The Messenger

by Daniel Silva

  “You’re referring to Abdul Aziz al-Bakari?”

  “I am indeed,” said Carter. “Know much about him?”

  “At last accounting, he was something like the fifteenth richest man in the world, with a personal fortune in the vicinity of ten billion dollars.”

  “Give or take a billion or two.”

  “He’s the president, chairman, and lord high emperor of AAB Holdings—A for Abdul, A for Aziz, and B for al-Bakari. AAB owns banks and investment houses. AAB does shipping and steel. AAB is cutting down the forests of the Amazon and strip-mining the Andes of Peru and Bolivia. AAB has a Belgian chemical company and a Dutch pharmaceutical. AAB’s real estate and development division is one of the world’s largest. Abdul Aziz al-Bakari owns more hotels than anyone else in the world.”

  Carter picked up where Gabriel left off. “He has a palace in Riyadh he rarely visits and two former wives there he never sees. He owns a mansion on the Île de la Cité in Paris, a princely estate in the English countryside, a townhouse in Mayfair, oceanfront villas in Saint-Tropez, Marbella, and Maui, ski chalets in Zermatt and Aspen, a Park Avenue apartment recently appraised at forty million dollars, and a sprawling compound overlooking the Potomac that I pass every day on the way to work.”

  Carter seemed to find the mansion on the Potomac the most grievous of al-Bakari’s sins. Carter’s father had been an Episcopal minister from New Hampshire, and beneath his placid exterior beat the heart of a Puritan.

  “Al-Bakari and his entourage travel the world in a gold-plated 747,” he continued. “Twice a year, once in February and again in August, AAB’s operations go seaborne when al-Bakari and his entourage set up shop aboard Alexandra, his three-hundred-foot yacht. Have I forgotten anything?”

  “His friends call him Zizi,” Gabriel replied. “He has one of the world’s largest private collections of French Impressionist art, and we’ve been telling you for years that he’s up to his eyeballs in funding terrorism, especially against us.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Realize what?”

  “That Zizi’s a collector.”

  “A very aggressive one, actually.”

  “Ever had the pleasure of meeting him?”

  “I’m afraid Zizi and I are at different ends of the trade.” Gabriel frowned. “So what’s the connection between Zizi al-Bakari and Ahmed bin Shafiq?”

  Carter blew thoughtfully on his tea, a sign that he was not yet ready to answer Gabriel’s question.

  “An interesting fellow, al-Bakari. Did you know that his father was Ibn Saud’s personal banker? As you might expect, Papa al-Bakari did quite well—well enough to give his son ten million dollars to start his own company. That was nothing compared to the seed money he got from the al-Saud when things started to take off. A hundred million, if the rumor mill is to be believed. AAB is still a favorite dumping ground for Saudi Royal cash, which is one of the reasons why Zizi is so interested in making sure the House of Saud survives.”

  Gabriel’s heart sank as Carter reached for the tobacco pouch.

  “He’s among the world’s richest men,” Carter said, “and one of the world’s most charitable. He’s built mosques and Islamic centers all across Europe. He’s financed development projects in the Nile Delta and famine relief in Sudan. He’s given millions to the Palestinian refugees and millions more to development projects in the West Bank and Gaza.”

  “And more than thirty million dollars to that Saudi telethon to raise money for suicide bombers,” Gabriel added. “Zizi was the largest single donor. Now answer my question, Adrian.”

  “Which question is that?”

  “What’s the connection between Zizi and bin Shafiq?”

  “You’re a quick study, Gabriel. You tell me.”

  “Obviously Zizi is bankrolling bin Shafiq’s network.”

  “Obviously,” said Carter in agreement.

  “But bin Shafiq is a Saudi. He can get money anywhere. Zizi has something more valuable than money. Zizi has a global infrastructure through which bin Shafiq can move men and matériel. And Zizi has a perfect place for a mastermind like bin Shafiq to hide.”

