Portrait of a Spy ga-11

by Daniel Silva

  Shamron gave a trace of a smile and lit one of his Turkish cigarettes. “Have you given any thought to who’s going to enforce the sentence that’s been imposed on Malik?”

  “In all likelihood, that decision will be made by Malik himself.”

  “Which is just one of many things about this operation that I don’t care for.” Shamron smoked in silence for a moment. “I know you’ve always preferred the finality of a firearm, but in this case, the needle is a far better option. A noisy kill will only make it harder for you and your team to escape. Hit him with a healthy dose of suxamethonium chloride. He’ll feel a pinprick. Then he’ll have trouble breathing as the paralysis sets in. Within a few minutes, he’ll be dead. And you’ll be boarding a private plane at the airport.”

  “Suxamethonium has one thing in common with a bullet,” Gabriel said. “It stays in the body long after the victim is dead. Eventually, the medical examiners in Dubai will find it, and the police will be able to piece together exactly what happened.”

  “It’s the price we pay for operating in modern hotels. Just do your best to shield that face of yours from the cameras. If your picture ends up in the newspaper again, it will complicate your return to civilian life.” Shamron observed Gabriel in silence for a moment. “That is what you wish to do, is it not?”

  Gabriel made no reply. Shamron dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his heel.

  “You can’t fault me for trying,” Shamron said.

  “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

  “I actually permitted myself to hope your answer might be different this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re allowing your wife to go to Dubai.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. She insisted.”

  “You tell the president of the United States to fire one of his closest aides but you acquiesce to an ultimatum from your wife?” Shamron shook his head and said, “Maybe I should have chosen her to be the next chief of the Office.”

  “Make Bella Navot her deputy.”

  “Bella?” Shamron smiled. “The Arab world would tremble.”

  They parted, ten minutes later, at Lancaster Gate. Shamron returned to the Office safe flat while Gabriel headed to Heathrow Airport. By the time he arrived, he was Roland Devereaux, formerly of Grenoble, France, lately of Quebec City, Canada. He had the passport of a man who traveled too much and a demeanor to match. After sailing through check-in and passport control, he made his way under covert MI5 escort to the first-class passenger lounge of British Airways. There he found a quiet place far from the in-flight alcoholics and watched the news on television. Bored by an ill-informed discussion of the current terror threat, he opened his businessman’s notebook and from memory sketched a beautiful young woman with raven hair. It was a portrait of an unveiled woman, thought Gabriel. A portrait of a spy.

  He tore the sketch into small pieces the instant his flight was being called and dropped them into three different rubbish bins as he walked to his gate. After settling into his seat, he made one final check of his e-mail. He had several; all were false but one. It was from a nameless woman who said she had loved him always. Switching off the BlackBerry, he felt a stab of uncharacteristic panic. Then he closed his eyes and ran through the operation one last time.

  Chapter 54

  Dubai

  THE LEAVES OF THE PALM JUMEIRAH, the world’s largest man-made island, lay flat upon the torpid waters of the Gulf, sinking slowly beneath the weight of unsold luxury villas. In the monstrous pink hotel rising at the apex of the island, a gentle rain fell onto the marble floor of the sprawling lobby. Like nearly everything else in Dubai, the rain was artificial. In this case, however, it was unintended; the ceiling had sprung yet another leak. Rather than repair it, management had opted for a small yellow sign warning patrons, of which there were few, to watch their step.

  Farther up the coastline, in the financial quarter, there was more evidence of the misfortune that had befallen the city-state. Construction cranes, once the very symbols of Dubai’s economic miracle, loomed motionless over half-finished office blocks and condominium towers. The luxury shopping malls were all but empty, and there were rumors of unemployed European expats sleeping in the sand dunes of the desert. Many had fled the emirate rather than face the prospect of a stay in its infamous debtors’ prison. At one point, an estimated three thousand abandoned cars had jammed the airport parking lot. Taped to some of the windshields were hastily scrawled notes of apology to creditors. A used car in Dubai had almost no value. Traffic jams, once a major problem, were virtually unheard of.

