Portrait of a Spy

Chapter 48 The Plains, Virginia

THE HOUSE STOOD ON THE highest point of the land, shaded by a coppice of oak and elm. It had a tarnished copper roof and a handsome double-decker porch overlooking a green pasture. The neighbors had been led to believe that the owner was a wealthy Washington lobbyist named Hewitt. There was no Washington lobbyist named Hewitt, at least not one associated with the charming forty-acre gentleman’s farm located two miles east of The Plains on Country Road 601. The name had been chosen randomly by the computers of the Central Intelligence Agency, which owned and operated the farm through a front company. The Agency also owned the John Deere tractor, the Ford pickup truck, the Bush Hog rotary cutter, and a pair of bay horses. One was named Colby; the other was called Helms. According to Agency wits, they were subjected, like all CIA employees, to annual polygraphs to make certain they hadn’t switched sides, whatever side that might be.

The following afternoon, both horses were nibbling on the new grass in the lower pasture as the Escalade bearing Gabriel and Chiara came churning up the long gravel drive. A CIA security man admitted them into the house, then, after relieving them of their coats and mobile devices, pointed them toward the great room. Entering, they saw Uzi Navot peering longingly at the buffet and Ari Shamron attempting to coax a cup of coffee from the pump-action thermos. Seated near the dormant fireplace, dressed for a long weekend in the English countryside, was Graham Seymour. Adrian Carter sat next to him, frowning at something James McKenna was whispering urgently in his ear.

The men gathered in the room represented a secret brotherhood of sorts. Since the attacks of 9/11, they had worked together on numerous joint operations, most of which the public knew nothing about. They had fought for one another, killed for one another, and in some cases bled for one another. Despite the occasional disagreement, their bond had managed to transcend time and the fickle whims of their political masters. They saw their mission in stark terms—they were, to borrow a phrase from their enemy, the “Shura Council” of the civilized world. They took on the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to perform and worried about the consequences later, especially when lives were at stake. James McKenna was not a member of the council, nor would he ever be. He was a political animal, which meant by definition he was part of the problem. His presence promised to be a complicating factor, especially if he planned to spend the entire time whispering in Carter’s ear.

McKenna was clearly most comfortable when seated at a rectangular table, so at his suggestion, they moved into the formal dining room. It was obvious why Carter did not like him; McKenna was everything Carter was not. He was young. He was fit. He looked good behind a podium. He was also supremely sure of himself, regardless of whether that certainty was warranted or supported by the facts. McKenna had no blood on his hands and no professional sins in his past. He had never confronted his enemy over the barrel of a gun or questioned him in an interrogation room. He didn’t even speak any of his enemy’s languages. Yet he had read many briefing books about him and had spoken with great sensitivity about him in many meetings. His main contribution to the literature of counterterrorism was a piece he had once written for Foreign Affairs magazine in which he argued the United States could absorb another terrorist attack and emerge stronger for it. The piece had captured the attention of a charismatic senator, and when the senator became president, he placed much of the responsibility for the country’s safety in the hands of a political hack who had once spent a week at Langley getting coffee for the director.

There ensued an awkward moment over who would sit at the head of the table, Carter or McKenna. In the unwritten rules of the brotherhood, chairmanship of meetings was determined by geography, but there were no bylaws about what to do when confronted by a political interloper. Eventually, McKenna surrendered the head of the table to Carter and settled in next to Graham Seymour, who seemed to threaten him less than the quartet of Israelis. Carter placed his pipe and his tobacco pouch on the table for later deployment, then lifted the lid of a secure notebook computer. Stored on its hard drive was a copy of an NSA intercept. It was a phone call, placed at 10:36 a.m. Central European Time the previous day, between the Zurich branch of TransArabian Bank and the Paris offices of AAB Holdings. The parties to the call had been Samir Abbas, a banker with uncomfortably close ties to questionable Islamic charities, and his new client, Nadia al-Bakari. They had spoken for two minutes and twelve seconds, in formal Arabic. Carter distributed copies of an NSA translation. Then he pulled up the audio file on the computer and clicked play.

The first voice on the recording belonged to Nadia’s executive secretary, who asked Abbas to hold while she transferred the call. Nadia picked up exactly six seconds later. After the obligatory Islamic expression of peace, Abbas said he had just spoken to “an associate of the Yemeni.” It seemed the Yemeni’s enterprise had suffered a string of recent setbacks and was in desperate need of additional financing. The associate wished to appeal to Nadia personally and was willing to discuss future plans, including several pending deals in America. This associate, whom Abbas described as “extremely close” to the Yemeni, had suggested Dubai as a meeting site. Apparently, he was a frequent visitor to the fabulously rich emirate and even kept a modest apartment in the Jumeirah Beach district. Needless to say, the associate of the Yemeni was well aware of Miss al-Bakari’s security concerns and would be willing to meet her in a place where she would feel both safe and comfortable.

“Where?”

“The Burj Al Arab.”

“When?”

“A week from Thursday.”

“I’m supposed to be in Istanbul that day on business.”

“The associate’s schedule is very busy. It will be his one and only chance to meet with you for the foreseeable future.”

“When does he need an answer?”

“I’m afraid he needs it now.”

“What time would he like to see me?”

“Nine in the evening.”

“My bodyguards won’t permit any changes.”

“The associate assures me there won’t be any.”

“Then please tell him I’ll be at the Burj next Thursday evening at nine p.m. And tell him not to be late. Because I never invest money with people who are late for meetings.”

“I assure you he won’t be late.”

“Will there be anyone else in attendance?”

“Just me—unless, of course, you would rather go alone.”

“Actually, I would prefer it if you came.”

“Then I would be honored to be at your side. I’ll be waiting in the lobby. You have my mobile number.”

“I’ll see you next Thursday, Inshallah.”

“Inshallah, Miss al-Bakari.”

Carter clicked pause.

“The next recording is a call that was placed to Samir’s home just six hours earlier. He was sleeping soundly at the time and wasn’t pleased when the phone rang. His mood changed when he heard the voice at the other end. The gentleman never bothered to identify himself. He placed the call from Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, using a cell phone that had no history and no longer seems to be operative. There’s some dropout and a great deal of background noise. Here’s a sample.”

Carter clicked play.

“Tell her we need more money. Tell her we’re willing to discuss future plans. Make it clear that we’re sending someone important.”

Pause.

“So who exactly is the close associate of the Yemeni who wishes to meet with Nadia?” Carter asked rhetorically. “This phone call appears to provide the answer. It took a bit of work because of the poor quality, but NSA was able to manipulate the recording and conduct voice-match analysis. They ran it through every database we have, including databases of radio and cell phone communications collected in Iraq during the height of the insurgency. One hour ago, they came up with a match. Anyone care to venture a guess as to the identity of the man Samir Abbas was speaking to?”

“I’m tempted to say it was Malik al-Zubair,” Gabriel said, “but that’s not possible. You see, Adrian, Malik is a rumor. Malik is a hunch on Dina’s part.”

“No, he’s not,” Carter conceded. “Dina was right. Malik is for real. He was in Jeddah two days ago. And he may or may not be coming to the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai next Thursday evening to have a word with his new patron, Nadia al-Bakari. The question is, what do we do about it?”

Carter rapped his pipe against the rim of his ashtray. The Shura Council was now in session.

Chapter 49 The Plains, Virginia

IT WAS AN AMERICAN OPERATION, which meant it was an American decision to make. McKenna clearly had no intention of offering the first opinion, lest the ground shift suddenly beneath his feet, so he adroitly deferred to Carter, who began, in typical Carter fashion, with a detour. It was to a place called Forward Operating Base Chapman, a CIA post in remote eastern Afghanistan, where, in December 2009, a CIA asset named Humam Khalil Abu-Mulal al-Balawi came calling to deliver a report to his handlers. A Jordanian physician with links to the jihadist movement, Dr. Balawi had been providing the CIA with critical information used to target al-Qaeda militants in Pakistan. His true mission, however, was to penetrate the CIA and Jordanian intelligence—a mission that came to a disastrous conclusion that day when he detonated a bomb hidden beneath his coat, killing seven CIA officers. It was among the worst single attacks against the Agency in its history, and certainly the worst during Adrian Carter’s long career as director of operations. It demonstrated that al-Qaeda was willing to expend extraordinary time and effort to exact revenge against the intelligence services that pursued it. And it proved that when spies ignore the basic rules of tradecraft, officers could end up dead.

“Are you suggesting that Nadia al-Bakari is in league with al-Qaeda?” asked McKenna.

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. In fact, it is my opinion that when the secret history of the global war on terror is finally written, Nadia will be regarded as one of the most valuable assets who ever worked on the side of the West. Which is why I would hate to lose her because we got greedy and sent her into a situation we shouldn’t have.”

“Malik isn’t inviting her to South Waziristan,” McKenna said. “He’s asking to meet with her in one of the most famous hotels in the world.”

“Actually,” Carter replied, “we don’t know whether it’s going to be Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“It violates tradecraft. You remember tradecraft, don’t you, Jim? Rule one says we control as many environmental factors as possible. We choose the time. We choose the place. We pick out the furniture. We order the drinks. And, if possible, we serve the drinks. And we sure as hell don’t let someone like Nadia al-Bakari get within a country mile of a man like Malik.”

“But sometimes we play the hand we’re dealt,” McKenna countered. “Isn’t that what you told the president the day after we lost those seven CIA officers?”

Gabriel noticed a rare flash of anger in Carter’s eyes, but when he spoke again, his voice was as calm and underpowered as ever. “My father was an Episcopal minister, Jim. I don’t play cards.”

“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.