  “AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.”

  A SILENCE FELL between them like a curtain while Carter drowsily loaded his pipe. Gabriel was still standing in the window, peering into the street. He was tempted to remain there, for Carter’s tobacco, when ignited, smelled like a combination of burning hay and wet dog. He knew, however, that the conversation had passed the point where it might be conducted in front of an insecure window. Reluctantly he lowered himself into the chair opposite Carter and they gazed at each other in silence, Carter puffing contemplatively and Gabriel wearily waving the smoke from his eyes.

  “How sure are you?”

  “Very.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Sources and methods,” said Carter mechanically. “Sources and methods.”

  “How do you know, Adrian?”

  “Because we listen to him,” Carter said. “The National Security Agency is a wonderful thing. We also have sources inside the moderate wing of the House of Saud and the GID who are willing to tell us things. Ahmed bin Shafiq is living largely in the West under an assumed identity. He is buried somewhere within Zizi’s financial empire and the two of them confer on a regular basis. Of this, we are certain.”

  There was a manila file folder on the center table, next to Carter’s tea tray. Inside was a single photograph, which Carter handed to Gabriel. It showed a man in a woolen overcoat and trilby, standing at a wrought-iron gate. The face was in left profile, and the features were somewhat gauzy. Judging from the compression of the image, the photograph had been snapped from some distance.

  “Is this him?”

  “We think so,” Carter replied.

  “Where was it taken?”

  “Outside Zizi’s house on the ˆ

  Ile de la Cité in Paris. The cameraman was on the other side of the Seine, on the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, which accounts for a certain lack of clarity of the image.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Six months.”

  Carter rose slowly to his feet and wandered over to the fireplace. He was about to rap his pipe against the grate when Gabriel reminded him that it was a fake. He sat down again and emptied the pipe into a large cut-glass ashtray.

  “How many Americans were killed at the Vatican?” Gabriel asked.

  “Twenty-eight, including a Curial bishop.”

  “How much money has Zizi al-Bakari given to the terrorists over the years?”

  “Hundreds of millions.”

  “Go after him,” Gabriel said. “Make a case against him and put him on trial.”

  “Against Zizi al-Bakari?”

  “Section 18 U.S.C. 2339B—have you ever heard of it, Adrian?”

  “You’re quoting American law to me now?”

  “It’s a violation of American law to give money to designated terrorist groups, regardless of whether the money was used for specific attacks. You could have probably prosecuted dozens of wealthy Saudis for giving material support to your enemies, including Zizi al-Bakari.”

  “You disappoint me, Gabriel. I always thought of you as a fairly reasonable fellow—a bit too concerned with questions of right and wrong at times, but reasonable. We can’t go after Zizi al-Bakari.”

  “Why?”

  “Money,” said Carter, then added, “And oil, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Carter toyed with his lighter. “The Saudi Royal Family has a lot of friends in Washington—the kind of friends only money can buy. Zizi has friends as well. He’s endowed academic chairs and filled them with associates and supporters. He’s underwritten the creation of Arab studies departments at a half dozen major American universities. He almost single-handedly financed a major renovation of the Kennedy Center. He gives to the pet charitable projects of influential senators and invests in the business ventures of their f
riends and relatives. He owns a chunk of one of our most prominent banks and bits and pieces of several other prominent American companies. He’s also served as a middleman on countless Saudi-American business deals. Is the picture becoming clear to you now?”

  It was, but Gabriel wanted to hear more.

  “If Zizi’s battalion of Washington lawyers even suspected he was the target of a criminal probe, Zizi would call His Majesty, and His Majesty would call Ambassador Bashir, and Ambassador Bashir would pop over to the White House for a little chat with the president. He would remind the president that a twist or two on the oil spigots would send the price of gasoline over five dollars a gallon. He might even point out that a price spike of that magnitude would surely hurt people in the heartland, who tend to drive long distances, and who also tend to vote for the president’s party.”