  The Ruler still gazed down upon his fiefdom from countless billboards, but these days his expression seemed a bit dour. His plan to turn a sleepy fishing port into a center of global trade, finance, and tourism had been crushed by a mountain of debt. The Dubai dream had turned out to be unsustainable. What’s more, it had also produced an ecological disaster in the making. The residents of Dubai had the largest carbon footprint in the world. They consumed more water than anyone else on the planet, all of which came from energy-consuming desalinization plants, and burned untold amounts of electricity refrigerating their homes, offices, swimming pools, and artificial ski slopes. Only the foreign laborers did without air-conditioning. They toiled beneath the merciless sun—in some cases, for up to sixteen hours a day—and lived in squalid fly-infested bunkhouses without so much as a fan to cool them. So wretched was their existence that hundreds chose suicide each year, a fact denied by the Ruler and his business associates.

  For the eighty thousand charmed citizens of Dubai, life could not have been much better. The government paid for their health care, housing, and education, and guaranteed their employment for life—provided, of course, they refrained from criticizing the Ruler. Their grandparents had subsisted on camel’s milk and dates; now an army of foreign workers powered their economy and saw to their every whim and need. The men floated imperiously about the city in pristine white kandouras and ghutras. Few expatriates ever spoke to an Emirati. When they did, the exchange was rarely pleasant.

  There was a strict hierarchy inside the foreign community as well. The Brits and other well-to-do expatriates sequestered themselves in the smart districts of Satwa and Jumeirah while the proletariat of the developing world lived mainly on the other side of Dubai Creek, in the old quarter known as Deira. To wander its streets and squares was to walk through many different countries—here a province of India, here a village in Pakistan, here a corner of Tehran or Moscow. Each community had imported a little something from home. From Russia had come crime and women, both of which could be found in abundance at the Odessa, a discotheque and bar located not far from the Gold Souk. Gabriel sat alone at a darkened banquette near the back, a glass of vodka at his elbow. At the next table, a red-faced Brit was fondling an underfed waif from the Russian hinterland. None of the girls bothered Gabriel. He had the look of a man who had come only to watch.

  That was not true, however, of the lanky blond-haired Russian who entered the Odessa with a flourish a few minutes after midnight. He sauntered over to the bar to pat a couple of the more shapely backsides before making his way to the table where Gabriel sat. One of the girls immediately tried to join them, but the lanky Russian waved her away with a long, pale hand. When the waitress finally came, he ordered vodka for himself and another for his friend.

  “Drink something,” said Mikhail. “Otherwise, no one will think you’re really a Russian.”

  “I don’t want to be a Russian.”

  “Neither do I. That’s why I moved to Israel.”

  “Was I followed from my hotel?”

  Mikhail shook his head.

  Gabriel poured his drink between the seat cushions of the banquette and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Mikhail spoke only Russian as they walked to the apartment house near the Corniche. It was a typical Gulf-style building, a four-level blockhouse with a few covered parking spac
es on the ground level. The stairwell smelled of chickpeas and cumin, as did the flat on the top floor. It had a two-burner stove in the kitchen and a pullout couch in the sitting room. Powdery desert sand covered every surface. “The neighbors are from Bangladesh,” Mikhail said. “There are at least twelve of them in there. They sleep in shifts. Someone needs to tell the world the way these people are really treated here.”

  “Let it be someone other than you, Mikhail.”

  “Me? I’m just an enterprising young man from Moscow trying to make his fortune in the city of gold.”

  “Looks like you came at the wrong time.”

  “No kidding,” said Mikhail. “A few years ago, this place was swimming in money. The Russian mafia used the real estate industry to launder their fortunes. They’d buy apartments and villas and then sell them a week later. These days, even the girls at the Odessa are struggling to make ends meet.”

  “I’m sure they’ll manage somehow.”

  Mikhail removed a suitcase from the only closet and popped the latches. Inside were eight pistols—four Berettas and four Glocks. Each had matching suppressors.

  “The Berettas are nines,” Mikhail said. “The Glocks are forty-fives. Man-stoppers. They make big holes and a lot of noise, even with the suppressors. This weapon, however, makes no noise at all.”