Whitcombe led Nadia and her bodyguards into a waiting elevator and with the press of a button sent it upward to the ninth floor. Waiting in the foyer were R&C’s senior partners, including the newest addition to the team, Thomas Fowler, who was known in some circles as Yossi Gavish. He was wearing a gray chalk-stripe suit by Anthony Sinclair of Savile Row and a smile that promised lavish profits. He greeted Nadia as though she were an old friend; then, with Whitcombe trailing, he led her to R&C’s regal conference room. Whitcombe invited her bodyguards to have a seat in the corridor, which they did without objection. Then he followed Yossi and Nadia into the conference room and closed the doors with a reassuring thump.

The blinds were tightly drawn, the lighting tastefully subdued. There was a polished mahogany table around which sat the members of Gabriel’s team, who were polished as well. Even Gabriel was dressed for the occasion. He was seated in the power position of the table along the windows, with Adrian Carter and Graham Seymour to one side and Ari Shamron and Uzi Navot on the other. Shamron watched Nadia carefully as she lowered herself into a chair next to Sarah, who was almost unrecognizable in a dark wig and glasses.

Still playing the role of Thomas Fowler, Yossi made a round of animated but pseudonymous introductions. It was a mere formality; the room was soundproof and electronically impenetrable. As a result, Gabriel had no misgivings about playing an NSA intercept over the sound system. It had been recorded five days earlier, at 10:36 a.m. Central European Time. The first voice belonged to Samir Abbas of TransArabian Bank.

“The associate’s schedule is very busy. It will be his one and only chance to meet with you for the foreseeable future.”

“When does he need an answer?”

“I’m afraid he needs it now.”

“What time would he like to see me?”

“Nine in the evening.”

“My bodyguards won’t permit any changes.”

“The associate assures me there won’t be any.”

“Then please tell him I’ll be at the Burj next Thursday evening at nine p.m. And tell him not to be late. Because I never invest money with people who are late for meetings.”

Gabriel pressed the stop button on the remote control and looked at Nadia. “I would like to begin this meeting by thanking you. By saying yes to Samir, you bought us some much-needed time to contemplate our next move. We were all impressed, Nadia. You handled yourself amazingly well for an amateur.”

“I’ve been living in two different worlds for a long time, Mr. Allon. I’m not an amateur.” Her gaze traveled around the table before settling on Shamron. “I see your numbers have grown since the last time we were together.”

“I’m afraid this is just the traveling ensemble.”

“There are others elsewhere?”

“A multitude,” said Gabriel. “And at this moment, many of them are fretting over a single question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether we should allow you to go to Dubai or whether we should call Samir back and tell him you’re too busy to make the trip.”

“Why would we tell him that?”

“I’ll answer that question in a moment,” Gabriel said. “But first I want you to listen to another recording.”

He reached for the remote and pressed play.

Chapter 52 The City, London

“WHAT’S HIS NAME?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. And knowing it would only place you in danger later.”

“You do think of everything.”

“We try, but sometimes even we make mistakes.”

She asked to hear the recording again. Gabriel pressed play.

“He sounds Jordanian to me,” Nadia said, listening intently.

“He is Jordanian.” Gabriel paused the recording. “He’s also one of the most brutal terrorists any of us have ever encountered. We’ve suspected for some time he was involved with Rashid’s network. Now we’re sure of it.”

“How?”

“The same way you know he’s a Jordanian.”

“The sound of his voice?”

Gabriel nodded. “Unfortunately, we know it too well. We heard it when he was dispatching shahids to bomb the cafés and buses of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. And our American friends heard it on the airwaves of the Sunni Triangle when he was helping to bring chaos to Iraq. But it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him—so long, in fact, that some members of our fraternity actually deluded themselves into believing he was dead. Unfortunately, this call proves he’s very much alive.”

Nadia seemed to have run out of questions for now. She looked at Carter and Graham Seymour and frowned.

“I see you’ve brought along your partners.”

“We felt it was time for you to get acquainted.”

“Who are they?”

“The dignified gentleman with gray hair is Graham. He’s British.”

“Obviously.” Her gaze shifted to Carter. “And him?”

“That’s Adrian.”

“American?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her gaze swept across Gabriel and settled once again on Shamron.

“Where did you find this one?”

“In the deepest well of time.”

“Does he have a name?”

“He prefers to be called Herr Heller.”

“What does Herr Heller do?”

“Mostly, he steals secrets. Sometimes, he thinks of innovative ways to neutralize terrorist groups. It’s because of Herr Heller that you’re here now. It was his idea to ask you to penetrate Rashid’s network.”

“Does he think I should attend the meeting in Dubai next week?”

“It is an opportunity he finds hard to resist. But he has concerns about the authenticity of the invitation. And he would never allow you to go into a situation where he could not guarantee your safety.”

“I’ve stayed at the Burj Al Arab many times. It never struck me as a particularly dangerous place. Unless it’s filled with Brits,” she added with a glance at Graham Seymour. “Your countrymen tend to let their hair down a bit too much when they’re in Dubai.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She looked at Gabriel again and said, “I read in the newspapers that the terrorists suffered a major setback last week. The American president sounded very pleased.”

“He had a right to.”

“I assume my money had something to do with it.”

“Your money had everything to do with it.”

“So you’ve dealt Rashid’s network a serious blow.”

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“But not a permanent blow?”

“Nothing about this business is permanent, Nadia.”

“Do you have enough information to locate Rashid?”

“Not at the moment.”

“What about the man whose name you won’t tell me?”

Gabriel shook his head. “We don’t know what name he’s using, what kind of passport he’s carrying, or even what he looks like.”

“But you do know that he would like to see me next Thursday evening in Dubai.” Nadia drew a cigarette from her handbag and ignited it. “It seems to me the choice is obvious, Mr. Allon. Having destroyed the network, you must now cut off the head. Otherwise, you’ll all be back here in a year or two, trying to figure out how to break a new network.”

Gabriel stared directly at Shamron without speaking. Finally, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, Shamron nudged him forward.

“We lie for a living,” Gabriel said, looking at Nadia again, “but we consider ourselves men of our word. To that end, we made a promise to you, and we would like to keep it.”

“What promise was that?”

“We asked you to help us by funneling money into a terrorist network. But we never said anything about asking you to identify a murderer face-to-face.”

“The situation has changed.”

“But our commitment to you hasn’t.”

She blew a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling and smiled. “Your concern for my safety is admirable, but it is entirely unwarranted. As you know, I am one of the most heavily protected private citizens in the world. While I’m on the ground in Dubai, I will be surrounded at all times by a very large team of security guards. They will search any room I enter and pat down anyone who comes into my presence. I’m the perfect person for an assignment like this because no harm can come to me.”

Gabriel shot another glance in Shamron’s direction. Once again, Shamron responded with a nod.

“It’s not just your physical safety that concerns us,” Gabriel said. “We also have to take into account your emotional and psychological well-being. There are some assets who think nothing of giving up someone from their own community for money or spite or respect or a dozen other reasons I could name. And there are others who find it a deeply traumatic experience that affects them profoundly for years afterward.”

“I don’t consider jihadist terrorists to be members of my community or my faith, just as they surely don’t consider me to be members of theirs. Besides, haven’t you already used my money to identify and arrest more than sixty suspected terrorists?” She paused, then added, “Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but it seems to me that you are making a distinction without a difference.”

Gabriel leaned forward, closing the gap between himself and his agent. He wanted no misunderstandings, no ambiguity, and absolutely nothing lost in translation.

“Do you understand what will happen to this man if he turns out to be the one we’re looking for?”

“I shouldn’t think you would need to ask a question like that.”

“Can you live with a memory like that?”

“I already do.” She managed a smile. “Besides, as you know, Mr. Allon, nothing lasts forever.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and spent a moment contemplating his hands. This time he didn’t bother looking to Shamron for guidance. The decision was his and his alone.

“We need time to prepare you.”

Nadia drew a leather portfolio from her handbag and looked at her schedule. “I’m in Moscow tomorrow, Prague the next day, and Stockholm the day after that.”

“How’s your weekend look?”

“I was planning to go to Casablanca for a bit of sun.”

“We might need you to cancel that trip.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said stubbornly. “But I do happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Gabriel accepted a file folder from Uzi Navot. Inside was the last known photograph of Malik al-Zubair, along with several computer-generated photo illustrations. Gabriel laid them out in a row on the table.

“This is the man who may or may not be coming to see you next Thursday night at the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai,” he said, pointing to the old photograph. His hand moved to the photo illustrations. “Here he is with twenty extra pounds. Here he is with a beard. Here he is without a beard. With a mustache. With a prayer scar. Without a prayer scar. With eyeglasses. With short hair. Long hair. Gray hair. No hair at all . . .”

Chapter 53 The City, London

THE FINANCIAL JOURNAL OF LONDON had lost much of its luster since being acquired by the Russian oligarch Viktor Orlov, yet it caused a commotion in the City the next morning when it reported that the mercenary house of Rogers & Cressey was assembling the pieces of a major project in Dubai. The story gained additional momentum when Zoe Reed of CNBC reported that the venture was being bankrolled in part by AAB Holdings, the Saudi investment firm controlled by the reclusive heiress Nadia al-Bakari. Reached for comment in Paris, AAB’s underworked spokeswoman Yvette Dubois issued a textbook non-denial denial, but in London that evening, the lights burned late in R&C’s Cannon Street offices. Veteran observers of the firm weren’t surprised. R&C, they said, always did its best work in the dark.

Had they been privy to R&C’s soundproof conference rooms and secure phone lines, they would have heard a language quite unlike any spoken elsewhere in the business world. Its etymology could be traced to a massacre at the Munich Olympic Games in September 1972 and to a secret operation of vengeance that followed. The world had changed much since then, but the principles enshrined in the series of assassinations remained inviolable. Aleph, Bet, Ayin, Qoph: four letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Four operational rules that were as timeless and durable as the man who had written them.

