“Here’s the man who’s going to help you buy a terror group,” Chiara said. “Samir Abbas, born in Amman in 1967, educated at the London School of Economics, and hired by TransArabian Bank in 1998.”
“Where does he live?”
“Up in Hottingen, near the university. If the weather is good, he walks to work, for the sake of his waistline. If it’s bad, he takes the streetcar from Römerhof down to the financial district.”
“Which one?”
“The Number Eight, of course. What else would he take?”
Chiara smiled. Her knowledge of European public transit, like Gabriel’s, was encyclopedic.
“Where’s his flat?”
“At Carmenstrasse Four. It’s a small postwar building with a stucco exterior, six flats in all.”
“Wife?”
“Take a look at the next picture.”
It showed a woman walking along the same street. She was wearing Western clothing except for a hijab that framed a childlike face. Holding her left hand was a boy of perhaps four. Holding her right was a girl who looked to be eight or nine.
“Her name is Johara, which means ‘jewel’ in Arabic. She works part-time as a teacher at an Islamic community center on the west side of the city. The older child attends classes there. The boy is in the day-care facility. Both children speak fluent Swiss German, but Johara is much more comfortable in Arabic.”
“Does Samir go to a mosque?”
“He prays in the apartment. The children like American cartoons, much to their father’s dismay. No music allowed, though. Music is strictly forbidden.”
“Does she know about Samir’s charitable endeavors?”
“Since they use the same computer, it would be hard to miss.”
“Where is it?”
“In the living room. We popped it the day after we arrived. It’s giving us fairly decent audio and visual coverage. We’re also reading his e-mail and monitoring his browsing. Your friend Samir enjoys his jihadi porn.”
“What about his mobile?”
“That took a bit of doing, but we got that, too.” Chiara pointed to the photograph of Samir. “He carries it in the right pocket of his overcoat. We got it on the streetcar while he was on his way to work.”
“We?”
“Yaakov handled the bump, Oded picked his pocket, and Mordecai did the technical stuff. He popped it while Samir was reading the newspaper. The whole thing took two minutes.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”
“We didn’t want to bother you.”
“Is there anything else you neglected to tell me?”
“Just one thing,” Chiara said.
“What’s that?”
“We’re being watched.”
“By the Swiss?”
“No, not the Swiss.”
“Who then?”
“Three guesses. First two don’t count.”
Gabriel snatched up his secure BlackBerry and started typing.
Chapter 36
Lake Zurich
IT TOOK THE BETTER PART of forty-eight hours for Adrian Carter to find his way to Zurich. He met Gabriel in the late afternoon on the prow of a ferry bound for the suburb of Rapperswil. He wore a tan mackintosh coat and carried a copy of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung beneath his arm. The newsprint was wet with snow.
“I’m surprised you’re not wearing your Agency credentials,” Gabriel said.
“I took precautions coming here.”
“How did you travel?”
“Economy plus,” Carter said resentfully.
“Did you tell the Swiss you were coming?”
“Surely you jest.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m not.”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder toward the skyline of Zurich, which was barely visible behind a cloak of low clouds and falling snow. The entire scene was devoid of color—a gray city by a gray lake. It suited Gabriel’s mood.
“When were you planning to tell me, Adrian?”
“Tell you what?”
Gabriel handed Carter an unmarked letter-sized envelope. Inside were eight surveillance photographs of eight different CIA field operatives.
“How long did it take you to spot them?” Carter asked, flipping morosely through the pictures.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“I suppose not.” Carter closed the envelope. “My best field personnel are currently deployed elsewhere. I had to use what was available. A couple of them are fresh off the Farm, as we like to say.”
The Farm was the CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary, Virginia.
“You sent probationers to watch us? If I wasn’t so angry, I’d be insulted.”
“Try not to take it personally.”
“This little stunt of yours could have blown us all sky-high. The Swiss aren’t stupid, Adrian. In fact, they’re quite good. They watch. They listen, too. And they get extremely annoyed when spies operate on their soil without signing the guestbook on the way in. Even experienced field agents have gotten into trouble here, ours included. And what does Langley do? It sends eight fresh-faced kids who haven’t been to Europe since their junior year abroad. Do you know one of them actually bumped into Yaakov a couple of days ago because he was looking down at a Streetwise Zurich map? That’s one for the books, Adrian.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Not yet,” Gabriel said. “I want them out of here. Tonight.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because higher authority has taken an intense interest in your operation. And higher authority has decided it requires an American operational component.”
“Tell higher authority it already has an American operational component. Her name is Sarah Bancroft.”
“A single analyst from the CTC doesn’t count.”
“That single analyst could run circles around any of the eight dolts you sent here to keep watch over us.”
Carter stared at the lake but said nothing.
“What’s going on, Adrian?”
“It’s not what. It’s who.” Carter returned the envelope to Gabriel. “How much will it cost me to get you to burn those damn pictures?”
“Start talking.”
