Portrait of a Spy

said Gabriel, “he was to be killed.”
    The cleric smiled. His guest had just made an important admission, one Rashid could use to generate headlines around the world.
    “It strikes me that this episode is typical of the entire so-called war on terror. You cannot defeat us, Allon. And each time you try, you only make us stronger.”
    “You’re not getting stronger,” Gabriel countered. “In fact, you’re dying. The Arab world is changing. Your time has passed.”
    Rashid’s smile evaporated. He spoke with the tone of a stern teacher frustrated with a dull pupil. “Surely, Allon, a man such as yourself is not so naïve as to think this great Arab Awakening is going to produce Western-style democracy in the Middle East. The revolt might have started with the students and the secularists, but the brothers will have the last word. We are the future. Regrettably, it is a future you will not be around to see. But before you leave this earth, I am obligated to ask you a final question. Do you wish to submit to the will of Islam and become a Muslim?”
    “Only if it prevents you from killing Nadia.”
    “Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Her crime is far worse than yours.”
    “Then I’ll remain a Jew.”
    “So be it.”
    Rashid rose to his feet. Malik switched off the camera.
    The Empty Quarter was ablaze with light by the time the first figures emerged from the tent. There were ten in all—five in white, five in black. They climbed quickly into the caravan of jeeps and pickup trucks and circled the encampment at high speed collecting the security men. A moment later, they were streaking southeast across the Sands toward Yemen.
    “How much do you want to bet that one of those bastards is Rashid?” Adrian Carter asked helplessly.
    “All the more reason you should take the shot,” said Navot.
    “The White House won’t allow it. Not on Saudi soil. And not without knowing exactly who’s down there.”
    “They’re terrorists and friends of terrorists,” Shamron said. “Take the shot.”
    “And what if one of them is Gabriel?”
    “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Shamron.
    “How can you be so certain?”
    Shamron pointed wordlessly toward one of the screens.
    “Are you sure it’s him?” asked Carter.
    “I’d recognize that walk anywhere.”

Chapter 66
The Empty Quarter, Saudi Arabia

    T HE TALIB WALKED ALONG THE base of a vast star-shaped dune. He carried his automatic weapon in one hand and with the other led Nadia by the binding at her wrists. As they rounded the dune, she saw the hole that had been dug in the desert floor. Next to it was a pyramid of stones. In the razor-sharp sun, they looked as white as exposed bone. Nadia tried to be brave, as she imagined Rena had been brave in the final moments before her death. Then she felt the desert begin to spin, and she collapsed.
    “It won’t be as bad as you think,” the talib said, pulling her gently to her feet. “The first few will cause great pain. Then, inshallah , you will lose consciousness and you won’t feel a thing.”
    “Please,” said Nadia, “you must find some way to spare me this.”
    “It is the will of God,” said the talib . “There is nothing to be done.”
    “It is not the will of God, Ali. It is the will of evil men.”
    “Walk,” was all he said. “You have to walk.”
    “Would you do this to Safia?”
    “Walk.”
    “Would you, Ali?”
    “If she violated the laws of God, I would have no choice.”
    “And what about Hanan? Would you stone your own child?”
    This time, the talib said nothing. After a few paces, he began to recite verses of the Koran softly to himself, but to Nadia he spoke not another word.
    On the other side of the mountainous dune, Gabriel padded barefoot across the sand with Malik at his side. Four other men surrounded them. Three had been with Malik in Dubai; the fourth was Rafiq al-Kamal. The bodyguard had been assigned the task of carrying the knife that would be used for Gabriel’s execution and the video camera that would record it. Malik and the others carried automatic weapons. They were old Soviet-issue AK-47s, the kind you could buy for a few riyals even in the most remote villages of Yemen. As Gabriel worked his wrists carefully against the silver duct tape, he tried to calculate the odds of getting his hands on one of the weapons. They were not good, he thought, but death by gunfire was surely better than death by beheading. If he were to die in the Empty