Within certain sections of R&C’s offices, he was known as Herr Heller. But once he entered the rooms reserved for Gabriel and his team, he was referred to as Ari, or the Old Man, or the Memuneh, the Hebrew word meaning “the one in charge.” Owing to a scrap of paper bearing Uzi Navot’s signature, Shamron was in fact the nominal commander of the operation, but for practical reasons, he ceded responsibility for the planning and execution to Gabriel and his able deputy, Eli Lavon. It was not a difficult concession for Shamron to make. Gabriel and Lavon shared Shamron’s methodology along with his basic instincts and deepest fears. To hear them speak was to hear the voice of the Memuneh. And to watch them meticulously plan the demise of a monster like Malik was to see Shamron in the prime of his life.

For many reasons, the operation would be among the most difficult Gabriel and his team had ever carried out. The hostile nature of the environment was only one obstacle. They did not know for certain the target would be there, or, if he did appear, whether they would be presented with an opportunity to kill him that did not risk exposure. Like Adrian Carter, Gabriel did not approve of games of chance. Therefore, on the first day of the planning, he drew a line in the sand that was not to be crossed. They were to leave the suicide missions to their enemies. If their prey could not be taken down without risk to the hunting party, they were to tag him and wait for another opportunity. And under no circumstances would they take a shot at anyone unless they were certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the man they were aiming at was Malik al-Zubair.

They worked around the clock to eliminate as many other variables as possible. Housekeeping, the Office division responsible for safe accommodations, secured three apartments in Dubai, while Transport prepositioned a half-dozen cars and motorcycles at various points around the city-state. King Saul Boulevard also managed to create a reasonable bolt-hole. Its name was the Neptune, a Liberian-registered cargo vessel that in reality was a floating radar and eavesdropping station operated by AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. On board was a team of Sayeret Matkal commandos capable of rapid seaborne deployment. Securing the vessel for the operation had cost Navot dearly, and he made it clear that it was to be used only as a last resort. Nor were the Americans or the British ever to know of its existence, since the Neptune spent much of its time soaking up Anglo-American signals traffic flying through the airwaves of the Persian Gulf.

But the team’s primary source of anxiety during those days of hasty preparation revolved around the safety of their asset, Nadia al-Bakari. Once again, Gabriel laid down unmovable markers. The time Nadia spent on the ground in Dubai would be brief and highly choreographed. She would be surrounded at all times by two rings of security—one ring consisting of her own bodyguards and a second provided by the Office. After the meeting at the Burj Al Arab, she would return immediately to the airport and board her plane. At that point, the clandestine Office security ring would melt away, and Nadia would once again be entrusted to the sole care of her own detail.

Their preparation time with her was limited, as they had known it would be. After agreeing to cancel her trip to Morocco, she returned to London on Saturday to attend an intimate dinner party at the Fowlers’ Mayfair town house at which no food was actually consumed. On Sunday, she was in Milan for an important fashion show, but she managed to find her way back to Cannon Street on Monday for a final briefing. At the conclusion, they gave her a Prada handbag, a Chanel suit, and a Harry Winston wristwatch. The handbag contained a well-hidden transmitter capable of broadcasting securely to a range of five kilometers. A backup transmitter was sewn into the lining of the Chanel suit, along with two miniature GPS tracking beacons. A third tracking beacon was hidden inside the Harry Winston watch. It was the same watch that Nadia’s father had given to Sarah five years earlier as an inducement to come to work for him. A jeweler employed by Identity had buffed out the original inscription and replaced it with To the future, Thomas. Nadia’s eyes glistened as she read it. Leaving, she embraced Gabriel in a way that made Shamron visibly uncomfortable.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me about our girl?” he asked Gabriel as they stood in the window watching Nadia climb into her car.

“She’s one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met. And if any harm comes to her, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Now tell me something I don’t know,” Shamron said.

“She knows who killed her father. And she forgives him.”

The team assumed that their enemies were watching and their friends were listening, and so they conducted themselves accordingly. For the most part, they remained barricaded inside the Cannon Street offices of Rogers & Cressey, with all outside errands handled by British personnel who had no direct connection to the operation. Shamron spent most of his time in an Office flat on Bayswater Road that was known to MI5. Gabriel dropped by once a day to walk with him on the footpaths of Kensington Gardens. On their last day in London, the British followed them. So did the Americans.

“I’ve always preferred to do my killing alone,” Shamron said, looking glumly at the watchers trailing them along the edge of the Long Water. “I’m surprised your friend the president didn’t insist on going to the U.N. for a resolution.”

“I managed to talk him out of it.”

“What did you talk about with him?”

“Adrian Carter,” said Gabriel. “I told the president that we would take care of Malik only if the Justice Department dropped its investigation into Adrian’s handling of the war on terror.”

“He agreed?”

“It was somewhat veiled,” said Gabriel, “but unmistakable. He also agreed to my second demand.”

“Which was?”

“That he fire James McKenna before he gets us all killed.”

“We always assumed the president and McKenna were inseparable.”

“In Washington, no two people are ever inseparable.”

Shamron was beginning to tire. They walked to the Italian Gardens and sat on a bench overlooking a fountain. Shamron did a poor job of concealing his irritation. Waterworks, like all other forms of human amusement, bored him.

“You should know that your efforts have already earned us valuable political capital with the Americans,” he said. “Last night, the secretary of state quietly agreed to all our conditions for resuming the peace process with the Palestinians. She also hinted that the president might be willing to pay a visit to Jerusalem in the near future. We assume it will take place before the next election.”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“I never have,” Shamron said, “but I’m not sure I envy him. The great Arab Awakening has occurred on his watch, and his actions will help to determine whether the Middle East tips toward people like Nadia al-Bakari or the jihadists like Rashid al-Husseini.” Shamron paused. “I’ll admit even I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I only know that killing a man like Malik will make it easier for the forces of progress and decency to prevail.”

“Are you saying the entire future of the Middle East depends on the outcome of my operation?”

“That would be hyperbolic on my part,” Shamron said. “And I’ve always tried to avoid hyperbole at all costs.”

“Except when it suits your purposes.”

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 spaces 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 party. 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.

The impact on Dubai’s reeling economy promised to be immense. According to AAB’s own projections, the development would pump more than a hundred million dollars into Dubai’s economy on an annual basis. In the short term, it would send an unambiguous signal to the rest of the global financial community that the emirate was once again open for business. Which was why the minister appeared to be hanging on Nadia’s every word as she toured the site, blueprints in hand, a construction hard hat on her head. The image was carefully crafted on her part. No longer could the Muslim world oppress more than half its population simply because of gender. Only when the Arabs treated women as equals could they regain their former glory.

After leaving the site, the delegations headed to the minister’s ornate offices to discuss a package of incentives that Dubai was proposing to help close the deal. At the conclusion of the meeting, Nadia was driven to the palace for a private word with the Ruler, after which she embarked on what was described as the private portion of her schedule. It included tea with members of the Dubai Women’s Business Forum, a visit to an Islamic school for girls, and a tour of the migrant workers camp at Sonapur. Moved to tears by the terrible conditions, she broke her long public silence, calling on government and business to impose minimum standards for pay and treatment of migrant workers. She also pledged twenty million dollars of her own money to help construct a new camp at Sonapur, complete with air-conditioned bunkhouses, running water, and basic recreational facilities. Neither Dubai TV nor the Khaleej Times dared to publicize the remarks. The minister had warned them not to.

It was approaching six in the evening when Nadia left the camp and started back to Dubai city. Darkness had fallen by the time her motorcade reached the Jumeirah Beach district, and the famous dhow-shaped wings of the Burj Al Arab were lit the color of magenta. The general manager and his senior staff were waiting outside the entrance as Nadia emerged from the back of her car, the hem of her abaya soiled by the grime of Sonapur. Weary from a day of travel and meetings that had begun at dawn in Paris, she gave them a perfunctory greeting before heading directly to her usual suite on the forty-second floor. Two members of her security detail were already stationed outside the door. Rafiq al-Kamal gave the rooms a cursory inspection before allowing Nadia to enter.

“My last meeting of the day will run from nine until ten or so,” she said, tossing the Prada handbag onto a divan in the sitting room. “Tell Mansur to book an eleven o’clock departure slot. And please ask Rahimah to be on time for once in her life. Otherwise, she can fly back to Paris on Air France.”

“Perhaps I should tell her to be at the airport no later than eleven-thirty.”

“It’s tempting,” Nadia said, smiling, “but I don’t think her father would appreciate that.”

Al-Kamal seemed reluctant to leave.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He hesitated. “At the camp today . . .”

“What is it, Rafiq?”

“No one ever lifts a finger for those poor wretches. It’s about time someone spoke up. I’m glad it was you.” He paused, then added, “And I was proud to be at your side.”

She smiled. “Nine o’clock,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

“Zizi’s rules,” he said.

She nodded. “Zizi’s rules.”

Alone, Nadia stripped off the abaya and headscarf and changed into the Chanel suit. She covered a portion of her hair with a matching scarf and slipped on the Harry Winston wristwatch. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Adhere to the truth when possible. Lie as a last resort. The truth was staring back at her in the glass. The lie was in the next room. She opened the communicating door to the adjoining suite and knocked twice. The door swung back instantly, revealing a woman who may or may not have been Sarah Bancroft. She placed a finger to her lips and drew Nadia silently inside.

