hole at Langley.

  “Got him!” shouted Kyle Taylor.

  “Not yet,” cautioned Uzi Navot, gazing at the image on the screen. “Not by a mile. Not even close.”

  57

  The Sahara, Morocco

  He was taller than Mikhail remembered, and broader through the chest and shoulders. Perhaps it was because he’d had sufficient time to recover from his injuries. Or perhaps, thought Mikhail, it was his clothing. He had been wearing a dark business suit that night and had been seated across from a beautiful young woman whose dark hair was dyed blond. Occasionally, he had stolen glances at the television above the bar to view the results of his handiwork. Bombs had exploded at the National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia and at the Lincoln Memorial. But there was more to come. Much more.

  Mikhail’s first impression of Saladin’s new face was that it did not suit him. It was too thin through the nose and cheekbones, and the movie-idol chin was something a vain man might choose from a magazine in his plastic surgeon’s office. Substantial work had been done to the eyes as well, but the irises themselves were as Mikhail remembered—wide and dark and bottomless and shimmering with profound intelligence. They were not the eyes of a madman, they were the eyes of a professional. One would never want to play a game of chance against such eyes, nor sit across from them in an interrogation chamber. Or a camp at the edge of the Sahara, thought Mikhail, surrounded by several hardened jihadis armed with automatic weapons. He resolved to conduct the meeting swiftly and then send Saladin on his way. But not too swiftly. Saladin was about to present Mikhail with his weapons wish list, which meant there was priceless intelligence to be gained. The opportunity was unprecedented. It could not be squandered.

  The introductions had been brisk and businesslike. Mikhail had accepted the proffered hand without hesitation. The hand that had condemned so many to death. The hand of the murderer. It was thick and strong and very warm to the touch. And dry, observed Mikhail. No sign of nerves. Saladin was not anxious or uncomfortable, he was in his element. Like his namesake, he was a man of the desert. The Moroccan mint tea, however, was clearly not to his liking.

  “Too sweet,” he said, making a face. “It’s a wonder Moroccans have any teeth.”

  “We don’t,” said Mohammad Bakkar.

  There was restrained laughter. Saladin tilted his face to the sky and searched the stars.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked after a moment.

  “What?” asked Mikhail.

  “Bees,” said Saladin. “It sounds like bees.”

  “Not here. Flies, perhaps, but not bees.”

  “I’m sure you are right.” His English was heavily accented but assured. He lowered his gaze and fixed it securely on Mikhail. “I take it we have cleared up any lingering confusion about your profession.”

  “We have.”

  “And you are in fact a Russian?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I won’t hold that against you,” said Saladin. “Your government has committed horrible atrocities in Syria while trying to prop up the regime.”

  “When it comes to Syria,” responded Mikhail, “Russia has no monopoly on atrocities. The Islamic State has plenty of blood on its hands, too.”

  “When one is making an omelet,” said Saladin, “it is necessary to break eggs.”

  “Or slaughter innocent civilians?”

  “No one is innocent in this war. So long as the unbelievers kill our women and children, we will kill theirs.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “It is as simple as that. Besides, a man in your line of work is in no position to lecture anyone about collateral casualties.”

  “There’s a difference between collateral casualties and the deliberate targeting of civilians.”

  “A narrow one.” He drank some of the tea. “Tell me, Monsieur Antonov, are you a spy?”

  “I live in a mansion in the south of France that’s filled with art. I’m no spy.”

  “In Russia,” said Saladin knowingly, “spies come in all shapes and siz
es.”

  “I am not, nor have I ever been, a Russian intelligence officer.”

  “But you are close to the Kremlin.”

  “Actually, I do my best to avoid them.”

  “Come now, Monsieur Antonov. Everyone knows that the Kremlin picks the winners and losers in Russia. No one is allowed to become rich without the tsar’s approval.”

  “You know my country well.”

  “I had many dealings with Russia in my past life. I know how the system works. And I know that a man in your line of work cannot function without the protection of friends in the SVR and the Kremlin.”

