Having won the commitment of European governments, Orlov next went after the stars of business and finance. He snared the titans of the German auto industry, and the manufacturing giants from Sweden and Norway. Big Shipping wanted in on the fun, as did Big Steel and Big Energy. The Swiss banks were initially reluctant, but agreed after Orlov assured them they would not be crucified for past sins. Even Martin Landesmann, the Swiss private-equity king and international doer of good deeds, announced that he would make time in his busy schedule, though he implored Orlov to devote at least some of the program to issues he held dear, such as climate change, Third World debt, and sustainable agriculture.
And so it was that, within a few short days, the conference once dismissed as folly was now the business world’s hottest ticket. Orlov was besieged with requests for invitations. There were the Americans, who wondered why they weren’t invited in the first place. There were the fashion models, rock stars, and actors who wanted to rub shoulders with the rich and powerful. There was a former British prime minister, disgraced by personal scandal, who wanted a chance at redemption. There was even a fellow Russian oligarch who maintained uncomfortably close ties with Orlov’s enemies in the Kremlin. He offered the same reply to each. The invitations would be issued via overnight mail on the first day of July. RSVPs were due back in forty-eight hours. The press would be allowed to view Orlov’s introductory remarks, but all other proceedings, including the gala dinner, would be closed to the media. “We want our participants to feel free to speak their minds,” said Orlov. “And they won’t be able to do that if the press are hanging on their every word.”
All of which seemed to matter little in the enchanted Austrian city located along an unusually sharp bend in the river Danube. Yes, the chairman of Voestalpine AG, the Linz-based steel giant, had received feelers from Orlov about attending the London conference, but otherwise life went on as normal. A pair of summer festivals came and went, the cafés filled and emptied twice each day, and in the little private bank located near the streetcar roundabout, a child of Hama went about her daily routine as if nothing unusual had transpired. Owing to her compromised mobile phone, which was now acting as a full-time transmitter, Gabriel and the rest of the team were able to listen to her every move. They listened as she opened accounts and moved money. They listened to her meetings with Herr Weber and with Mr. al-Siddiqi. And late at night, they listened as she dreamed of Hama.
They listened, too, as she renewed her friendship with an aspiring novelist, recently divorced and living alone in Linz, named Ingrid Roth. They lunched together, they shopped together, they visited museums together. And on two occasions they returned to the pretty yellow villa on the western shore of the Attersee, where Jihan was briefed and prepared by a man she had been led to believe was German. At the end of the first session, he asked her for a detailed description of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s office. And when she returned for the second session, a replica of the office had been created in one of the rooms of the villa. It was a perfect forgery in every detail: the same desk, the same computer, the same telephone, even the same surveillance camera overhead and the same numeric keypad on the door.
“What’s it for?” asked Jihan, amazed.
“Practice,” said Gabriel with a smile.
And practice they did, for three hours without a break, until she could carry out her assignment without showing a trace of fear or tension. Then she did it in the pitch-dark, and with an alarm sounding, and with Gabriel shouting at her that Mr. al-Siddiqi’s men were coming for her. He did not tell Jihan that the training she was undergoing had been created by the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. Nor did he mention the fact that, on several occasions, he had endured similar periods of training himself. In her presence, he was never Gabriel Allon. He was a dull German tax collector without a name who just happened to be very good at his job.
The deception of Jihan seemed to weigh heavily upon Gabriel’s conscience as the day of the operation drew nearer. He reminded the team at every turn that their opponents would be playing by Hama Rules—and perhaps Moscow Rules as well—and he fretted over the smallest details. As his mood worsened, Eli Lavon took the liberty of acquiring a small wooden sloop, just to get Gabriel out of the safe house for a few hours each afternoon. He would sail it downwind toward the Mountains of Hell and then expertly tack his way home again, always trying to better his time of the previous day. The smell of the Rosenwind made him think of a terrified child clinging to her mother—and, sometimes, of the warning the old mystic had whispered into his ear on the island of Corsica.
Do not let any harm come to her, or you will lose everything . . .
But his primary obsession during those last days of June was with Waleed al-Siddiqi, the Syrian-born banker who went everywhere with a black leather notebook in his pocket. He traveled frequently during this period and, as was his custom, with only a few hours’ advance booking. There was a day trip to Brussels, an overnight jaunt to Beirut, and, lastly, a quick visit to Dubai, where he spent a great deal of time at the headquarters of the TransArabian Bank, an institution the Office knew well. He returned to Vienna at one p.m. on the first day of July, and by three that afternoon he was striding through the door of Bank Weber AG, trailed as usual by his bookend Alawite bodyguards. Jihan greeted him cordially in Arabic and handed him a stack of mail that had arrived in his absence. It included a DHL envelope, inside of which was a glossy invitation to something called the European Business Initiative. He carried it unopened into his office and quietly closed the door.
