Portrait of a Spy

by Daniel Silva

  Nadia let the bag slip from her shoulder in a way that suggested her patience was at an end. “We don’t have all night, my brothers. If you would like to petition me for another donation, I suggest we get on with it.”

  “Forgive us, Miss al-Bakari, but our enemies have enormous technical resources. Surely a woman in your position knows what can happen when people get careless.”

  Nadia looked at al-Kamal, who responded by handing over his phone.

  “I’m told that you wish to have your bodyguard present during the meeting,” the Egyptian said.

  “No,” Nadia said, “I insist on it.”

  “You trust this man?” he replied, glancing at al-Kamal.

  “With my life.”

  “Very well,” he said. “This way, please.”

  She followed the three robed men into the sitting room of the suite, where two more men in Emirati dress waited in the half-light. One was seated on a couch watching an account of the latest bombing in Pakistan on Al Jazeera. The other was admiring the view of the skyscrapers along Sheikh Zayed Road. He rotated slowly around, like a statue atop a plinth, and appraised Nadia thoughtfully through tinted glasses rimmed in gold. He did not speak. Neither did Nadia. In fact, at that instant, she was not at all certain she was capable of speech.

  “Is something wrong, Miss al-Bakari?” he asked in Jordanian Arabic.

  “You just happen to look a great deal like a man who used to work for my father,” she replied without hesitation.

  He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he glanced at the television screen and said, “You just missed yourself on the evening news. You’ve had quite a busy day today. My compliments, Miss al-Bakari. Your father would have played it the same way. I hear he was always very skillful in the way he mixed legitimate business with zakat.”

  “He taught me well.”

  “Do you really intend to build it?”

  “The resort?” She gave an ambivalent shrug. “The last thing Dubai needs right now is another hotel.”

  “Especially one that serves alcohol and allows drunken foreigners to parade around the beach half-naked.”

  Nadia made no response other than to look at the other men in the room.

  “It’s just a security precaution on my part, Miss al-Bakari. The walls have eyes as well as ears.”

  “It’s remarkably effective,” she said, looking directly into his face. “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “You may call me Mr. Darwish.”

  “My time is limited, Mr. Darwish.”

  “One hour, according to my colleagues.”

  “Fifty minutes, actually,” Nadia said, glancing at her watch.

  “Our enterprise has suffered a severe setback.”

  “So I’ve read.”

  “We need additional financing to rebuild.”

  “I gave you several million pounds.”

  “I’m afraid that nearly all of it has been frozen or seized. If we are to rebuild our organization, particularly in the West, we will need an infusion of new capital.”

  “Why should I reward your incompetence?”

  “I can assure you, Miss al-Bakari, that we’ve learned from our mistakes.”

  “What sorts of changes are you planning to make?”

  “Better security, coupled with an aggressive plan to take the fight directly to our competitors.”

  “An expansion?” she asked.

  “If you are not growing, Miss al-Bakari, you are dying.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Darwish.”

  With Nadia’s BlackBerry disabled and her handbag lying on the floor of the entrance hall, audio coverage of the meeting under way in Room 1437 was being supplied, quite literally, by the clothes on her back. Though the transmitter woven into the seams had an extremely short range, it was more than enough to securely broadcast a clear signal to the forty-second floor of the same building. There, behind a door that was double-locked and barricaded by furniture, Gabriel and Eli Lavon waited for their computers to supply the real name of the man who had just introduced himself as Mr. Darwish.

  The voice-identification software had declared the first few seconds of the meeting inadequate for comparison. That changed when Mr. Darwish started talking about money. Now the software was rapidly comparing a sample of his voice to previous intercepts. Gabriel was confident of the conclusion the computers were about to make. In fact, he was all but certain of it. The murderer had already signed his name, not with his voice but with the four numbers. They were the numbers of the room where the meeting was taking place. Gabriel had no need to add them, subtract them, multiply them, or rearrange their order in any way. He only had to convert the numbers from a twenty-four-hour clock to a twelve-hour clock: 1437 hours was 2:37 p.m., the time at which Farid Khan had detonated his bomb in Covent Garden.