Chapter 56 Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

THE SUITE WAS REGISTERED UNDER the name Thomas Fowler. Thus the jungle of complimentary flowers, the platters of complimentary Arabian sweets, and the unopened bottle of complimentary Dom Pérignon sweating in a bucket of melted ice. The recipient of this largess was pacing the garish sitting room, working over the final details of a land and development deal he had no intention of actually making. Every few seconds, a member of his staff would pose a question or rattle off a few encouraging numbers—all for the benefit of the Ruler’s hidden microphones. None of the staff bothered to acknowledge Nadia’s presence, nor did they seem to think it odd when Sarah immediately led her into the bathroom. In the vanity area was a tentlike structure made of an opaque silver material. Sarah relieved Nadia of her BlackBerry before opening the flap. Gabriel was already seated inside. He gestured for Nadia to sit in the empty chair.

“A tent in the bathroom,” said Nadia, smiling. “How Bedouin of you.”

“You’re not the only people who come from the desert.”

She looked around the interior, clearly intrigued. “What is it?”

“We call it the chuppah. It allows us to speak freely in rooms we know are bugged.”

“May I have it when we’re done?”

He smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

She touched the fabric. It had a metallic quality.

“Isn’t the chuppah used in Jewish wedding ceremonies?”

“We take our vows beneath the chuppah. They’re very important to us.”

“So is this our wedding ceremony?” she asked, still stroking the fabric.

“I’m already spoken for. Besides, I gave you a solemn vow in a manor house outside Paris.”

She placed her hand in her lap. “Your script for today was a work of art,” she said. “I only hope I did it justice.”

“You were magnificent, Nadia, but that was a rather expensive ad lib at Sonapur.”

“Twenty million dollars for a new camp? It was the least I could do for them.”

“Shall I ask the CIA to pick up the tab?”

“My treat,” she said.

Gabriel examined Nadia’s Chanel suit. “It fits you well.”

“Better than the ones I have custom made.”

“We’re tailors by trade, highly specialized tailors. That suit can do everything except walk into a meeting with a monster who has a great deal of blood on his hands. For that, we need you.” He paused, then said, “Last chance, Nadia.”

“To back out?”

“We wouldn’t think of it like that. And none of us would think any less of you.”

“I don’t break commitments, Mr. Allon—not anymore. Besides, we both know that there isn’t time for second thoughts now.” She looked at the Harry Winston watch. “In fact, I’m expecting a call from my banker any minute. So if you have any final words of advice . . .”

“Just remember who you are, Nadia. You’re the daughter of Zizi al-Bakari, a descendant of Wahhab. No one tells you where to go, or what to do. And no one ever changes the plan. If they try to change the plan, you tell them the meeting is off. Then you call Mansur and tell him to move up the departure slot. Are we clear?”

She nodded.

“We assume the meeting will take place in a suite rather than in a public part of the hotel. It is critical that you make Samir say the room number before you leave the lobby. Insist on it. And if he tries to mumble it, repeat it loudly enough for us to hear. Understood?”

She nodded again.

“We’ll try to send someone up in the elevator with you, but he’ll have to get off on a separate floor. After that, you’ll be beyond our reach, and Rafiq will be your only protection. Under no circumstances are you to enter the room without him. This is another red line. If they try to talk you into it, leave immediately. If everything goes smoothly, go inside and start the meeting. This isn’t a social gathering or a political discussion. This is a business transaction. You listen to what he has to say, you tell him what he wants to hear, and then you leave for the airport. Your plane is your lifeboat. And your eleven o’clock departure slot is your excuse to keep things moving. At ten o’clock you’re—”

“Out the door,” she said.

Gabriel nodded. “Remember your BlackBerry etiquette. Offer to switch yours off as a show of your good intentions. Ask them to power off their devices and remove SIM cards. If they refuse or say it isn’t necessary, don’t draw any lines in the sand. It’s not important.”

“Where are the bugs?”

“What bugs?”

“Let’s not play games, Mr. Allon.”

He tapped the side of the Prada bag and nodded toward the front of the Chanel suit. “It’s possible they’ll ask you to leave the bag in another room. If they do, agree without hesitation. There’s no way they’ll ever find what’s hidden in there.”

“And if they ask me to remove my clothing?”

“They’re holy warriors. They wouldn’t dare.”

“You’d be surprised.” Nadia looked down at her bustline.

“Don’t bother looking for the microphones. You’ll never find them. We could have concealed a camera in the suit as well, but for your safety, we chose not to.”

“So you won’t be able to see what’s going on in the room?”

“Once you switch off the BlackBerry, we’ll be blind. That means you’ll be the only one to know what he looks like. If it’s safe—and only if it’s safe—call me after the meeting and tell me something about his appearance. Just a few details. Then hang up and head to the airport. We’ll follow you for as long as we can.”

“And after that?”

“You go home to Paris and forget we ever existed.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

“It won’t be as difficult as you think.” He took hold of her hand. “It’s been an honor to work with you, Nadia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see each other again after tonight.”

“I will not wish such a thing.” She looked at her watch, the watch her father had given to Sarah, and noticed it was three minutes past nine. “He’s late,” she said. “The Arab disease.”

“We set it fast intentionally to keep you moving.”

“What time is it really?” she asked, but before Gabriel could answer, the BlackBerry started to ring. It was nine o’clock sharp. It was time for Nadia to go.

Chapter 57 Langley, Virginia

IT WAS A CURIOSITY OF Ari Shamron’s long and storied career that he had spent almost no time at Langley, a feat he considered one of his greatest accomplishments. Therefore, he was predictably appalled to learn that Uzi Navot had agreed to establish his command post at Langley’s glittering Rashidistan op center. For Shamron, it was an admission of weakness to accept the American invitation, a cardinal sin in the world of espionage, but Navot saw it in more pragmatic terms. The Americans were not the enemy—at least not tonight—and they had technological capabilities that were far too valuable to refuse merely out of professional pride.

In a minor concession to Shamron, Rashidistan was cleared of the nonessential and uninitiated, leaving only a skeleton crew of the battle-hardened and unrepentant. At 9 p.m. Dubai time, most were hovering anxiously around the pod in the center of the room, where Shamron, Navot, and Adrian Carter sat staring at the latest secure transmission from the Burj Al Arab team. It stated that Nadia al-Bakari was heading to the lobby, with her trusted chief of security Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. The three spymasters knew the message had already been eclipsed by events on the ground, because they were listening to Nadia and al-Kamal striding across the Burj’s soaring 590-foot atrium. The source of the audio was her compromised BlackBerry, which was tucked inside her compromised Prada handbag.

At 9:04 local time, the device captured a brief conversation between Nadia and her banker, Samir Abbas. Because it was conducted in rapid colloquial Arabic, Carter did not understand it. That was not true, however, for Navot and Shamron.

“Well?” asked Carter.

“She’s going upstairs to meet with someone,” Navot said. “Whether it’s Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody remains to be seen.”

“Were you able to understand the room number?”

Navot nodded his head.

“Shall we send it to Gabriel?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“He heard it?”

“Clear as a bell.”

The elevator doors slid open without a sound. Nadia allowed Abbas and al-Kamal to step into the corridor first, before following closely after them. Curiously, she felt nothing like fear, only resolution. It was oddly similar to the sense of determination she had carried into her first important business meeting after solidifying her control of AAB Holdings. There had been many members of her father’s team quietly hoping for her to fail—and a few who’d actually conspired against her—but Nadia had managed to surprise them all. When it came to matters of business, she had proven to be her father’s equal. Now she would have to be his equal in a part of his life never written about in the pages of Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. Just a few minutes, she reminded herself. That’s all it would take. A few minutes in one of the safest hotels in the world, and a monster with the blood of thousands on his hands would receive the justice he deserved.

Abbas stopped at Room 1437 and knocked with the same softness with which Esmeralda tapped on Nadia’s door each morning in Paris. Quite unexpectedly, she thought of the Thomas Tompion clock on her bedside table and of the many unsmiling photographs of her father framed in silver. As she waited for the door to open, she resolved to finally send the clock out for repair. She also vowed to dispose of the photographs. After tonight, she thought, the pretense would come to an end. Her time on earth was limited, and she had no wish to spend her final days beneath the juhayman of a murderer.

When Abbas knocked a second time, the door retreated halfway, revealing a broad-shouldered man dressed in the white kandoura and ghutra of a native Emirati. He wore tinted eyeglasses rimmed in gold and a neatly trimmed beard with patches of gray around the chin. In the center of his flat forehead was a pronounced zebiba prayer scar that looked as though it had been recently irritated. He looked nothing at all like any of the photo illustrations Nadia had been shown in London.

The robed figure opened the door a few inches wider and with a movement of his eyes invited Nadia to enter. He permitted Rafiq al-Kamal to follow, but instructed Abbas to return to the lobby. The robed figure had the accent of a man from Upper Egypt. Behind him stood two more men in pristine white robes and headdresses. They, too, were wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses and trimmed beards flecked with gray. When the door closed, the Egyptian raised his hand to his ear and said softly, “Your mobile phone, please.”

Nadia drew the BlackBerry from her handbag and surrendered it. The Egyptian immediately handed the device to one of his clones, who disabled it with a swiftness that suggested a facility with technology.

“Now yours,” said Nadia in a clear voice. She nodded toward the other two men and added, “Theirs, too.”

The broad-shouldered Egyptian was clearly unaccustomed to being addressed by women in anything but a subservient manner. He looked toward his two colleagues and with a nod instructed them to disable their mobile devices. They did so without protest.

“Are we finished?” asked Nadia.

“Your bodyguard’s phone,” he said. “And your bag.”

“What about my bag?”

“We would feel more comfortable if you left it here by the door. I assure you that your valuables will be safe.”

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 BEFORE 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.

“It occurs to me that we haven’t heard from our friend Samir Abbas in some time,” he said, eyes still on the wall monitor. “Would it be possible to call his mobile phone from a number he would recognize?”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Carter.

“Make it his wife,” Shamron said. “Samir always struck me as the family type.”

