Portrait of a Spy

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 kandoura s and ghutra s 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