  “So Zizi gets away with murder—literally.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ask not about things which, if made plain to you, may cause you trouble.”

  “You know your Quran,” Carter said.

  “One of the reasons you can’t operate against Zizi or prosecute him is because you’re afraid of what you might find: business entanglements with prominent Americans, shady dealings with Washington insiders. Imagine the reaction of the American people if they learned that a Saudi billionaire with business ties to prominent figures in Washington is actually financing the activities of your enemies. The relationship barely survived the first 9/11. I doubt it would survive a second.”

  “No, it wouldn’t—at least not in its present form. There’s already a movement on Capitol Hill to isolate Saudi Arabia because of its support of the global Islamic extremism. A scandal involving Zizi al-Bakari would only add fuel to the fire. Several foreign policy lights in Congress are considering legislation that would put the screws to Saudi Arabia. They have that luxury. They won’t take the fall if the American economy goes into the toilet because of higher fuel prices. The president will.”

  “So what do you want from us, Adrian? What do you wish to say to me, in this room where no one is listening?”

  “The president of the United States would like a favor,” Carter said, gazing into the fire. “The sort of favor you happen to be very good at. He’d like you to run an agent into the House of Zizi. He’d like you to find out who’s coming and going. And if Ahmed bin Shafiq happens to walk by, he’d like you to take a shot at him. It will be your operation, but we’ll give you whatever support you need. We’ll be over the horizon—far enough over to make certain that we can maintain plausible deniability in Riyadh.”

  “You disappoint me, Adrian. I always thought of you as a reasonable fellow.”

  “What have I done now?”

  “I thought you were going to ask me to kill Zizi al-Bakari and be done with it.”

  “Kill Zizi?” Carter shook his head. “Zizi is untouchable. Zizi is radioactive.”

  GABRIEL RETURNED TO his outpost by the window and peered into the street as a pair of lovers hurried along the pavement through the swirling rain. “We’re not contract killers,” he said. “We can’t be hired to do dirty jobs you can’t do yourself. You want bin Shafiq dead but you’re not willing to risk the fallout. You’re setting us up to take the fall.”

  “I could remind you of a few salient facts,” said Carter. “I could remind you that this president has remained steadfastly at your side while the rest of the world has treated you as the Jew among nations. I could remind you that he allowed you to build the Separation Fence while the rest of the world accused you of behaving like South Africans. I could remind you that he allowed you to lock Arafat away in the Mukata while the rest of the world accused you of behaving like Nazi storm troopers. I could remind you of the many other times this president has carried your dirty water, but I won’t, because that would be impolitic. It would also suggest that this request is a quid pro quo of some sort, which it most certainly is not.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A recognition,” said Carter. “A recognition that we Americans don’t have the stomach or the backbone to do the things we have to do to win this fight. Our fingers have been burned. Our image has taken a terrible beating. We’ve taken a look in the mirror, and we don’t like what we see. Our politicians would like us to make reservations on the first flight out of Iraq so they can start spending money on the sorts of things that win votes. Our people want to go back to their fat, happy lives. They want to bury their heads in the sand and pretend that there really isn’t an organized force in their world that is actively plotting and planning their destruction. We’ve paid a terrible price for climbing into the gutter with the terrorists and fighting them on their level, but I’m sure you always knew we would. No one’s paid a higher price than you.”

  “So you want us to do it for you. I suppose that’s what they call outsourcing. How American of you, Adrian.”

  “Under the current circumstances, the United States cannot target a former high-ranking Saudi intelligence officer for assassination because to do so would shatter our relationship with Riyadh. Nor can we arrest and prosecute Zizi al-Bakari, for the reasons I’ve given you.”

  “So you want the problem to go away?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Sweep it under the rug? Postpone the reckoning until a more convenient date?”

  “In so many words.”