It was a Wednesday, which meant he had until five p.m. Friday to deliver his RSVP via electronic mail. Gabriel had braced himself for a long wait, and unfortunately Waleed al-Siddiqi did not disappoint. The remainder of Wednesday passed without a response, as did Thursday morning and Thursday afternoon. Eli Lavon saw the delay as a positive sign. It meant, he said, that the banker was flattered by the invitation and was deliberating over whether to attend. But Gabriel feared otherwise. He had invested heavily in time and money to lure the Syrian banker to Britain. And now it seemed he might have nothing to show for his efforts other than a glitzy gabfest for Euro-businessmen. Improving Europe’s anemic economy was a noble endeavor, he told Lavon, but it was hardly one of his top priorities.
By Friday morning, Gabriel was brittle with worry. He phoned Viktor Orlov in London at the top and bottom of every hour. He paced the floor of the great room. He muttered at the ceiling in whatever language suited his ever-shifting mood. Finally, at two that afternoon, he flung open the door of al-Siddiqi’s mock office and shouted at him in Arabic to make up his mind. It was at this point that Eli Lavon intervened. He took Gabriel gently by the elbow and walked him to the end of the long dock. “Go,” he said, pointing to the distant end of the lake. “And don’t come back a minute before five.”
Gabriel reluctantly climbed aboard the sloop and sailed downwind toward the Mountains of Hell, wing and wing, trailed by the heady scent of roses. It took him only an hour to reach the southern end of the lake; he dropped his sails in a sheltered cove and warmed himself in the sun, all the while resisting the urge to reach for his mobile phone. Finally, at half past three, he raised his mainsail and jib and beat his way northward. He reached the town of Seeberg at ten minutes to five, tacked one final time to starboard, and powered up for the straight run to the safe house on the opposite side of the lake. As he drew near, he spotted the diminutive figure of Eli Lavon standing at the end of the dock, one arm raised in a silent salute.
“Well?” asked Gabriel.
“It seems Mr. al-Siddiqi would be honored to attend the European Business Initiative.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” said Lavon, frowning. “He’d also like a word with Miss Nawaz in private.”
“About what?”
“Come inside,” Lavon replied. “We’ll know in a minute.”
45
LINZ, AUSTRIA
SHE HAD REQUESTED A REPRIEVE of
five minutes. Five minutes to lock away the last of her account files. Five minutes to tidy up her already tidy desk. Five minutes to return her chaotic heartbeat to something like normal. Her allotted time was now over. She rose to her feet, a little more abruptly than normal, and smoothed the front of her skirt. Or was she wiping the dampness from the palms of her hands? She checked to make sure she hadn’t left a streak of moisture on the fabric and then glanced at the bodyguards standing outside Mr. al-Siddiqi’s door. They were watching her intently. She supposed Mr. al-Siddiqi was watching her, too. Smiling, she walked the length of the corridor. Her knock was falsely decisive: three sharp blows that made her knuckle sting. “Come in,” was all he said.
She kept her eyes straight ahead as the bodyguard to her right—the tall one called Yusuf—punched the access code into the keypad on the wall. The deadbolts opened with a snap, and the door yielded silently to her touch. The room she entered was in semidarkness, illuminated only by a single halogen desk lamp. She noticed that the lamp had been moved slightly, but otherwise the desk was arranged in its typical fashion: the computer on the left, the leather blotter in the center, the multiline telephone on the right. Presently, the receiver was pressed tightly to the ear of Mr. al-Siddiqi. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie that shone like polished granite. His small dark eyes were focused at some point above Jihan’s head; his forefinger lay contemplatively along the side of his aquiline nose. He removed it long enough to aim it pistol-like at an empty chair. Jihan sat and arranged herself primly. She realized she was still smiling. Looking down, she checked her e-mail on her mobile phone and tried hard not to wonder who was on the other end of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s call.
Finally, he murmured a few words in Arabic and returned the receiver to its cradle. “Forgive me, Jihan,” he said in the same language, “but I’m afraid that couldn’t wait.”
“A problem?”
“Nothing beyond the usual.” He bunched his hands thoughtfully beneath his chin and looked at her seriously for a moment. “I have something I wish to discuss with you,” he said at last. “It is both personal and professional. I hope you will allow me to speak freely.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“You tell me, Jihan.”
The back of her neck felt as though it were on fire. “I don’t understand,” she said calmly.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Are you happy here in Linz?”
She frowned. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because you don’t always seem terribly happy.” His small, hard mouth formed into something like a smile. “You strike me as a very serious person, Jihan.”
“I am.”
“And honest?” he asked. “Do you consider yourself an honest person?”
“Very.”
“You would never violate the privacy of our clients?”
“Of course not.”
“And you would never discuss our affairs with anyone outside the bank?”
“Never.”
“Not with a member of your family?”
“No.”
“Not with a friend?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure, Jihan?”
