by Daniel Silva
“Then what are you recommending?”
“This operation has worked better than any of us ever dared to hope,” Carter said. “Maybe we shouldn’t push our luck with a risky pass play late in the fourth quarter.”
Shamron appeared annoyed. He considered the use of American sports metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. In Shamron’s opinion, intelligence officers did not blow fourth-quarter leads, or strike out, or fumble the ball. There was only success or failure—and the price of failure in a neighborhood like the Middle East was usually blood.
“Call it a day?” Shamron asked. “Is that what you’re saying, Adrian?”
“Why not? The president got his victory, and so did the Agency. Better still, everybody lives to fight another day.” Carter brushed the palms of his hands together twice and said, “Halas.”
McKenna seemed perplexed. Gabriel explained the reference to him.
“Halas is the Arabic word for ‘finished.’ But Adrian knows all too well that this war will never be finished. It’s a forever war. And he’s afraid it will be a good deal bloodier if he allows a skilled mastermind like Malik to slip through his fingers.”
“No one wants Malik’s head on a pike more than I do,” Carter agreed. “He deserves it for the mayhem he caused in Iraq, and his removal from the face of the earth will make us all safer. Suicide bombers are a dime a dozen. But masterminds—true terror masterminds—are extremely hard to replace. Eliminate the masterminds like Malik, and you’re left with a bunch of jihadist wannabes trying to figure out how to mix their peroxide bombs in their mother’s basement.”
“So why not let Nadia make the meeting?” asked McKenna. “Why not let her listen to what Malik has to say about his future plans?”
“Because I’ve got that funny feeling at the back of my neck.”
“But they trust her. Why wouldn’t they? She’s Zizi’s daughter. She’s a descendant of Wahhab himself, for God’s sake.”
“I’ll grant you they trusted her once,” Carter replied, “but it’s an open question whether they trust her now that their network has been rolled up.”
“You’re jumping at shadows,” McKenna said. “But I suppose that’s to be expected. After all, you’ve been at this a very long time. For the last ten years, you’ve been reading their e-mail and listening to their phone conversations, looking for hidden meaning. But sometimes there is none. Sometimes a wedding is just a wedding. And sometimes a meeting in a hotel is just a meeting in a hotel. Besides, if we can’t get a heavily guarded businesswoman like Nadia al-Bakari in and out of the Burj Al Arab safely, then maybe we’re in the wrong business.”
Carter was silent for a moment. “Any chance we can keep this professional, Jim?”
“I thought we were.”
“Should I assume you’re speaking for the White House?”
“No,” said McKenna. “You should assume I’m speaking for the president.”
“Since you’re so in tune with the president’s thinking, why don’t you tell us all what the president wants.”
“He wants what all presidents want. He wants a second term. Otherwise, the inmates will be running the asylum again, and all the progress we’ve made in the war against terrorism will be wiped away.”
“You mean extremism,” said Carter, correcting him. “But what about the meeting in Dubai?”
“Both the president and I would like her to attend—with the good guys looking over her shoulder, of course. Listen to what he has to say. Take his picture. Get his fingerprints. Record his voice. Determine whether he’s Malik or some other heavyweight member of the network.”
“And what do we tell our friends in the Emirati security services?”
“Our friends in the Emirates have been less-than-reliable allies on a number of issues ranging from terrorism to money laundering to the illicit arms trade. Besides, in my experience, one never quite knows just whom one is speaking to in the Emirates. He might be a committed opponent of the jihadists, or he might be a second cousin once removed.”
“So we say nothing?” Carter asked.
“Nothing,” McKenna replied.
“And if we determine it’s Malik?”
“Then the president would like him taken out of circulation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Use your imagination, Adrian.”
“I did that after 9/11, Jim, and you said publicly that I should be put in jail for it. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to know exactly what the president is asking me to do.”
It was Shamron, not McKenna, who answered.
“He’s not asking you to do anything, Adrian.” Shamron looked at McKenna and asked, “Isn’t that correct?”
“I was told to watch my step around you.”
“I was told the same thing.”
McKenna seemed pleased by this. “The president is unwilling to authorize an American covert action in a quasi-friendly Arab country at a sensitive time like this,” he said. “He feels it could embarrass the regime and thus leave it vulnerable to the forces of change sweeping the Middle East.”
“But Israelis running amok in Dubai is another matter entirely.”
“It does happen to dovetail nicely with the facts.”
“What facts are those?”
“Malik has a great deal of Israeli blood on his hands, which means you have every reason to want him dead.”
“Well played, Mr. McKenna,” Shamron said. “But what do we get in return?”
“The gratitude of the most important and transformative American president in a generation.”
“Equity?” asked Shamron.
McKenna smiled and said, “Equity.”
Chapter 50
The Plains, Virginia
IT WAS AT THIS POINT in the proceedings that James A. McKenna, special assistant to the president for homeland security and counterterrorism, thankfully chose to take his leave. Carter summoned his secret brethren to the sitting room and asked whether anyone could recall where Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, mastermind of the 9/11 plot, had been hiding the night of his capture. They all did, of course, but it was Chiara who answered.