“You just referred to him in the past tense.”

“Did I?” Shamron asked absently.

Carter looked at one of the techs and said, “Make it happen.”

The residents of Dubai are not only among the richest people in the world, but they are also statistically some of its worst drivers. A collision—be it with another car, pedestrian, or object—occurs every two minutes in the emirate, resulting in three fatalities a day on average. The typical driver thinks nothing of slashing across multiple lanes of heavy traffic or tailgating at a hundred miles per hour while talking on his cell phone. As a result, few people took notice of the high-speed chase that occurred shortly after ten p.m. on the road to Jebel Ali. It was just another night at the races.

The road had four lanes in each direction with a grassy median down the center and traffic signals that most locals dismissed as unwanted advice. Gabriel clung to the armrest as Chiara ably maneuvered the big Land Cruiser through the herd of other vehicles just like it. Because it was a Thursday evening, the beginning of the weekend in the Islamic world, the traffic was heavier than on a typical night. Enormous sport-utility vehicles were the norm rather than the exception. Most were driven by bearded men wearing white kandouras and ghutras.

The five cars of Malik’s motorcade were engaged in something like a rolling shell game. They weaved, they swerved, they flashed their high beams for slower traffic to give way—all perfectly appropriate conduct on the anarchic roads of Dubai. Chiara and the three other drivers of the chase team did their best to maintain contact. It was a perilous business. Despite the lawlessness of the roads, the Emirati police didn’t look kindly upon foreigners who got into accidents. Malik knew this, of course. Gabriel wondered what else Malik knew. He was beginning to worry that the elaborate security measures were more than simply precautions, that Malik, as usual, was one step ahead of his enemies.

They were approaching the port of Jebel Ali. They shot past the glittering Ibn Battuta theme park and shopping mall, then a desalinization plant: Dubai in a snapshot. Gabriel scarcely noticed the landmarks. He was watching the carefully choreographed maneuver occurring on the road directly ahead. Four of the SUVs were now side by side across the four lanes of traffic. They had reduced their speed and were engaged in a blocking tactic. The fifth, the Denali in which Malik was riding, was accelerating rapidly.

“He’s getting away, Chiara. You have to get past them.”

“Where?”

“Find a way.”

Chiara swerved hard to the left. Then to the right. Each time an SUV blocked the way.

“Force your way between them.”

“Gabriel!”

“Do it!”

She tried. There was no way through.

They were nearing the end of the Jebel Ali Free Zone. Beyond it lay the expanse of desert separating Dubai from the emirate of Abu Dhabi. Gabriel could no longer see Malik’s Denali; it was but a distant star in a galaxy of other taillights. Directly ahead, a stoplight switched from green to amber. The four SUVs slowed instantly, surely a first in Dubai, and came to a stop. As car horns began to sound, one of the Malik replicas stepped out and stared at Gabriel for a long moment before dragging his thumb knifelike across his own throat. Gabriel took a quick radio roll call of the team and determined all were safe and accounted for. Then he dialed Nadia’s BlackBerry. There was no answer.

Chapter 61 Dubai

THE BOEING BUSINESS JET OWNED and operated by AAB Holdings departed Dubai International Airport at 10:40 that evening. All available evidence suggested that Nadia al-Bakari, the company’s chairwoman, was not on board at the time.

Her BlackBerry had gone off the air at 10:14 p.m., as her car was crossing Dubai Creek, and was no longer emitting a signal of any kind. In the moments preceding the break, she had been chatting amiably with Rafiq al-Kamal. The last audio captured by the device was a muffled thumping that could have been anything from a death struggle to the sound of Nadia tapping her forefinger on the screen, something she often did while riding in cars. The transmitters hidden in her handbag and clothing were, at the moment of the disruption, far beyond the range of the listening posts inside the Burj Al Arab and therefore provided no clues as to what had transpired.

Only the GPS beacons remained functional. Eventually, they ceased moving at an empty lot along the Dubai-Hatta Road, not far from the polo club. Gabriel found the Chanel suit at 10:53 p.m. and the watch a few minutes later. He carried the items over to the Land Cruiser and examined them in the light of the dash. The fabric of the suit was torn in several places and there were bloodstains on the collar. The crystal of the watch was smashed, though the inscription on the back remained clearly legible. To the future, Thomas.

He told Chiara to start back to the hotel, then sent a message to Langley on his BlackBerry. The reply came two minutes later. Gabriel swore softly as he read it.

“What does it say?”

“They want us to leave for the airport immediately.”

“What about Nadia?”

“There is no Nadia,” Gabriel said, slipping the BlackBerry into his coat pocket. “Not as far as Langley and Shamron are concerned. Not anymore.”

“So we leave her behind?” asked Chiara angrily, her eyes on the road. “Is that what they want us to do? Use her money and her name and then throw her to the wolves? Do you know what they’re going to do to her?”

“They’re going to kill her,” Gabriel said. “And she won’t be given the courtesy of a decent death. That’s not the way they conduct their business.”

“Maybe she’s already dead,” Chiara said. “Maybe that’s what Malik’s friend was trying to tell you.”

“She might be,” Gabriel conceded, “but I doubt it. They wouldn’t have bothered to remove her clothing and her jewelry if they intended to kill her quickly. It suggests they wanted to have a word with her in private, which is understandable. After all, they lost their network because of her.”

Gabriel’s BlackBerry chimed a second time. It was Langley again, asking for confirmation he had received the message to abort. Gabriel ignored it and stared sullenly out the window at the lights of the financial district.

“Is there anything we can do for her?” asked Chiara.

“I suppose that depends entirely on Malik.”

“Malik is a monster. And you can be sure he knows you’re here in Dubai.”

“Even monsters can be reasoned with.”

“Not jihadists. They’re beyond reason.” She drove in silence for a moment with one hand on the wheel and the other clutching the fabric of Nadia’s bloodstained suit. “I know you made her a promise,” she said finally, “but you made a promise to me, too.”

“Should I let her die, Chiara?”

“God, no!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Why do I have to make this decision?”

“Because you’re the only one who can.”

Chiara was wrenching at the fabric of Nadia’s suit, tears streaming down her cheeks. Gabriel asked whether she wanted him to drive. She seemed not to hear him.

Gabriel’s message flashed across the screens of Rashidistan thirty seconds later. Shamron stared at it in consternation. Then he lit a cigarette in violation of Langley’s draconian no-smoking policy and said, “Now might be a good time to put some birds in the air and boots on the ground.” Carter and Navot responded by reaching simultaneously for their phones. Within a few minutes, the birds were taking off from a secret CIA installation in Bahrain, and the boots were headed silently across the black waters of the Gulf toward the beach at Jebel Ali.

By the time Gabriel and Chiara returned to the hotel, the rest of the team was already engaged in a hasty but methodical evacuation. It had commenced upon receipt of Shamron’s order and was being conducted under the auspices of one Thomas Fowler, newly minted partner in the venture capital firm of Rogers & Cressey. The hotel’s management had been led to believe the sudden checkout was the result of a health emergency suffered by one of Mr. Fowler’s employees. The fixed-base operator at Dubai International Airport had been told the same story. It was preparing Mr. Fowler’s private aircraft for a two a.m. departure. The crew had been told to anticipate no delays.

Despite the urgency of the situation, the team managed to maintain strict operational discipline inside the hotel. In rooms they assumed to be bugged, they referred to one another by false names and spoke mainly of business and finance. Only their stricken expressions betrayed the anguish they were all feeling, and only when they were beneath the protective shroud of the chuppah did they dare to speak the truth. Shielded from the Ruler’s listening devices, Gabriel conducted a tense call with Shamron and Navot at Rashidistan. He also spoke face-to-face with the members of his team. Most of the encounters were businesslike; a few were confrontational. Chiara came to him last. Alone, she reminded him of the afternoon they had made love in the safe house by Lake Zurich, when her body had burned as if from fever. Then she kissed his lips one final time before collecting her luggage and heading to the lobby.

Shamron had always believed careers were defined less by the successes achieved than the calamities survived. “Any fool can take a victory lap,” he once famously remarked during a lecture at the Academy, “but only a truly great officer can maintain his composure and his cover when his heart is breaking.” If that were indeed the case, Shamron would have witnessed the very definition of greatness that night as Gabriel’s fabled team filed out of the Burj Al Arab and set off for the airport. Only Chiara appeared distraught, in part because her heart truly was breaking, but also because she had volunteered to play the role of the seriously ill employee. Management wished her well as they helped her into the back of a hotel limousine. Mr. Fowler tipped the valets lavishly before climbing in after her.

They followed the same route Nadia had taken earlier that evening but arrived at the airport without incident. After a cursory check of their passports, they chose to board the aircraft immediately rather than wait in the luxuriously appointed VIP lounge. A cancellation allowed them to depart earlier than expected, and by one thirty, they were rising over the blackness of the Empty Quarter.

Two members of the team were not on board. Mikhail was headed toward an isolated beach west of Jebel Ali; Gabriel, to the old quarter of Dubai known as Deira. After leaving his Toyota Land Cruiser along the Corniche, he walked to the shabby little apartment house near the Gold Souk and climbed the staircase that stank of chickpeas and cumin. Alone in the apartment, he sat at the peeling kitchen table, staring at the screen of his BlackBerry. To help pass the time, he replayed the operation in his mind. Somewhere along the line, there had been a leak or an act of betrayal. He was going to find the person responsible. And then he was going to kill him.