Chapter 37
Lake Zurich
THERE WAS A SMALL CAFÉ on the upper deck of the passenger cabin. Carter drank muddy coffee. Gabriel had tea. Between them they shared a rubbery egg sandwich and a bag of stale potato chips. Carter kept the receipt for his expenses.
“I asked you to keep her name closely held,” Gabriel said.
“I tried to.”
“What happened?”
“Someone tipped off the White House. I was brought into the Oval Office for a bit of enhanced interrogation. McKenna and the president worked me over together, bad cop, bad cop. Stress positions, sleep deprivation, denial of food and drink—all the techniques we’re now forbidden to use against the enemy. It didn’t take long for them to break me. Suffice it to say the president now knows my name. He also knows the name of the Muslim woman with impeccable jihadist credentials you’re in bed with—operationally speaking, of course.”
“And?”
“He’s not happy about it.”
“Really?”
“He’s fearful that U.S.-Saudi relations will suffer grave damage if the operation ever crashes and burns. As a result, he’s no longer willing to allow Langley to be a mere passenger.”
“He wants you flying the plane?”
“Not just that,” Carter said. “He wants us maintaining the plane, fueling the plane, stocking the plane’s galleys, and loading the luggage into the plane’s cargo hold.”
“Total control? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“It makes no sense, Adrian.”
“Which part?”
“All of it, frankly. If we’re running the show,
the president has complete deniability with the Saudis if something goes wrong. But if Langley is in charge, any chance of deniability goes right out the White House window. It’s as if he’s trying to block a blow with his chin.”
“You know, Gabriel, I never looked at it in those terms.” Carter picked up the last potato chip. “Do you mind?”
“Enjoy.”
Carter popped the chip in his mouth and spent a long moment thoughtfully brushing the salt from his fingertips. “You have a right to be angry,” he said finally. “If I were you, I’d be angry, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I sailed into town with a cheap story thinking I could slip it past you, and you deserve better. The truth is that the president and his faithful if ignorant servant James A. McKenna aren’t concerned that the al-Bakari operation is going to fail. In fact, they’re afraid it’s going to succeed.”
“Try again, Adrian. It’s been a long few days.”
“It seems the president is head over heels in love.”
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Nadia,” murmured Carter into his crumpled paper napkin. “He’s crazy about her. He loves her story. He loves her courage. More important, he loves the operation you’ve built around her. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’s been looking for. It’s clean. It’s smart. It’s forward-leaning. It’s built for the long haul. It also happens to dovetail nicely with the president’s view of the world. A partnership between Islam and the West to defeat the forces of extremism. Brainpower over brute force. He wants Rashid’s network taken down and tied up with a bow before the next election, and he doesn’t want to share credit.”
“So he wants to go it alone? No partners?”
“Not entirely,” Carter said. “He wants us to bring in the French, the British, the Germans, and the Spaniards, since they were the ones attacked.”
“What about the partridge in a pear tree?”
“He works for a private security firm now. Doing quite nicely, from what I hear.”
“Need-to-know,” Gabriel said. “It isn’t an advertising slogan, Adrian. It’s a sacred creed. It keeps operations from being blown. It keeps assets alive.”
“Your concerns have been duly noted.”
“And dismissed.”
Carter said nothing.
“Where does that leave me and the rest of my team?”
“Your team will quietly withdraw from the field and be replaced by Agency personnel. You will stay on in an advisory capacity until the show is up and running.”
“And after that?”
“You’ll be eased out of the production.”
“I have news for you, Adrian. The show is already up and running. In fact, the star of the show is making her debut here in Zurich tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’re going to have to postpone that until the new management team is in place.”
Gabriel saw the lights of Rapperswil glowing faintly along the shoreline. “You’re forgetting one thing,” he said after a moment. “The star of the show is a diva. She’s very demanding. And she won’t work with just anyone.”
“You’re saying she’ll work for you, the man who killed her father, but not us?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I’d like to test that proposition for myself.”
“Be my guest. If you wish to speak to Nadia, she can be reached at her office on the Boulevard Haussmann, in the ninth arrondissement of Paris.”
“Actually, we were hoping that you might work with us on the transition.”
“Hope is not an acceptable strategy when lives are at stake.” Gabriel held up the envelope of snapshots. “Besides, if I were advising Nadia, I’d tell her to stay as far away from you and your Farm-fresh field operatives as possible.”
“We’re grown-ups, you and I. We’ve been through the wars together. We’ve saved lives. We’ve done the dirty jobs that no one else wanted to do or had the guts to do. But at this moment in time, I am resenting the hell out of you.”
“I’m glad I’m not alone.”
“Do you really think this is something I want to do? He’s the president, Gabriel. I can either follow his orders or quit. And I have no intention of quitting.”
“Then please tell the president that I wish him nothing but the best,” Gabriel said. “But at some point, you should remind him that Nadia is only the first step toward breaking Rashid’s network. In the end, it won’t be clean or smart or forward-leaning. I just hope the president doesn’t fall out of love when it comes time to make the tough decisions.”