“He was in a house in Rawalpindi, just down the road from the headquarters of the Pakistani military.”
“Of all places,” Carter said, shaking his head. “And do you happen to remember how we got him?”
“You sent in an informant to confirm it was really him. After laying eyes on the target, the informant slipped into the bathroom and sent you a text message.”
“And a few hours later, the man who planned the worst terror attack in history was in handcuffs, looking shockingly like the guy who works on my wife’s Volvo. I took a great deal of grief for the things we did to KSM and the places we put him, but that picture of him being led away was worth it all. And all it took was a guy with a cell phone. Simple as that.”
“If we agree to do this,” Gabriel said, “you may rest assured Nadia won’t be running to the toilet to send any text messages.”
“If you agree to do it?” Carter inclined his head toward Shamron and Navot, who were seated next to each other on the couch, with their arms folded and their faces set in the same inscrutable mask. “They’re very good at hiding their thoughts,” Carter said, “but I can tell you exactly what’s running through their devious little minds. They want Malik in the worst way—maybe even more than the president and McKenna. And there’s no way they’re going to pass up a chance of getting him. So let’s skip the playing-hard-to-get portion of tonight’s performance and get down to the planning.”
Gabriel looked to his superiors for guidance. Navot was rubbing at the spot on the bridge of his nose where his fashionable eyeglasses pinched him. Shamron had yet to move. He was staring past Gabriel toward Chiara, as if offering her a chance to intervene. She didn’t take it.
“For the record,” Gabriel said, “we’re not going to Dubai to capture anyone. If it’s Malik, he won’t leave there alive
.”
“I’m quite certain I didn’t hear McKenna mention anything about an arrest.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“We are,” said Carter. “Think of yourself as a Hellfire missile, but without the collateral damage and innocent deaths.”
“Hellfire missiles don’t need passports, hotel rooms, and airline tickets. They also don’t have a problem operating in Arab countries. We do.” Gabriel paused. “You do realize that Dubai is an Arab country, don’t you, Adrian?”
“I think I may have read something about that.”
Gabriel hesitated. They were now about to enter sensitive territory dealing with capabilities and operational tendencies. Intelligence agencies guard these secrets jealously and expose them to allies only under duress. For the Office, it was akin to heresy. With a nod, Gabriel delegated the task to Uzi Navot, who slipped on his eyeglasses again and stared at Carter for a long moment without speaking.
“We live in a complex world, Adrian,” he said finally, “so sometimes it helps to simplify things. As far as we are concerned, there are two types of countries—places where we can operate with impunity and places where we can’t. We call the first category base countries.”
“Like the United States,” Carter acknowledged with a smile.
“And the United Kingdom,” Navot added with a glance toward the deputy director of MI5. “Despite your best efforts, we come and go as needed and do pretty much as we please. If we get into trouble, we have a network of safe houses and bolt-holes that were put in place by the man seated at my side. In the event of a disaster, God forbid, our agents can take sanctuary in an embassy or ask for help from a friendly secret policeman like Graham.”
Shamron gave Navot a murderous look. Navot carried on as though he hadn’t noticed.
“We refer to the second category as target countries. These are hostile lands. No embassies. No safe houses. The secret policemen aren’t friendly. In fact, were they to get their hands on us, they would torture us, shoot us, hang us on television for their people to see, or put us in jail for a very long time.”
“What do you need?” asked Carter.
“Passports,” said Gabriel, taking over for Navot. “The kind that allow us to enter Dubai without an advance visa.”
“What flavor?”
“American, British, Canadian, Australian.”
“Why Canadian and Aussie?” asked Graham Seymour.
“Because we’re going to need a large team, and I need to spread them out geographically.”
“Why not use your own false passports?”
This time it was Shamron who answered. “Because they require a great deal of time, effort, and scheming to produce. And we would prefer not to waste them on an operation that we’re carrying out for the sake of American equity.”
Carter couldn’t help but smile at the slight directed toward James McKenna. “We’ll get you all the passports you need,” he said.
“And credit cards to go with them,” added Gabriel. “Not the prepaid kind. I want real credit cards from real banks.”
Carter nodded his head, as did Graham Seymour.
“What else?” Carter asked.
“Dubai’s geography presents us with challenges,” Navot said. “As far as we’re concerned, there’s only one way in and out.”
“The airport,” said Carter.
“That’s right,” Gabriel replied. “But we can’t be held hostage by commercial flights. We need our own airplane, American registry, clean provenance.”
“I’ll get you a G5.”
“A Gulfstream isn’t big enough.”
“What do you want?”
Gabriel told him. Carter stared at the ceiling, as if calculating the impact of the request on his operational budgets.
“Next I suppose you’ll tell me you want an American crew, too.”
“I do,” Gabriel said. “I also need weapons.”
“Make and model?”
Gabriel recited them. Carter nodded. “I’ll bring them in through the embassy. Does that cover everything?”
“Everything but the star of the show,” said Gabriel.
“Judging by the sound of her voice on that intercept, you’re not going to have any difficulty convincing her to do it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Gabriel said, “because she deserves to know that the full faith and credit of the American government are behind her.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so do we.”