It was another twenty minutes before Mikhail heard the crackle of a voice in his earpiece. It spoke a word or two, no more. Even so, he recognized it. He had heard it many times before—in the hellholes of Gaza, in the hills of southern Lebanon, in the alleyways of Jericho and Nablus and Hebron. He flashed his headlights twice, briefly illuminating the chalky white beach, and drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel as a blacked-out Zodiac bobbed ashore. Four men slipped out, each carrying nylon gear bags. They looked like Arabs. They moved like Arabs. They even wore cologne that made them smell like Arabs. But they were not Arabs. They were members of the elite Sayeret Matkal. And one of them, Yoav Savir, was Mikhail’s former commanding officer.

“Long time no see,” Yoav said as he climbed into the front passenger seat. “What happened?”

“We lost someone very important.”

“What’s his name?”

“Her,” said Mikhail. “Her name is Nadia.”

“Who’s got her?”

“Malik.”

“Which Malik?”

“The only Malik that matters.”

“Shit.”

The lights of the giant Shaybah oil-drilling facility glowed like neon green embers on the wall monitors of Rashidistan. The image was being transmitted live by an unmanned Predator drone, now under the control of a crew at Langley. At Carter’s direction, the aircraft banked eastward, over the string of oases along the Saudi-Emirates border, then followed the main highway back toward Dubai city, its night-vision and thermal-imaging cameras searching the desert floor for any sign of life where ordinarily there was none. As the Predator approached the port of Jebel Ali, its cameras settled briefly on a small Zodiac heading back out to sea, a single figure aglow in the stern. No one in Rashidistan paid much attention to the image because they were monitoring a conversation on Gabriel’s BlackBerry. The computers recognized the number of the caller. They also recognized his voice. It was Malik al-Zubair. The only Malik that mattered.

Chapter 62 Deira, Dubai

“I’M SURPRISED YOU ANSWERED. PERHAPS it’s true what they say about you.”

“What’s that, Malik?”

“That you are courageous. That you are a man of your word. Personally, I remain skeptical. I’ve never met a Jew who was not a coward and a liar.”

“I never realized Zarqa had such a large Jewish community.”

“Thankfully, there are no Jews in Zarqa, only victims of the Jews.”

“Where is she, Malik?”

“Who?”

“Nadia,” said Gabriel. “What have you done with her?”

“Why would you assume we have her?”

“Because there’s only one place where you could have gotten this telephone number.”

“Clever Jew.”

“Let her go.”

“You’re not in a position to make demands at the moment.”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Gabriel said calmly. “I’m asking you to let her go.”

“As a humanitarian gesture?”

“Call it whatever you like. Just do the decent thing.”

“You murdered her father in front of her and you’re asking me to do the decent thing?”

“What do you want, Malik?”

“We demand that you release all the brothers who were arrested by the Americans and their allies after your little deception. In addition, we demand that you free the brothers being held illegally at Guantánamo Bay.”

“No Palestinian prisoners? You disappoint me.”

“I wouldn’t want to interfere with the ongoing negotiations between you and the brothers of Hamas.”

“Ask for something reasonable, Malik—something I can actually give you.”

“We never negotiate with terrorists. Release our brothers, and we will release your spy with no further harm.”

“What have you done to her?”

“I can assure you it was nothing compared to the pain suffered by our brothers each and every day in the torture chambers of Cairo and Amman and Riyadh.”

“Haven’t you been reading the papers, Malik? The Arab world is changing. Pharaoh is gone. The House of Saud is cracking. The little Hashemite king of Jordan is frightened for his life. The decent people of the Arab world have achieved in a matter of months what al-Qaeda and its ilk couldn’t accomplish with years of senseless slaughter. Your time has passed, Malik. The Arab world doesn’t want you. Let her go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Allon.” He paused for a moment, as if pondering a way out of the impasse he had created. “But there is one other possibility.”

Gabriel listened to Malik’s instructions. So did Shamron, Navot, and Adrian Carter.

“What happens if we don’t accept?” Gabriel asked.

“Then she will suffer the traditional punishment for apostasy. But don’t worry. You’ll be able to watch her death on the Internet. The Yemeni plans to use it as a recruiting device to replace all the operatives we lost because of her.”

“I need proof she’s still alive.”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me,” Malik said. And then the line went dead.

Gabriel’s BlackBerry rang a few seconds later. It was Adrian Carter.

“He’s definitely still in the Emirates.”

“Where?”

“NSA hasn’t been able to triangulate it yet, but they think he might be out in the western desert, near the Liwa oasis. We have a bird over the area now and two more headed that way.”

Gabriel removed a small device from an internal pouch of his overnight bag. It was about the size of an average antibiotic tablet. On one side was a miniature metallic switch. He flipped it, then asked, “Can you see the signal?”

“Got it,” said Carter.

Gabriel swallowed the device. “Can you still see it?”

“Got it.”

“The Fish Souk, ten minutes.”

“Got it.”

Gabriel was still wearing the business attire of his cover identity. He briefly considered changing into something more appropriate for a night in the desert, but realized that wouldn’t be necessary. His captors would surely do that for him. He placed his wristwatch in his bag along with his BlackBerry, wallet, passport, weapon, and a few meaningless scraps of pocket litter. He was no longer in possession of syringes or suxamethonium chloride, only Advil and anti-diarrhea medicine. He took enough Advil to temporarily dull the pain of any injuries he might suffer in the next few hours and enough of the anti-diarrhea medicine to turn his bowels to concrete for a month. Then he locked the bag in the closet and headed downstairs to the street.

Six minutes remained for Gabriel to make the short walk to the Fish Souk. It was located near the mouth of Dubai Creek along the Corniche. Despite the late hour, there were groups of young men taking the night air along the waterfront—Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Filipinos, and four Arabs who were not Arabs at all. Gabriel stood next to a streetlamp to make himself clearly visible, and within a few seconds, a Denali SUV stopped directly in front of him. Behind the wheel was one of the Malik clones. Another was seated in the back. So was Rafiq al-Kamal, Nadia al-Bakari’s former chief of security.

It was al-Kamal who gestured for Gabriel to climb in and al-Kamal, thirty seconds later, who delivered the first blow—an elbow to Gabriel’s chest that nearly stopped his heart. Then they forced him to the floor and pummeled him until there was no strength left in their arms. The harvest was over, thought Gabriel, as he slipped into unconsciousness. Now it was time for the feast.

Chapter 63 The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

THE MAPS REFER TO IT ominously as the Rub’ al-Khali—literally, the Quarter of Emptiness. The Bedouin, however, know it by another name. They call it the Sands. Covering an area the size of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, it stretches from Oman and the Emirates, across Saudi Arabia, and into portions of Yemen. Dunes the size of mountains roam the desert floor in the relentless wind. Some stand alone. Others link themselves into chains that meander for hundreds of miles. In summer the temperature routinely exceeds one hundred forty degrees, cooling to a hundred degrees at night. There is almost no rain, little in the way of plant or animal life, and few people other than the Bedouin and the bandits and the terrorists from al-Qaeda who move freely across the borders. Time matters little in the Sands. Even now, it is measured in the length of the walk to the next well.

Like most Saudis, Nadia al-Bakari had never set foot in the Empty Quarter. That changed three hours after her abduction, though Nadia was unaware of it. Having been injected with the general anesthetic ketamine, she believed herself to be wandering lost through the gilded rooms of her youth. Her father appeared to her briefly; he wore the traditional robes of a Bedouin and the angry face known as the juhayman. His body had been pierced by bullets. He made her touch his wounds, then chided her for conspiring with the very men who had inflicted them. She would have to be punished, he said, just as Rena had been punished for bringing dishonor upon her family. It was the will of God. There was nothing to be done.

It was at the instant her father condemned her to death that Nadia felt herself beginning to float upward through the layers of consciousness. It was a slow rise, like a diver ascending from a great depth. When she finally reached the surface, she forced her eyes open and drew an enormous breath. Then she took stock of her surroundings. She was lying on her side on a rug that smelled of male body odor and camel. Bound at the wrists, she was cloaked in a thin garment of sheer white cotton. It was aglow with moonlight, as was the Salafi-style thobe of the man watching over her. He wore a taqiyah skullcap with no headdress and carried an automatic weapon with a banana-shaped magazine. Even so, his eyes were unusually gentle for an Arab man. Then Nadia realized she had seen them before. They were the eyes of Ali, the talib of Sheikh Marwan Bin Tayyib.

“Where am I?” she asked.

He answered truthfully. It was not a good sign.

“How’s Safia?”

“She’s well,” the talib said, smiling in spite of the situation.

“How long now until the baby comes?”

“Three months,” he said.

“Inshallah, it will be a boy.”

“Actually, the doctors say we will have a girl.”

“You don’t sound displeased.”

“I’m not.”

“Have you chosen a name?”

“We’re going to call her Hanan.”

In Arabic, it meant “mercy.” Perhaps there was hope after all.

The talib began to recite verses of the Koran softly to himself. Nadia rolled onto her back and gazed up at the stars. They seemed close enough to touch. There was only the sound of the Koran and a distant hum of some sort. For a moment, she assumed it was another hallucination caused by the drugs—or perhaps, she thought, by the abnormality in her brain. Then she closed her eyes, silencing the voice of the talib, and listened intently. It was no hallucination, she concluded. It was an aircraft of some sort. And it was getting closer.

A single narrow road links the Emirati oasis town of Liwa with the Shaybah oil facility on the other side of the border in Saudi Arabia. Nadia had passed through the checkpoint as the sleeping, veiled wife of one of her captors. Gabriel was made to suffer the same indignity, though, unlike Nadia, he was fully aware of what was happening.

Beneath his veil, he wore the blue coveralls of a Dubai laborer. They had been given to him in a produce warehouse in al-Khaznah, a desert town in the Emirate of Abu Dhabi, after he had been stripped of his own clothing and searched for beacons and listening devices. He had also been given a second beating, with Rafiq al-Kamal doing most of the heavy lifting. Gabriel supposed the Saudi had a right to be cross with him. After all, Gabriel had killed his old boss and then recruited the boss’s daughter as an agent. Al-Kamal’s involvement in Nadia’s abduction puzzled Gabriel. At whose behest, he wondered, was the Saudi here? The terrorists? Or the al-Saud?