The ferry shuddered as it nudged against the side of the dock. Gabriel stood abruptly. Carter gathered up the empty cups and wrappers and swept the crumbs onto the floor with the back of his hand.
“I need to know your intentions.”
“I intend to return to my command post and tell my team that we’re going home.”
“Is that final?”
“I never make threats.”
“Then do me one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Drive slowly.”
They left the ferry a few seconds apart and made their way along the slick jetty to a little car park at the edge of the terminal. Carter climbed into the passenger seat of a Mercedes and headed for the German border; Gabriel slipped behind the wheel of his Audi and sped over the Seedamm, toward the opposite side of the lake. Despite Carter’s admonition, he drove very fast. As a result, he was pulling up to the safe house when Carter called him back with the outlines of the new operational accord. Its parameters were simple and unambiguous. Gabriel and his team would be allowed to retain their ascendency in the field so long as the operation did not touch the sacred soil of Saudi Arabia. On this point, said Carter, there was no room for further negotiation. The president would not permit Israeli intelligence to make mischief in the land of Mecca and Medina. Saudi was the game-changer. Saudi was the third rail. If the operation crossed the Saudi border, said Carter, all bets were off. Gabriel killed the connection and sat alone in the darkness, debating what to do. Ten minutes later, he called Carter back and reluctantly accepted the terms. Then he headed into the safe house and told his team they were playing on borrowed time.
Chapter 38
Paris
FROM THE MANY FLOORS OF her mansion on the Avenue Foch, Nadia al-Bakari had carved for herself a comfortable pied-à-terre. It contained an office, a sitting room, her bedroom suite, and a private art gallery hung with twelve of her most cherished paintings. Scattered throughout the apartment were many photographs of her father. In none was he smiling, preferring instead to display the juhayman, the traditional “angry face” of the Arabian Bedouin. The one exception was an unposed photo snapped by Nadia aboard the Alexandra on the final day of his life. His expression was vaguely melancholy, as if he were somehow aware of the fate that awaited him later that night in the Old Port of Cannes.
Framed in silver, the photograph stood on Nadia’s bedside table. Next to it was a Thomas Tompion clock, purchased at auction for the sum of two and a half million dollars and given to Nadia on the occasion of her twenty-fifth birthday. Lately, it had been running several minutes fast, which Nadia found eerily appropriate. She had been gazing at its stately features on and off since waking with a start at three a.m. Craving caffeine, she could feel the onset of a pounding headache. Nevertheless, she remained motionless in her large bed. During the final session of her training, Gabriel reminded her to avoid any changes to her daily schedule—a schedule that several dozen members of her household and personal staff could recite from memory. Without fail, she rose each morning at seven sharp, not a moment sooner or later. Her breakfast tray was to be left on the credenza in her office. Unless otherwise specified, it was to contain a thermos flask of café filtre, a pitcher of steamed milk, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and two six-inch slices of tartine with butter and strawberry preserves on the side. Her newspapers were to be placed on the right side of her desk??
?the Wall Street Journal on top, followed by the International Herald Tribune, the Financial Journal, and Le Monde—along with her leather-bound itinerary for the day. The television was to be tuned to the BBC, with the volume muted and the remote within easy reach.
It was now half past six. Thinking of anything but the throbbing in her head, she closed her eyes and willed herself into a gauzy half sleep, which was disturbed thirty minutes later by the butterfly knock of her longtime housekeeper, Esmeralda. As was her custom, Nadia remained in bed until Esmeralda had departed. Then she pulled on a dressing gown and, under the watchful gaze of her father, padded barefoot into her office.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted her. She poured a cup, added milk and three spoonfuls of sugar, and sat down at her desk. On the television screen were images of mayhem in Islamabad, the aftermath of yet another powerful al-Qaeda car bombing that had killed more than a hundred people, nearly all of them Muslims. Nadia left the volume on mute and lifted the leather cover of her itinerary. It was strikingly benign. After two hours of private time, she was scheduled to depart her residence and fly to Zurich. There, in a conference room at the Dolder Grand Hotel, she and her closest aides would meet with executives from a Zug-based optical firm owned in large part by AAB Holdings. Immediately afterward, she would conduct a second meeting, without aides present. The topic was listed as “private,” which was always the case when Nadia’s personal finances were involved.
She closed the leather folder and, as was her custom, spent the next hour reading the newspapers over coffee and toast. Shortly after eight, she logged on to her computer to check the status of the Asian markets, then spent several minutes switching among the various cable news networks. Her tour ended with Al Jazeera, which had moved on from the carnage in Islamabad to report an Israeli military strike in the Gaza Strip that had killed two top Hamas terror planners. Describing the strike as “a crime against humanity,” the Turkish prime minister called on the United Nations to punish Israel with economic sanctions—a call rejected, in the next segment, by an important Saudi cleric. “The time for diplomacy has ended,” he told the fawning Al Jazeera questioner. “It is now time for all Muslims to join the armed struggle against the Zionist interlopers. And may God punish those who dare to collaborate with the enemies of Islam.”