“I’ve promised you passports, money, guns, and a Boeing Business Jet with an American crew. What other gesture of American support would you like?”
“I’d like a word with your boss.”
“The director?”
Gabriel shook his head. Carter went to the secure phone and dialed.
It was approaching ten p.m. when the Escalade entered the White House grounds through the Fifteenth Street gate. A uniformed Secret Service agent gave Carter’s credentials a cursory glance, then instructed the driver to pull forward for a quick sniff from Oscar, the omnivorous Alsatian that had tried to take a chunk out of Gabriel’s leg during his last visit. The beast found nothing disagreeable about Carter’s official vehicle other than the right-front tire, against which he urinated forcefully before returning to his crate.
The inspection complete, the SUV maneuvered its way through a labyrinth of reinforced concrete and steel to the parking lot located along East Executive Drive. Carter and Chiara remained inside the vehicle while Gabriel set out alone up the gentle slope of the drive toward the Executive Mansion. Waiting beneath the awning of the Diplomatic Entrance was a tall, trim figure dressed in a dark suit and an open-neck white shirt. The greeting was cordial but restrained—a brief handshake, followed by a languid gesture of the arm that suggested a stroll around the most heavily guarded eighteen acres on earth. Gabriel gave a terse nod, and when the president of the United States turned to his right, toward the old magnolia tree that had never quite recovered from being struck by an airplane, Gabriel followed.
Carter watched the two men intently as they headed down the drive—one crisp and precise in his movements, the other graceful and loose limbed. As they were nearing the walkway leading to the Oval Office, they paused suddenly and turned in unison to face one another. Even from a distance, and even in the darkness, Carter could see that the exchange was not altogether pleasant.
Their dispute apparently resolved, they set off again, past the putting green and the small playground that had been erected for the president’s young children, and disappeared from view. The agent-runner in Carter compelled him to mark the time on his secure Motorola cell phone, which he did a second time when Gabriel and the president reappeared. The president’s hands were now in the pockets of his trousers, and he was bent forward slightly at the waist, as if leaning into a stiff headwind. Gabriel appeared to be doing most of the talking. He was stabbing at the air with his finger, as if trying to reinforce a particularly important point.
Their circuit of the South Lawn complete, the two men arrived back at the Diplomatic Entrance, where they had one final exchange. Gabriel appeared resolute at the end of it, as did the president. He placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, then, with a final nod of his head, entered the White House. Gabriel stood there for a moment, entirely alone. Then he turned and headed back down the drive to the Escalade. Carter said nothing until they had navigated their way through the security labyrinth and were back on Fifteenth Street.
“How was he?”
“He definitely knows your name,” Gabriel said. “And he admires you a great deal.”
“Perhaps he could say something to his terrorism czar.”
“I’m working on that.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”
Carter smiled. “Good man.”
Chapter 51
The City, London
THE VENTURE CAPITAL FIRM OF Rogers & Cressey
occupied the ninth floor of a glass-and-steel affront to architecture located on Cannon Street, not far from Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Within London financial circles, R&C had a well-deserved reputation for stealth and low cunning. Therefore, it came as no surprise that the acquisition of Thomas Fowler Associates was conducted with a discretion bordering on state secrecy. There was a brief press release no one noticed and a curiously out-of-focus publicity picture that appeared only on R&C’s tedious Web site. The picture had been posed by a man who was highly skilled in the visual arts and snapped by a photographer who did most of his work in surveillance vans and darkened windows.
As expected, Thomas Fowler and his team of associates, of which there were twelve, hit the ground running. They moved into a corner suite of offices on a Tuesday morning and by that evening were busy assembling the pieces of their first deal as part of the R&C family. It was a complex deal, with many variables, much risk, and a host of competing interests. But when stripped to its barest form, it involved a patch of vacant waterfront property in Dubai and a billionaire Saudi investor named Nadia al-Bakari.
Fowler and his team were well acquainted with Miss al-Bakari, having conducted a series of secret meetings with her at a château north of Paris. They exchanged e-mails with the heiress on Wednesday, and by Thursday morning, her private plane was touching down at London’s Stansted Airport. R&C provided the ground transportation with clandestine assistance from MI5. The fee for the two armored Bentleys raised eyebrows among the accountants at Thames House, which was watching its bottom line like every other department in Her Majesty’s cash-strapped government. Any misgivings were assuaged when Graham Seymour sent the bills along to Langley for immediate payment. Langley mumbled something about shared sacrifice and a special relationship. Then it paid the bill through one of its seemingly bottomless accounts, and the matter was never raised in polite company again.
It is not unusual to see Bentley limousines in Cannon Street, though a few heads did turn at the sight of Nadia al-Bakari emerging from one into a crowd of dark-suited security men. They guided her into the lobby of R&C’s unpardonable building, where a young man with a face like a parson stood waiting to receive her. If he offered a name, no one happened to catch it. In truth, he was Nigel Whitcombe, a young MI5 officer who had cut his operational teeth working with Gabriel against a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kharkov.