  Five minutes after Nadia’s entry into the suite, the computer handed down its verdict. Gabriel raised his secure radio to his lips and instructed his team to begin preparing to carry out the sentence. It was Malik, he said. And may God have mercy on them all.

  Chapter 58

  Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

  THE LANKY RUSSIAN PRESENTED HIMSELF at reception thirty seconds later. He had a fine-boned, bloodless face and eyes the color of glacial ice. His American passport identified him as Anthony Colvin, as did his American Express card. He drummed his fingers on the countertop while waiting for the pretty Filipina to find his reservation. He was holding a mobile phone to his ear as though his life depended on it.

  “Here we are,” sang the Filipina. “We have you in a one-bedroom deluxe suite on the twenty-ninth floor, for three nights. Is that correct, Mr. Colvin?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, lowering the mobile phone, “I’m looking for something on the fourteenth floor.”

  “The twenty-ninth is considered more desirable.”

  “My wife and I spent our honeymoon on the fourteenth. We’d like to stay there again. For sentimental reasons,” he added. “Surely you understand.”

  She didn’t. The Filipina worked twelve-hour shifts and shared a one-room apartment in Deira with eight other girls. Her love life consisted of fending off drunken gropers and rapists who assumed, wrongly, that she moonlighted in Dubai’s thriving sex trade. She clicked a few keys on her computer terminal and gave a plastic smile.

  “Actually,” she said, “we do have a number of rooms available on the fourteenth floor. Do you recall the room where you and your wife stayed on your honeymoon?”

  “I believe it was 1437,” he said.

  She appeared crestfallen. “Unfortunately, that room is currently occupied, Mr. Colvin. However, the suite next to it is available, as is the one directly across the hall.”

  “I’ll take the one across the hall, please.”

  “It’s a bit more expensive.”

  “No problem,” said the Russian.

  “I’ll need to see your wife’s passport.”

  “She’s joining me tomorrow.”

  “Please ask her to stop by when she arrives.”

  “First thing,” he assured her.

  “Do you require assistance with your luggage?”

  “I can manage, thanks.”

  She gave him a pair of electronic room keys and pointed him toward the appropriate elevator. As promised, his room was directly across the hall from 1437. Entering, he immediately switched on the Do Not Disturb light and double-locked the door. Then he opened his suitcase. Inside were a few articles of clothing that stank of chickpeas and cumin. There was also a Beretta 9mm, a Glock .45, two hypodermic needles, two vials of suxamethonium chloride, a notebook computer, and an adjustable high-resolution snake camera. He mounted the camera to the bottom of the door and connected its wiring to the computer. After adjusting the angle of the view, he filled the hypodermic needles with suxamethonium chloride and the guns with bullets. Then he settled in before the computer and waited.

  For the next forty-five minutes, he was treated to a
view of the Burj Al Arab not seen on its Web site or in its glossy brochures. Frantic room service waiters. Weary chambermaids. An Ethiopian nanny holding the hand of a hysterical child. An Australian businessman walking arm in arm with a Ukrainian prostitute. Finally, at ten sharp, he saw a beautiful Arab woman stepping from Room 1437 with a vigilant bodyguard at her back. When the woman and bodyguard were gone, a broad-shouldered man leaned out the doorway and looked both ways along the corridor. White kandoura and ghutra. Tinted eyeglasses rimmed in gold. A neatly trimmed beard with flecks of gray around the chin. The Russian picked up the Glock, the man-stopper, and quietly chambered a round.

  Chapter 59

  Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

  THE DETAILS OF NADIA AL-BAKARI’S departure from the Burj Al Arab were handled not by Gabriel and his team but by Mansur, the chief of AAB’s travel department. There were no belongings for her to collect, because Mansur had seen to them personally. Nor were there any bills to pay, because they had already been forwarded to AAB headquarters in Paris. All Nadia had to do was make her way to the Burj’s circular drive, where her car waited just outside the front entrance. After climbing into the backseat, she asked her driver and Rafiq al-Kamal to give her a moment of privacy. Alone, she dialed a number that had been stored in the memory of her BlackBerry. Gabriel answered immediately in Arabic.