  “All true,” said Mikhail. “And I would quickly lose my friends if they ever learned I was thinking about doing business with the likes of you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t meant as one.”

  “I admire your honesty.”

  “And I yours,” said Mikhail.

  “Are you opposed in principle to doing business with us?”

  “I have few—principles, that is.”

  “I pity you.”

  “Don’t.”

  Saladin smiled. “I’m looking to acquire some merchandise for future operations.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Not weapons,” said Saladin. “Material.”

  “What kind of material?”

  “The kind,” said Saladin, “that the government of the former Soviet Union produced in great quantity during the Cold War.”

  Mikhail allowed a moment to pass before answering. “That’s a dirty business,” he said quietly.

  “Very dirty,” agreed Saladin. “And lucrative.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Cesium chloride.”

  “I assume you intend to use it for medical purposes.”

  “Agricultural, actually.”

  “I was under the impression that your organization took possession of material like that in Syria and Libya.”

  “Where did you hear something like that?”

  “The same place you heard I was an arms dealer.”

  “It is true, but a portion of our supply recently went missing.” He was staring at Jean-Luc Martel.

  “And the rest of it?” asked Mikhail.

  “That is none of your affair.”

  “Forgive me, I meant no—”

  Saladin held up a hand to indicate that no offense had been taken. “Is it possible,” he asked, “for you to obtain such material?”

  “It’s possible,” said Mikhail carefully, “but extremely risky.”

  “Nothing worth doing is without risk.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mikhail after a moment, “but I can’t be a party to this.”

  “To what?”

  Mikhail made no reply.

  “Will you at least hear my offer?”

  “Money isn’t the issue.”

  “Money,” said Saladin, “is always the issue. Name your price, and I will pay it.”

  Mikhail made a show of thought. “I can make inquiries,” he said at last.

  “How long?”

  “As long as it takes. It’s not something that can be done quickly.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you require technical assistance, too?”

  Saladin shook his head. “Only the material itself.”

  “And if I acquire it? How do I contact you?”

  “You don’t,” said Saladin. “You contact your friend, Monsieur Martel. And Monsieur Martel will contact Mohammad.” He stood abruptly and held out his hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  “You will.” Mikhail once again accepted the hand and held it tightly.

  Saladin released his grip and turned his face once more to the sky. “Do you hear that?”

  “The bees are back?”

  Saladin made no reply.

  “You must have excellent hearing,” said Mikhail, “because I can’t hear a bloody thing.”

  Saladin was still searching the stars. At length, he looked at Mikhail. The dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “Your face is familiar to me, Monsieur Antonov. Is it possible we’ve met before?”

  “No,” said Mikhail, “it is not possible.”

  “In Moscow perhaps? In another life?”

  The eyes moved slowly from Mikhail to Jean-Luc Martel and then to Mohammad Bakkar. At last, he looked at Mikhail again.

  “Your wife is not Russian,” he said.

  “No. She’s French.”

  “But her skin is very dark. Almost like an Arab.” Saladin smiled and then explained how he knew this. “Two of my men saw her sunbathing on the beach in Casablanca. They saw her again in the medina of Fez yesterday. She covered her hair. My men were impressed.”

  “She’s very respectful of Islamic culture.”

  “But she’s not a Muslim.”

  “No.”

  “Is she a Jew?”

  “My wife,” said Mikhail coldly, “is none of your concern.”

  “Perhaps she should be. Would it be possible to meet her, please?”

  “I never mix business and family.”

  “Wise policy,” said Saladin. “But I would still like to see her.”

  “She has no facial veil.”

  “Morocco is not the caliphate, Monsieur Antonov. Inshallah, it will be soon, but for now I see uncovered faces everywhere I look.”

  “And how would you respond if I insisted on seeing your wife without a veil?”

  “I would very likely kill you.”

  He brushed past Mikhail without another word and walked over to the tent.