For now, it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Nadia alive. It would require one last lie. One last deception. He conceived the lie on the road to Shaybah while wearing the blue coveralls of a laborer and the black veil of a woman. Then he told it to himself again and again, until he believed every word of it to be true.

On the giant plasma screens of Langley, Gabriel was but a smudge of winking green light making its way across the Empty Quarter. A cluster of five more lights blinked near the oasis town of Liwa. They represented the positions of Mikhail Abramov and the Sayeret Matkal team.

“There’s no way they’re going to get through that border checkpoint,” said Carter.

“So they’ll go around it,” said Shamron.

“There’s a fence along the entire border.”

“Fences mean nothing to the Sayeret.”

“How are they going to get a Land Cruiser over it?”

“They have two Land Cruisers,” said Shamron, “but I’m afraid neither one is going over that fence.”

“What are you saying?”

“We wait until Gabriel stops moving.”

“And then?”

“They walk.”

“In the Empty Quarter?” Carter asked incredulously.

“That’s what they’re trained to do.”

“What happens if they run into a Saudi military patrol?”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to say Kaddish for the patrol,” said Shamron. “Because if they bump into Mikhail Abramov and Yoav Savir, they will cease to exist.”

There was an all-night gas station and market in Liwa that catered to foreign laborers and truck drivers. The Indian behind the counter looked as though he hadn’t slept in a month. Yoav, the Arab who was not an Arab, bought enough food and water for a small army, along with a few cheap ghutras and some loose-fitting cotton clothing favored by Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. He told the Indian that he and his friends planned to spend a day or two in the dunes communing with God and nature. The night manager told him about a particularly inspiring formation north of Liwa, along the Saudi border. “But be careful,” he said. “The area is full of smugglers and al-Qaeda. Very dangerous.” Yoav thanked the Indian for the warning. Then he paid the bill without haggling and headed outside to the Land Cruisers.

They started northward as the Indian had suggested, but once clear of the town, made an abrupt turn to the south. The dunes were the color of rose and as high as the Judean Hills. They drove for an hour, keeping always to the hard sand flats, before coming to a stop near the Saudi border fence. With dawn fast approaching, they covered the Land Cruisers in camouflage netting and changed into the clothing they had bought in Liwa. Yoav and the other Sayeret men looked like Arabs, but Mikhail looked like a Western explorer who had come in search of the lost city of Arabia. His expedition commenced thirty minutes later, when the green smudge of light that was Gabriel Allon finally stopped moving at a point forty miles due west of the team’s position. They loaded their packs with as much weaponry and water as they could carry. Then they scaled the Saudi border fence and started walking.

Chapter 64 The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

THE TENT HAD BEEN ERECTED in the cleft of an enormous horseshoe-shaped dune. It was made of black goat hair in the tradition of the Bedouin and surrounded by several sun-bleached pickup trucks and jeeps. A few feet from the entrance, four veiled women with henna tattoos on their hands brewed coffee with cardamom seeds around a small fire. None seemed to notice the beaten man in blue coveralls who stumbled from the back of a Denali SUV, shivering in the cold morning air.

The cleft of the dune was still in darkness, but light glowed faintly above its ridgeline and the stars were in full retreat. Prodded by al-Kamal, Gabriel started unsteadily toward the tent. His head throbbed but his thoughts remained clear. They were focused on a lie. He would pay it out slowly, morsel by morsel, like cakes sweetened with honey. He would make himself irresistible to them. He would buy time for Mikhail and the Sayeret team to home in on the signal emanating from the device in his bowels. He pushed the beacon from his thoughts. There was no beacon, he reminded himself. There was only Nadia al-Bakari, a woman of impeccable jihadist credentials whom Gabriel had blackmailed into doing his bidding.

Malik was now standing in the opening of the tent. He had traded his gleaming white kandoura for a gray thobe. His feet were bare, though his head was wrapped in a red-checkered ghutra. He regarded Gabriel menacingly, as though debating where to place the first blow, then stepped to one side. Al-Kamal responded by shoving Gabriel forcefully between the shoulder blades, propelling him headlong into the tent.

The undignified nature of his arrival seemed to bring enormous pleasure to the men gathered inside. Eight in all, they were seated in a semicircle, drinking the cardamom-scented coffee from thimble-sized cups. A few wore the traditional curved jambia daggers of Yemeni men, but one was peering into the screen of a notebook computer. His face was familiar to Gabriel, as was the sound of his voice when finally he spoke. It was the voice of a man to whom Allah had granted a beautiful and seductive tongue. It was the voice of Rashid.

To the thermal-imaging cameras of the Predator drone circling overhead, the gathering in the goat-hair Bedouin tent appeared as eleven amoeba-like orbs of light. Nearby there were several other human heat sources as well. There were four figures seated around a small fire. There was a ring of security posts scattered amid the dunes. And there were two figures about a thousand yards from the tent’s southern flank—one lying supine on the desert floor, the other seated cross-legged. As dawn slowly broke, Shamron asked Carter whether it might be possible to have a look at the two figures through a normal lens. Another five minutes would elapse until there was sufficient light, but when the image appeared on the screens of Langley, it was remarkably clear. It showed a raven-haired woman in white being guarded by a bearded man holding what appeared to be an AK-47. A short distance away, on the other side of a large dune, a cylindrical hole had been dug in the desert floor. Next to the hole was a pile of stones.

When the staff at Rashidistan regained its composure, Carter said, “There’s no way Mikhail and the Sayeret team can get there in time. And even if they do, they’re going to be spotted.”

“Yes, Adrian,” Shamron said, “I realize that.”

“Let me call Prince Nabil at the Interior Ministry.”

“Why would you waste time doing that?”

“Maybe he can do something to prevent them from being killed.”

“Maybe,” said Shamron. “Or maybe this is all Nabil’s doing.”

“You think Nabil sold her out to Rashid and Malik?”

“As far as Nabil is concerned, she’s a heretic and a dissident. What better way to get rid of her than hand her over to the bearded ones to be executed?”

Carter swore softly. Shamron looked at the image from the desert.

“I take it the Predators are fully armed?” he asked.

“Hellfire missiles,” replied Carter.

“Have you ever fired one into Saudi Arabia?”

“Not a chance.”

“I assume you would need clearance from the president before doing so.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Then please call him now, Adrian.”

Chapter 65 The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

RASHID BEGAN WITH A LECTURE. He was part poet, part preacher, part professor of jihad. He warned that Israel would soon go the way of Pharaoh’s regime in Egypt. He predicted sharia was coming to Europe whether Europe wanted it or not. He declared that the American century was finally over, al-hamdu lillah. It was one of the few Arabic expressions he used. The rest was delivered in his impeccable colloquial English. It was like being tutored in the principles of the Salaf by a kid from Best Buy.

He spoke not to Gabriel but to a digital camera mounted atop a tripod. Occasionally, he wagged a long finger for emphasis or pointed it toward his famous captive, who was seated a few feet away, squinting slightly in the glare of two standing lamps. Gabriel could only imagine how the heat blooms must have appeared to the Predator drones overhead. He felt as though he were sitting in the jihadi version of a television studio, with Rashid playing the role of confrontational host. Malik, master of terror, was pacing slowly behind the cameras. That was the nature of their relationship, thought Gabriel. Rashid was the on-camera talent. Malik was the dogged producer who saw to the messy details. Rashid inspired. Malik maimed and murdered, all in the name of Allah.

When Rashid finally concluded his opening monologue, he turned to the main portion of this morning’s program: the interview. He began by asking Gabriel to state his name and place of residence. When Gabriel answered, “Roland Devereaux, Quebec City, Canada,” Rashid showed a flash of anger. There was a petulance to it that Gabriel might have found amusing if he were not surrounded by men with curved jambia daggers. Rashid’s ideas were monstrous, but in person he was oddly unthreatening. That’s what Malik was for.

“Your real name,” Rashid snapped. “Tell me the name you were given at your birth.”

“You know my real name.”

“Why won’t you say it now?” asked Rashid. “Are you ashamed of it?”

“No,” said Gabriel, “I just don’t use it often.”

“Say it now.”

Gabriel did.

“Where were you born?”

“In the Valley of Jezreel, in the State of Israel.”

“And where were your parents born?”

“Germany.”

Rashid clearly saw this as proof of a great historical crime. “Your parents were survivors of the so-called Holocaust?” he asked.

“No, they were survivors of the actual Holocaust.”

“Are you employed by the intelligence service of the State of Israel?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you an assassin?”

“I have killed in the line of duty.”

“You consider yourself a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“You have killed many Palestinians?”

“Yes, many.”

“Are you proud of your work?”

“No,” Gabriel said.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because of people like you.”

“Our cause is just.”

“Your cause is grotesque.”

Rashid seemed suddenly rattled. His exclusive was not going as planned. He guided it back onto firmer ground.

“Where were you on the evening of August 24, 2006?”

“I was in Cannes,” Gabriel said without hesitation.

“In France?”

“Yes, in France.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“I was supervising an operation.”

“What was the nature of this operation?”

“It was a targeted killing.”

“And who was the target?”

“Abdul Aziz al-Bakari.”

“Who ordered his assassination?”

“I don’t know.”

Rashid clearly did not believe him but appeared unwilling to waste valuable airtime on ancient history. “Did you take part in his actual killing?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see Nadia al-Bakari that night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When did you see her next?”

“In December.”

“Where?”

“At a château north of Paris.”

“What transpired next?”

