Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel

“You’re not actually suggesting,” Gabriel said sardonically, “that Saudi intelligence is playing the same old double game of combating the jihadists while at the same time supporting them?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. And the Americans are so economically weak at the moment they’re in no position to do anything about it.”

The teakettle began to hiss. Gabriel filled the press with boiling water and stood over it while waiting for the coffee to steep. He glanced at Shamron. The dour expression on his face made it abundantly clear he was still thinking about the Americans.

“Every American administration has its buzzwords. This one likes to speak in terms of equity. They’re constantly reminding us of the equity they have invested across the Middle East. They have equity in Iraq, equity in Afghanistan, and equity in maintaining a stable price of oil. At the moment, we don’t count for much on the American balance sheet. But if you succeed in neutralizing Rashid’s network . . .”

“It might add a bit of much-needed equity to our account.”

Shamron nodded grimly. “That doesn’t mean, however, that we have to conduct ourselves like a wholly owned subsidiary of the CIA. In fact, the prime minister is adamant that we use this opportunity to take care of some unfinished business.”

“Like Malik al-Zubair?”

Shamron nodded.

“Something tells me you knew Malik was involved in this from the beginning.”

“Let’s just say I had a strong suspicion that might be the case.”

“So when Adrian Carter asked me to come to Washington—”

“I set aside my usual misgivings and agreed without hesitation.”

“How generous of you,” said Gabriel. “So why are you worried now?”

“Nadia.”

“She was your idea.”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s been fooling us all these years. Maybe she’s more like her father than we think.” He paused, then added, “Maybe we should cut her loose and find someone else.”

“That person doesn’t exist.”

“So forge him,” Shamron said. “I hear you’re quite good at that.”

“It’s not possible, and you know it.”

Gabriel carried the coffee to the table and poured out two cups. Shamron dumped sugar into his and stirred it thoughtfully for a moment.

“Even if Nadia al-Bakari agrees to work for you,” Shamron said, “you will have no means of keeping her under discipline. We have our traditional methods. Kesef, kavod, kussit—money, respect, sex. Nadia al-Bakari has no need for any of those things. Therefore, she cannot be controlled.”

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to trust each other.”

“Trust?” Shamron asked. “I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I’m not familiar with that word.” He drank some of his coffee and grimaced. “There’s an old proverb that I’m particularly fond of. It says the veil that hides the future from us is woven by an angel of mercy. Unfortunately, there’s no veil that can shield us from our past. It’s filled with ghosts. The ghosts of loved ones. The ghosts of enemies. They’re with us always. They’re here with us now.” His rheumy blue eyes searched the tiny kitchen for a moment before settling again on Gabriel. “Perhaps it’s better to leave the past undisturbed. Better for Nadia. Better for you.”

Gabriel examined Shamron carefully. “Am I mistaken, Ari, or are you actually feeling guilty about pulling me back in?”

“You made your wishes clear last summer in Cornwall. I should have respected them.”

“You never did before. Why start now?”

“Because you’ve earned it. And the last thing you need at this stage of your life is a confrontation with the child of a man you killed in cold blood.”

“I don’t plan to confess my sins.”

“You might not have a choice in the matter,” Shamron said. “But promise me one thing, Gabriel. If you insist on using her, be certain you don’t make the same mistake the Americans made with Rashid. Assume she is a mortal enemy and treat her accordingly.”

“Why don’t you join us? We have plenty of room at the safe house for one more.”

“I’m an old man,” Shamron said gloomily. “I’d just be in the way.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to sit here alone and worry. These days that seems to be my lot in life.”

“Don’t start worrying just yet, Ari. It’s possible Nadia won’t come.”

“She’ll come,” Shamron said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because in her heart she knows that you are the one whispering in her ear. And she won’t be able to resist the opportunity to have a look at your face.”

Operational doctrine dictated that Gabriel return immediately to Château Treville, but anger obliged him to make a pilgrimage to the Champs-Élysées. He arrived shortly after midnight to find that all evidence of the bombing had been carefully erased. The shops and restaurants had been repaired. The buildings had been given new windows and a fresh coat of paint. The paving stones had been washed of the blood. There was no expression of outrage, no memorial to the dead, no plea for sanity in a world gone mad. Indeed, were it not for the pair of gendarmes standing watch over the street corner, it might have been possible to imagine that nothing disagreeable had ever occurred there. For a moment, Gabriel regretted his decision to come, but as he was leaving, a secure e-mail from the team at Seraincourt unexpectedly lifted his spirits. It said that Nadia al-Bakari, the daughter of a man whom Gabriel had killed in the Old Port of Cannes, had just been overheard canceling a trip to Saint Petersburg. Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his coat pocket and walked on through the lamplight. The veil that hid his future had been torn in two. He saw a beautiful woman with raven hair crossing the forecourt of a château north of Paris. And an old man sitting alone in a Montmartre apartment, worrying himself to death.

Chapter 27 Paris (#ulink_88fa01d1-a4ba-5502-9991-bd84fdc2a75e)

NADIA AL-BAKARI PERSONALLY TELEPHONED Zoe Reed at 10:22 a.m. the next morning to invite her to tea at her mansion on the Avenue Foch. Zoe politely declined. It seemed she already had plans.

“I’m spending the afternoon with an old friend from London. He made a pile of money in private equity and bought himself a château in the Val-d’Oise. I’m afraid he’s throwing a small party in my honor.”

“A birthday party?”

“How did you know?”

“My security staff conducted a discreet background check before our lunch at the Crillon. As of today you are thirty—”

“Please don’t say it aloud. I’m trying to pretend it’s just a bad dream.”

Nadia managed to laugh. Then she asked the name of Zoe’s friend from London.

“Fowler. Thomas Fowler.”

“What firm is he with?”

“Thomas doesn’t do firms. Thomas is militantly independent. Apparently, you met him a few years ago in the Caribbean. One of the French islands. Can’t remember which. St. Barts, I think it was. Or maybe it was Antigua.”

“I’ve never set foot on Antigua.”