  “Tell me what he looked like.”

  “White kandoura. White ghutra. Tinted eyeglasses with gold rims. A neatly trimmed beard with a bit of gray.”

  “You did well, Nadia. Go to the airport. Go home.”

  “Wait!” she snapped. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  Though Nadia did not know it, Gabriel was seated in the lobby, looking like a man who had come to Dubai for work rather than pleasure, which was indeed the case. On the table before him was a notebook computer. Attached to his ear was a hands-free mobile phone that doubled as a secure radio. He used it to alert his far-flung team that the operation had just hit its first snag.

  Nadia tapped her BlackBerry on the window and signaled that she was ready to leave. A few seconds later, as they were speeding over the causeway separating the Burj from the mainland, Rafiq al-Kamal asked, “Is there anything I need to know?”

  “That meeting never happened.”

  “What meeting?” asked the bodyguard.

  Nadia managed a smile. “Tell Mansur we’re on our way to the airport. Tell him to move up our departure slot if he can. I’d like to get back to Paris at a reasonable hour.”

  Al-Kamal pulled out his phone and dialed.

  “Maybe Allah really is on his side after all,” said Adrian Carter. He was staring in disbelief at Gabriel’s latest transmission from Dubai. It said that Malik al-Zubair, master of terror, was about to walk out of the Burj Al Arab surrounded by four carbon copies.

  “I’m afraid God has very little to do with this,” said Navot. “Malik has been matching wits against the best intelligence services in the world for years. He knows how the game is played.”

  Navot looked at Shamron, who was twirling his old Zippo lighter nervously between his fingers.

  Two turns to the right, two turns to the left.

  “We have four vehicles outside that hotel,” Navot said. “Under our operating rules, that’s enough to follow one car—two at most. If five similarly dressed men get into five different cars . . .” His voice trailed off. “We might want to start thinking about getting them out of there, boss.”

  “We’ve gone to a great deal of effort to put a team on the ground in Dubai tonight, Uzi. The least we can do is let them stick around long enough to try to have a look at Malik’s face.” He glanced at the row of clocks glowing along one of Rashidistan’s walls and asked, “What is the status of Nadia’s airplane?”

  “Fueled and ready for takeoff. The rest of her staff is boarding now.”

  “And where is the star of the show at this moment?”

  “Heading northeast on Sheikh Zayed Road at forty-six miles per hour.”

  “May I see her?”

  Carter snatched up a phone. A few seconds later, a winking red light appeared on one of the wall monitors, moving northeast across the grid of Dubai city. Shamron twirled his lighter anxiously as he watched its steady progress.

  Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .

  The first Range Rover eased into the drive of the Burj Al Arab two minutes after Nadia’s departure. A second appeared soon after, followed by a Mercedes GL and a pair of Denalis. Gabriel keyed into his secure radio, but Mikhail was on the air first.

  “They’re leaving the room,” he said.

  Gabriel didn’t have to ask how many. The answer was outside in the drive. Five SUVs for five men. Gabriel had to establish which of the five was Malik before any of the men set foot outside the hotel. And there was only one way to do it. He gave the order.

  “There are five of them and one of me,” Mikhail replied.

  “The longer you talk, the greater the chances we’ll lose him.”

  Mikhail keyed out without another word. Gabriel glanced down at his laptop to check Nadia’s location.

  She was halfway to the airport.