What transpired, said Gabriel, was an elaborate operation to blackmail one of the richest women in the world into doing the bidding of Israeli and American intelligence. Through an informant, the CIA had learned that Rashid’s nascent network was desperately in need of financial assistance. The Agency wanted to provide the money to the network and then track it as it moved through the various cells and business fronts. There was only one problem. The money had to come from someone the terrorists trusted. The CIA asked Israeli intelligence whether it had any ideas. Israeli intelligence did. Her name was Nadia al-Bakari. An emissary of Israeli intelligence visited Miss al-Bakari in Paris under false pretenses and made it clear that AAB Holdings would be destroyed if she didn’t agree to cooperate.

“How was the company to be harmed?” asked Rashid.

“Through a campaign of well-orchestrated leaks to our friends in the media.”

“Jewish friends, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What would have been the nature of these leaks?”

“That AAB Holdings was a jihadist enterprise, the way it had been under her father.”

“Go on.”

Gabriel complied. For the camera, he adopted an expression of reticence. It was a lie, like the other lies that flowed from his swollen lips. He spun them slowly and in great detail. Rashid appeared to hang on every word.

“Your account is interesting,” Rashid said, “but I’m afraid it contradicts what we’ve already been told by Miss al-Bakari. She says she willingly helped you.”

“She was instructed to say that.”

“You threatened her?”

“Constantly.”

“Where did the money come from for the operation?”

“It was Nadia’s.”

“You forced her to use her own money?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why didn’t you use government money?”

“Budgets are tight.”

“You couldn’t find a wealthy Jewish donor to fund the project?”

“It was too sensitive.”

Rashid looked contemptuously at the camera, then at Gabriel. “Miss al-Bakari visited Dubai yesterday,” he said after a moment. “What was the purpose of the visit?”

“I believe she was there to conclude a major land and development deal.”

“The real purpose, Allon.”

“We sent her there to identify a senior operative in your network.”

“He was to be arrested?”

“No,” said Gabriel, “he was to be killed.”

The cleric smiled. His guest had just made an important admission, one Rashid could use to generate headlines around the world.

“It strikes me that this episode is typical of the entire so-called war on terror. You cannot defeat us, Allon. And each time you try, you only make us stronger.”

“You’re not getting stronger,” Gabriel countered. “In fact, you’re dying. The Arab world is changing. Your time has passed.”

Rashid’s smile evaporated. He spoke with the tone of a stern teacher frustrated with a dull pupil. “Surely, Allon, a man such as yourself is not so naïve as to think this great Arab Awakening is going to produce Western-style democracy in the Middle East. The revolt might have started with the students and the secularists, but the brothers will have the last word. We are the future. Regrettably, it is a future you will not be around to see. But before you leave this earth, I am obligated to ask you a final question. Do you wish to submit to the will of Islam and become a Muslim?”

“Only if it prevents you from killing Nadia.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Her crime is far worse than yours.”

“Then I’ll remain a Jew.”

“So be it.”

Rashid rose to his feet. Malik switched off the camera.

The Empty Quarter was ablaze with light by the time the first figures emerged from the tent. There were ten in all—five in white, five in black. They climbed quickly into the caravan of jeeps and pickup trucks and circled the encampment at high speed collecting the security men. A moment later, they were streaking southeast across the Sands toward Yemen.

“How much do you want to bet that one of those bastards is Rashid?” Adrian Carter asked helplessly.

“All the more reason you should take the shot,” said Navot.

“The White House won’t allow it. Not on Saudi soil. And not without knowing exactly who’s down there.”

“They’re terrorists and friends of terrorists,” Shamron said. “Take the shot.”

“And what if one of them is Gabriel?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Shamron.

“How can you be so certain?”

Shamron pointed wordlessly toward one of the screens.

“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Carter.

“I’d recognize that walk anywhere.”

Chapter 66 The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

THE TALIB WALKED ALONG THE base of a vast star-shaped dune. He carried his automatic weapon in one hand and with the other led Nadia by the binding at her wrists. As they rounded the dune, she saw the hole that had been dug in the desert floor. Next to it was a pyramid of stones. In the razor-sharp sun, they looked as white as exposed bone. Nadia tried to be brave, as she imagined Rena had been brave in the final moments before her death. Then she felt the desert begin to spin, and she collapsed.

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” the talib said, pulling her gently to her feet. “The first few will cause great pain. Then, inshallah, you will lose consciousness and you won’t feel a thing.”

“Please,” said Nadia, “you must find some way to spare me this.”

“It is the will of God,” said the talib. “There is nothing to be done.”

“It is not the will of God, Ali. It is the will of evil men.”

“Walk,” was all he said. “You have to walk.”

“Would you do this to Safia?”

“Walk.”

“Would you, Ali?”

“If she violated the laws of God, I would have no choice.”

“And what about Hanan? Would you stone your own child?”

This time, the talib said nothing. After a few paces, he began to recite verses of the Koran softly to himself, but to Nadia he spoke not another word.

On the other side of the mountainous dune, Gabriel padded barefoot across the sand with Malik at his side. Four other men surrounded them. Three had been with Malik in Dubai; the fourth was Rafiq al-Kamal. The bodyguard had been assigned the task of carrying the knife that would be used for Gabriel’s execution and the video camera that would record it. Malik and the others carried automatic weapons. They were old Soviet-issue AK-47s, the kind you could buy for a few riyals even in the most remote villages of Yemen. As Gabriel worked his wrists carefully against the silver duct tape, he tried to calculate the odds of getting his hands on one of the weapons. They were not good, he thought, but death by gunfire was surely better than death by beheading. If he were to die in the Empty Quarter on this morning, he planned to die on his own terms. And, if possible, he was going to take Malik al-Zubair with him.

Emerging from the shadow of the dune, Gabriel saw Nadia for the first time since she had walked past him in the lobby of the Burj Al Arab. Cloaked in her death shroud, she appeared paralyzed by fear. So did the sparsely bearded young jihadi who was guarding her. Malik walked over and shoved the boy out of the way. Then he seized Nadia’s dark hair and pulled her toward Gabriel. “Look at what you’ve done,” he shouted over her screams. “This is what happens when you seduce our people into renouncing their faith.”

“She never renounced her faith, Malik. Let her go.”

“She worked for you against us. She has to be punished. And for your sins, you shall cast the first stone.”

“I won’t do it.” Gabriel looked searchingly toward the sky. One last deception. One last lie. “And neither will you, Malik.”

Malik smiled. It was genuine.

“This isn’t Pakistan or Yemen, Allon. This is Saudi Arabia. And the Americans would never fire a Hellfire missile against the territory of their great ally, the House of Saud. Besides, no one knows where you are. You are completely alone.”

“Are you sure about that, Malik?”

Clearly, he wasn’t. Still clutching a handful of Nadia’s hair, he tilted his face to the sky. So did the others, including al-Kamal. He was standing about three feet to Gabriel’s left, holding the knife and the camera.

“Listen carefully,” Gabriel said. “Can you hear it? It’s circling just overhead. It’s watching with its cameras. Let her go, Malik. Otherwise, we’re all going to die in a flash of fire. You’ll go to your God; Nadia and I will go to ours.”

“There is no God but God, Allon. There is only Allah.”

“I hope you’re right, Malik, because you’re about to see His face. Do you want to be a martyr? Or do you prefer to leave the martyrdom to others?”

Malik flung Nadia aside and swung the Kalashnikov wildly toward Gabriel’s head. Gabriel easily sidestepped the blow and delivered a vicious knee to Malik’s groin that sent him sprawling to the sand. Then Gabriel pivoted with his arms extended and his hands formed like the blade of an ax. The blade connected squarely with Rafiq al-Kamal’s neck, crushing his larynx. Gabriel looked at Nadia and at the pile of bone white stones. Then he flailed his arms like a madman against the sky and screamed, “Take the shot! Take the shot! It’s Malik, damn it! Take the shot!”

Adrian Carter hung up the phone with the White House and buried his face in his hands. Uzi Navot watched for a few seconds longer, then closed his eyes. Only Shamron refused to look away. It was his fault, all of it. The least he could do was see it through to the end.

Malik had risen to one knee and was groping blindly about for his fallen Kalashnikov. Gabriel was still raging at the merciless sky. He heard the metallic clack-clack of the rifle’s cocking handle and saw the barrel rise. Then, from the corner of one eye, he glimpsed the ghostlike flash of Nadia’s sparkling white death shroud as she came hurtling toward him. As she passed before the gun, two crimson flowers bloomed violently in the center of her chest, though her face appeared oddly serene as she collapsed onto Gabriel. Malik tore her away and pointed the Kalashnikov downward at Gabriel’s face, but before he could pull the trigger again, the side of his head exploded in a flash of pink. Several more gunshots followed until only the young jihadi remained standing. He peered down at Gabriel, his face eclipsing the sun, then looked mournfully at Nadia.

“It was God’s will that she die today,” he said, “but at least she did not suffer.”

“No,” said Gabriel, “she did not suffer.”

“Are you hit?” asked the boy.

“One round,” said Gabriel.

“Will they come for you?”

“Eventually.”

“Can you hold out until they arrive?”

“I think so.”

“I have to leave you here alone. I have a wife. I have a child on the way.”

“Boy or girl?” asked Gabriel, his strength beginning to ebb.

“Girl.”

“Have you chosen a name?”

“Hanan.”

“Be kind to her,” said Gabriel. “Treat her always with respect.”

The boy stepped away; the sun beat upon Gabriel’s face. He heard an engine turning over, then glimpsed a cloud of dust moving across the sea of sand. After that, there was only the empty silence of the desert. He waved his arms one final time toward the sky to tell them he was still alive. Then he closed Nadia’s eyes and wept against her breast as her body turned slowly to stone.