“Yes, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
He looked at the television. It was tuned, as usual, to Al Jazeera. The volume was muted.
“And what about loyalty?” he asked after a moment. “Do you consider yourself to be a loyal person?”
“Very.”
“To what are you loyal?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Think about it now, please.” He glanced at his computer screen as if to give her a moment of privacy.
“I suppose I’m loyal to myself,” she said.
“Interesting answer.” His dark eyes moved from the computer screen to her face. “In what way are you loyal to yourself?”
“I try to live by a certain code.”
“Such as?”
“I would never intentionally try to hurt someone.”
“Even if he hurt you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Even if he hurt me.”
“And what if you suspected someone had done something wrong, Jihan? Would you try to hurt him then?”
She managed to smile in spite of herself. “Is this the personal part or the professional part of what you wanted to discuss?” she asked.
Her question seemed to throw him off balance. His gaze wandered to the silent television. “And what about your country?” he asked. “Are you loyal to your country?”
“I’m very fond of Germany,” she replied.
“You carry a German passport and speak the language like a native, Jihan, but you are not a German. You are Syrian.” He paused, then added, “Like me.”
“Is that why you hired me?”
“I hired you,” he said pointedly, “because I needed someone with your linguistic ability to help me function here in Austria. You’ve proven to be very valuable to me, Jihan, which is why I’m considering creating a new position for you.”
“What sort of position?”
“You would work directly for me.”
“In what capacity?”
“In whatever capacity I require.”
“I’m not a secretary, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Nor would I treat you as one. You would help me manage the investment portfolios of my clients.” He scrutinized her for a moment as if trying to read her thoughts. “Would that be of interest to you?”
“Who would serve as the account manager?”
“Someone new.”
She lowered her gaze and delivered her response to her hands. “I’m very flattered you would consider me for such a position, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“You don’t seem terribly excited about the idea. In fact, Jihan, you seem rather uncomfortable.”
“Not at all,” she replied. “I’m just wondering why you would want someone like me in such an important position.”
“Why not you?” he countered.
“I have no experience managing assets.”
“You have something far more valuable than experience.”
“What’s that, Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“Loyalty and honesty, the two qualities I value most in an employee. I need someone I can trust.” He made a steeple of his long, slender fingers and braced it against the tip of his nose. “I can trust you, can’t I, Jihan?”
“Of course, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Does that mean you’re interested?”
“Very,” she said. “But I’d like a day or two to think about it.” “I’m afraid I can’t wait that long for an answer.”
“How long do I have?”
“I’d say you have about ten seconds.” Again he smiled. It looked as though he had taught himself the expression by practicing in front of a mirror.
“And if I say yes?” asked Jihan.
“I’ll need to perform a background check on you before proceeding.” He was silent for a moment. “You wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”
“I assumed I underwent a background check before you hired me.”
“You did.”
“Then why must there be another?”
“Because this one will be different.”
He made it sound as though it were a threat. Perhaps it was.
In the sitting room of the Attersee safe house, Gabriel had unwittingly adopted the same pose as Waleed al-Siddiqi: fingertips pressed to the tip of his nose, eyes staring straight ahead. They were fixed not on Jihan Nawaz but on the computer that was emitting the sound of her voice. Eli Lavon was seated next to him, gnawing at something on the inside of his cheek. And next to Lavon sat Yaakov Rossman, the team’s most accomplished speaker of Arabic. As usual, Yaakov appeared to be contemplating an act of violence.
“It could be a coincidence,” Lavon said without conviction.
“It could be,” repeated Gabr
iel. “Or it’s possible Mr. al-Siddiqi doesn’t like the company Jihan has been keeping.”
“It’s not against the rules for her to have a friend.”
“Unless the friend works for the intelligence service of the State of Israel. Then I suspect he’d have a problem with it.”
“Why would he assume Dina is Israeli?”
“He’s Syrian, Eli. He automatically assumes the worst.”
From the computer came the sound of Jihan departing Mr. al-Siddiqi’s office and returning to her desk. Gabriel set the toggle bar to 5:09 and clicked PLAY.
“Do you consider yourself an honest person?”
“Very.”
“You would never violate the privacy of our clients?”
“Of course not.”
“And you would never discuss our affairs with anyone outside the bank?”
“Never.”
“Not with a member of your family?”
“No."
“Not with a friend?”
Gabriel clicked the STOP icon and looked at Lavon.
“Let us stipulate it doesn’t sound encouraging,” Lavon said.
“How about this?”
Gabriel clicked PLAY.
“In what way are you loyal to yourself?”
“I try to live by a certain code.”
“Such as?”
“I would never intentionally try to hurt someone.”
“Even if he hurt you?”
“Yes. Even if he hurt me.”
“And what if you suspected someone had done something wrong, Jihan? Would you try to hurt him then?”
STOP.
“If he suspects her of disloyalty,” said Lavon, “why is he offering her a promotion? Why not show her the door?”