  58

  The Sahara, Morocco

  He swept aside the flap and entered. Candles burned on the desk where Keller sat reading a worn paperback novel and next to the bed where Natalie and Olivia lay stretched on opposite sides of a backgammon board. They conversed quietly, and in the manner of people who have all the time in the world for everything.

  At length, Keller looked up. “Just the man I’ve been waiting for,” he said jovially in French. “Would you mind bringing us some tea? And some sweets. The ones soaked in honey. There’s a good man.”

  Keller turned the page of his book. The candles trembled as Saladin crossed the room in three swift strides and stood at the foot of the bed. Natalie tossed the dice onto the board and, pleased by the results, contemplated her next move. Olivia glared at Saladin in disapproval.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Saladin, silent, studied Natalie carefully. Her gaze was downward toward the board; her face was in profile and partially obscured by a lock of blond hair. When Saladin moved the hair aside, she drew away sharply.

  “How dare you touch me!” she snapped in French. “Get out of here, or I’ll call my husband.”

  Saladin held his ground. Natalie stared at him, unblinking.

  Maimonides . . . So good to see you again . . .

  Calmly, she said, “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

  Saladin’s gaze moved briefly to Keller before settling once more on Natalie.

  “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I was mistaken.”

  He turned away and went into the night.

  Natalie looked at Keller. “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

  In the Black Hole at Langley there was an audible gasp of relief when Saladin finally emerged from the tent. The drones watched as he spoke a few words directly into the ear of Mohammad Bakkar. Then the two men moved to the camp’s edge and, surrounded by bodyguards, conferred at length. Several times Saladin pointed to the sky. Once, he seemed to stare directly into the lens of the Predator’s camera.

  “Game over,” said Kyle Taylor. “Thanks for playing.”

  “There’s a reason why he’s still alive after all these years,” said Uzi Navot. “He’s very good at the game.”

  Navot watched as Mikhail slipped into the tent and accepted an object from Christopher
Keller. It was not visible via infrared. Even so, Navot assumed that the two men, both veterans of elite special forces units, were now armed. And heavily outnumbered.

  “What’s the distance between Saladin and that tent?”

  “Forty feet,” answered Taylor. “Maybe a bit less.”

  “What’s the blast radius of a Hellfire?”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Mohammad Bakkar had returned to the center court of the camp and was speaking to Martel. Even from twenty thousand feet, it was obvious the exchange was heated. All around them the camp was in motion. Guards were climbing into Land Cruisers, engines were turning over, lights were flaring.

  “What the fuck is going on?” asked Taylor.

  “Looks to me,” said Navot, “as though he’s shuffling the deck.”

  “Bakkar?”

  “No,” said Navot. “Saladin.”

  He was staring at the sky again, staring into the unblinking eye of the drone. And smiling, observed Navot. He was definitely smiling. Suddenly, he raised an arm, and four identical SUVs were swirling around him in a counterclockwise direction, in a cloud of sand and dust.

  “Four vehicles, two Hellfires,” said Navot. “What are the chances of picking the right one?”

  “Statistically,” said Taylor, “it’s fifty-fifty.”

  “Then maybe you should take the shot now.”

  “Your team won’t survive it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve done this a time or two, Uzi.”

  “Yes,” said Navot, watching the screen. “But so has Saladin.”

  Gabriel and Yaakov Rossman were watching the same image in the Casablanca command post—four SUVs circling a man whose heat signature was gradually dying beneath a veil of sand and dust. Finally, the SUVs slowed briefly to a stop, long enough for the man to enter one—which one, it was impossible to tell. Then all four set off across the desert, separated by enough space so that a single fifty-pound warhead could not take out two for the price of one.

  The Predator pursued the SUVs northward across the desert while the Sentinel remained behind to keep watch over the camp. The four perimeter guards had withdrawn to the center court, where Mohammad Bakkar was once again in an animated conversation with Jean-Luc Martel. An object passed between them, from Bakkar’s hand to the hand of Gabriel’s unlikely asset. An object that was invisible to the thermal imaging sensors of the drone. An object that Jean-Luc slipped into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.