  He removed a zippered cosmetics bag. Inside were hypodermic needles and several vials labeled INSULIN. Gabriel took two needles and two bottles of the drug and slipped them into his coat pocket.

  “How about a gun?” asked Mikhail.

  “They’re frowned upon at the Burj Al Arab.”

  Mikhail handed over a Beretta, along with a spare magazine filled with rounds. Gabriel slipped them into the waistband of his trousers and asked, “What kind of cars did Transport get for us?”

  “BMWs and Toyota Land Cruisers, the new ship of the desert. If we decide that the associate of the Yemeni is Malik, we shouldn’t have any trouble tailing him once he leaves the hotel. This isn’t Cairo or Gaza. The roads are all very straight and wide. If he heads for one of the other emirates, we can follow him. But if he makes a run for Saudi, we’ll have to hit him before he gets to the border. That could get messy.”

  “I’d like to avoid a desert shoot-out, if at all possible.”

  “So would I. Who knows? With a bit of luck, he’ll decide to spend the night at his apartment in Jumeirah Beach. We’ll give him a bit of medicine to help him sleep and then . . .” Mikhail’s voice trailed off. “So how’s life at the Burj?”

  “Just what you’d expect from the world’s only seven-star hotel.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Mikhail said resentfully.

  “If you’d listened to me, you’d be living in America now with Sarah.”

  “Doing what?”

  Gabriel was silent for a moment. “It’s not too late, Mikhail,” he said finally. “For some reason, she’s still in love with you. Even a fool like you should be able to see that.”

  “It’s just not going to work out for us.”

  “Why?” Gabriel looked around the filthy little apartment. “Because you want to live like this?”

  “You’re one to talk.” Mikhail closed the suitcase and returned it to the closet. “Did she ask you to say something?”

  “She’d kill me if she knew.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “That you behaved rather badly.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Something you swore you wouldn’t do.”

  “I didn’t mistreat her, Gabriel. I just—”

  “Went through hell in Switzerland.”

  Mikhail made no response.

  “Do yourself a favor when this is over,” Gabriel said. “Find an excuse to go to America. Spend some time with her. If there’s anyone in the world who understands what you’ve been through, it’s Sarah Bancroft. Don’t let her slip away. She’s special.”

  Mikhail smiled sadly, the way the young always smile at foolish old men. “Go back to your hotel,” he said. “Try to sleep. And make sure you hide those vials somewhere the maids won’t find them. There’s a huge black market for stolen medicine. I wouldn’t want there to be a tragic accident.”

  “Any other advice?”

  “Take a taxi back to the Burj. They drive worse than we do. Only the poor and the suicidal walk in Dubai.”

  Contrary to Mikhail’s advice, Gabriel made his way on foot through the teeming alleyways of Deira to the embankment of Dubai Creek. Not far from the main souk was an abra station. It was Dubai’s version of Venice’s traghetto, a small ferry that shuttled passengers from one side of the creek to the other. During the crossing, Gabriel fell into conversation with a weary-looking man from the border regions of Pakistan. The man had come to Dubai to escape the Taliban and al-Qaeda and was hoping to earn enough money to send for his wife and four children. So far, he had only been able to find odd jobs that left him barely able to support himself, let alone a family of six.

  As they were getting off the ferry, Gabriel slipped five hundred dirhams into the pocket of the man’s baggy trousers. Then he stopped at an all-night kiosk to pick up a copy of the Khaleej Times, Dubai’s English-language newspaper. On the front page was a story about the upcoming visit by Nadia al-Bakari, chairwoman of AAB Holdings. Gabriel slipped the newspaper beneath his arm and walked a short distance before flagging down a passing taxi. Mikhail was right, he thought, climbing into the safety of the backseat. Only the poor and suicidal walked in Dubai.

