Portrait of a Spy

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

    T HE F INANCIAL J OURNAL OF L ONDON 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