  “You think this is the way to defeat your Hydra? Chop off a head and hope for the best? You have to burn out the roots, the way Hercules did. You have to attack the beast with arrows dipped in gall.”

  “You want to take on the House of Saud?”

  “Not just the House of Saud,” Gabriel said. “The Wahhabi fanatics with whom they made a covenant of blood two hundred years ago on the barren plateau of Najd. They’re your real enemy, Adrian. They’re the ones who created Hydra in the first place.”

  “A wise prince chooses the time and place of the battle, and this is not the time to tear down the House of Saud.”

  Gabriel lapsed into a moody silence. Carter was peering into the bowl of his pipe and making minor adjustments in the disposition of his tobacco, like a don waiting for an answer from a dull student.

  “Do I need to remind you that they targeted Shamron?”

  Gabriel gave Carter a dark look that said he most certainly did not.

  “Then why the hesitation? I would have thought you’d be straining at the leash to get bin Shafiq after what he did to the old man.”

  “I want him more than anyone, Adrian, but I never strain at the leash. This is a dangerous operation—too dangerous for you even to attempt. If something goes wrong, or if we’re caught in the act, it will end badly—for all three of us.”

  “Three?”

  “You, me, and the president.”

  “So obey Shamron’s Eleventh Commandment, and you’ll be fine. Thou shalt not get caught.”

  “Bin Shafiq is a ghost. We don’t even have a picture.”

  “That’s not entirely true.” Carter reached into his manila file folder again and came out with another photograph, which he dropped onto the coffee table for Gabriel to see. It showed a man with narrow black eyes, his face partially concealed by a kaffiyeh. “That’s bin Shafiq, almost twenty years ago, in Afghanistan. He was our friend then. We were on the same side. We supplied the weapons. Bin Shafiq and his masters in Riyadh supplied the money.”

  “And the Wahhabi ideology that helped give birth to the Taliban,” Gabriel said.

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” said Carter contritely. “But we have something more valuable than a twenty-year-old photograph. We have his voice.”

  Carter picked up a small black remote, aimed it at a Bose Wave radio, and pressed the Play button. A moment later two men began to converse in English: one with the accent of an American, the other of an Arab.

  “I take it the Saudi is bin Shafiq?”

  Carter nodded.

  “When was it recorded?”


  “In 1988,” Carter said. “In a safe house in Peshawar.”

  “Who’s the American?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already. Carter hit the Stop button and looked into the fire. “Me,” he said distantly. “The American at the CIA safe house in Peshawar was me.”

  “Would you recognize bin Shafiq if you saw him again?”

  “I might, but our sources tell us he had several rounds of plastic surgery before going operational. I would recognize the scar on his right forearm, though. He got hit by a piece of shrapnel during a trip to Afghanistan in 1985. The scar runs from just above the wrist to just below the elbow. No plastic surgeon could have done anything about that.”

  “Inside the arm or outside?”

  “Inside,” Carter said. “The injury left him with a bit of a withered hand. He had several operations to try to repair it, but nothing ever worked. He tends to keep it in his pocket. He doesn’t like to shake hands. He’s a proud Bedouin, bin Shafiq. He doesn’t respect physical infirmity.”

  “I don’t suppose your sources in Riyadh can tell us where he’s hiding within Zizi’s empire?”

  “Unfortunately they can’t. But we know he’s there. Put an agent into the House of Zizi, and eventually bin Shafiq will walk through the back door.”

  “Put an agent close to Zizi al-Bakari? How do you propose we do that, Adrian? Zizi has more security than most heads of state.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of interfering in matters operational,” Carter said. “But rest assured that we’re willing to be patient and that we intend to see it through to the end.”

  “Patience and follow-through aren’t typical American virtues. You like to make a mess and move on to the next problem.”

  There was another long silence, broken this time by the clatter of Carter’s pipe against the rim of the ashtray.

  “What do you want, Gabriel?”

  “Guarantees.”

  “There are no guarantees in our business. You know that.”