  Chapter 55

  Dubai International Airport

  HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE MINISTER OF FINANCE, stood at the edge of the sunlit tarmac, resplendent in his gold-and-crystal-trimmed robes. To his right stood ten identically attired junior ministers, and to their right loitered a flock of bored-looking reporters. The ministers and the reporters were about to engage in a time-honored ritual in the Sunni Arab kingdoms of the Gulf: the airport arrival. In a world with no tradition of independent reporting, airport comings and goings were regarded as the pinnacle of journalism. See the dignitary land. See the dignitary fly away after productive talks characterized by mutual respect. Truth was rarely spoken at these events, and the hamstrung press never dared to report it. Today’s ceremony would be something of a milestone, for in a few minutes’ time, even the princes would be deceived.

  The first aircraft appeared shortly after noon, a flash of silver-white above a cloud of pinkish dust from the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia. On board was an English tycoon named Thomas Fowler who was not an Englishman at all and, in truth, hadn’t a penny to his name. Descending the passenger stairs, he was trailed by a wife who was not really his wife and by three female aides who knew much more about Islamic terrorism than business and finance. One worked for the Central Intelligence Agency while the other two were employed by the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. The team of bodyguards protecting the party also worked for Israeli intelligence, though their passports identified them as citizens of Australia and New Zealand.

  The English tycoon advanced on the minister with his hand extended like a bayonet. The minister’s own emerged indolently from his robes, as did those of his ten junior ministers. The requisite greetings complete, the Englishman was escorted to the press to make a brief statement. He spoke without aid of notes but with great authority and passion. Dubai’s recession was over, he declared. It was now time to resume the march toward the future. The Arab world was changing by the minute. And only Dubai—progressive, tolerant, and stable Dubai—could show it the way.

  The final portion of the statement did not provoke the response from the press it deserved because it was largely drowned out by the arrival of a second aircraft—a Boeing Business Jet bearing the logo of AAB Holdings of Riyadh and Paris. The party that was soon spilling from its forward cabin door dwarfed that of the English tycoon. First came the law firm of Abdul & Abdul. Then Herr Wehrli, the Swiss moneyman. Then Daoud Hamza. Then Hamza’s daughter Rahimah, who had come for the par
ty. After Rahimah came a pair of security men, followed by Mansur, the chief of AAB’s busy travel department, and Hassan, the chief of IT and communications.

  Finally, after a delay of several seconds, Nadia al-Bakari stepped through the doorway with her security chief, Rafiq al-Kamal, trailing a step behind. She wore an unadorned black abaya that flowed from her body like an evening gown and a silky black headscarf that revealed all of her face and much of her lustrous hair. This time, it was the minister who advanced. He assumed his greeting was private, which was not the case. It was captured by Nadia’s compromised BlackBerry and by the transmitter concealed in her stylish Prada handbag, and broadcast securely to the forty-second floor of the Burj Al Arab hotel, where Gabriel and Eli Lavon sat tensely before their computers.

  The welcome ceremony complete, the minister gestured disdainfully toward the reporters, but the notoriously reclusive heiress declined and headed directly for her limousine. At which point the minister suggested she ride with him instead. After consulting briefly with Rafiq al-Kamal, Nadia climbed into the back of the minister’s official car—a moment that was broadcast to the entire country, thirty minutes later, on Dubai TV. Gabriel dispatched a secure e-mail to Adrian Carter at Rashidistan, informing him that NAB was safely on the ground. But this time she was not alone. NAB was at the side of the minister of finance. And NAB was the lead of the midday news.

  The property in question wasn’t much to look at—a few uninviting acres of salt flats and sand located just up the beach from the Palm Jumeirah. An Italian company had broken ground on a rather conventional resort a few years back but had been forced to pull up stakes when the financing went the way of water in the desert. AAB Holdings and its British partner, the predatory investment firm of Rogers & Cressey, wished to resuscitate the project, though their plans were anything but conventional. The high-rise hotel would surpass the Burj Al Arab in luxury, the fitness centers and tennis facilities would be among the finest in the world, and the swimming pools would be both architectural and environmental wonders. Top chefs would operate the restaurants while internationally renowned stylists would run the hair salons. The condominium units would start at the equivalent of three million dollars. The shopping arcade would make the Mall of the Emirates seem positively downmarket.