  Mikhail secured the room and stepped into the corridor. The Glock was now at the small of his back with the suppressor screwed into place. The loaded syringe was in the outside pocket of his coat. He glanced to his right and saw the five men in white kandouras and ghutras stepping around a corner into the elevator vestibule. He walked normally for a few seconds but quickened his pace after hearing the chime indicating that a carriage had arrived. By the time he reached the vestibule, the five men had entered the elevator and the gleaming gold doors were beginning to close. He shouldered his way inside, mumbling an apology, and stood at the front of the carriage as the doors closed for a second time. In the reflection, he could see five matching men. Five matching beards flecked with gray. Five pairs of matching eyeglasses rimmed in gold. Five prayer scars that looked recently irritated. There was just one difference. Four of the men were staring directly at Mikhail. The fifth seemed to be looking down at his shoes.

  Malik . . .

  Twenty-two floors above, Samir Abbas, fund-raiser for the global jihadist movement, was catching up on a bit of legitimate work for TransArabian Bank when he heard a knock at the door. He had been expecting it; the Egyptian had said he would send someone when the meeting with Nadia was over. As it turned out, he sent not one man but two. They were dressed like Emiratis, but their accents betrayed them as Jordanians. Abbas admitted them without hesitation.

  “The meeting went well?” he asked.

  “Very well,” said the older of the two men. “Miss al-Bakari has agreed to make another donation to our cause. We have a few details we need to discuss with you.”

  Abbas turned to lead them into the seating area. Only when he felt the garrote biting into his neck did he realize his mistake. Unable to draw a breath or utter a sound, Abbas clawed desperately at the thin metal wire carving into his skin. The lack of oxygen quickly sapped his strength, and he was able to offer only token resistance as the men pushed him facedown to the floor. It was then Abbas felt something else carving into his neck, and he realized they intended to take his head. It was the punishment for infidels and apostates and the enemies of jihad. Samir Abbas was none of those things. He was a believer, a secret soldier in the army of Allah. But in a moment, for reasons he did not understand, he would be a shahid.

  Mercifully, Abbas began to lose consciousness. He thought of the money he had hidden in the pantry of his flat in Zurich, and he hoped that Johara or the children might one day find it. Then he forced himself to go still and to submit to the will of God.

  The knife made a few more vicious strokes. Abbas saw a burst of brilliant white light and assumed it was the light of Paradise. Then the light was extinguished and there was nothing at all.

  Chapter 60

  Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

  THE ELEVATOR STOPPED TWICE BEF
ORE reaching the lobby. A sunburned British woman boarded on the eleventh floor, a Chinese businessman on the seventh. The new arrivals forced Mikhail to retreat deeper into the carriage. He was now standing so close to Malik he could smell the coffee on his breath. The Glock was pressed reassuringly against Mikhail’s spine, but it was the syringe in his coat pocket that occupied his thoughts. He was tempted to shove the needle into Malik’s thigh. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, or at his watch, or at the numbers flashing on the display panel—anywhere but at the face of the murderer standing next to him. When the doors finally opened a third time, he followed the British woman and the Chinese businessman toward the bar.

  “He’s the second one from the left,” he said into his phone.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough to hit him right now if you tell me to.”

  “Not here.”

  “Don’t let him leave. Do it now while we have a chance.”

  Gabriel went off the air. Mikhail entered the bar, counted slowly to ten, and walked out.

  Gabriel was packing up his laptop and conducting a false telephone conversation in rapid French as Malik and his four comrades came floating through the lobby in their white robes. Outside, they engaged in a swirl of handshakes and formal kisses before making their way separately toward the SUVs. Despite the final element of physical deception, Gabriel had no problem tracking Malik as he climbed into the back of one of the Denalis. When the five cars were gone, a pair of Toyota Land Cruisers took their place. Mikhail managed to look vaguely bored as he slipped past the valet and climbed into the front passenger seat of the first. Gabriel entered the second. “Put on your seat belt,” Chiara said as she accelerated away. “These people drive like maniacs.”

  The news that Malik was under Office surveillance reached Rashidistan at 10:12 p.m. Dubai time. It provoked a brief outburst of emotion among the skeleton crew, but not among the three spymasters gathered around the pod in the center of the room. Shamron seemed particularly aggrieved as he watched the winking red light making its way along Sheikh Zayed Road.