Portrait of a Spy

petrodollars around the world. Outraged by the article, Zizi threatened to sue. Later, on the advice of his lawyers, he had a change of heart. “The best revenge is living well,” he told a reporter from the Wall Street Journal . “And that is something I know how to do.”
    Perhaps, but the handful of Westerners who were granted entrée into Zizi’s inner circle always sensed a certain restlessness in him. His parties were lavish affairs, yet Zizi seemed to take no pleasure in them. He neither smoked nor drank alcohol and refused to be in the presence of dogs or pork. He prayed five times a day; each winter, when the rains made the Saudi desert bloom, he retreated to an isolated encampment in the Nejd to meditate and hunt with his falcons. He claimed to be a descendant of Muhammad Abdul Wahhab, the eighteenth-century preacher whose austere, puritanical version of Islam became the official creed of Saudi Arabia. He built mosques around the world, including several in America and Western Europe, and gave generously to the Palestinians. Firms looking to do business with AAB knew better than to send a Jew to meet with Zizi. According to the rumor mill, Zizi liked Jews even less than he liked losses on his investments.
    As it turned out, Zizi’s charitable activities extended far beyond what was publicly known. He also gave generously to charities associated with Islamic extremism and even directly to al-Qaeda itself. Eventually, he crossed the thin but bright line separating the financiers and enablers of terrorism from the terrorists themselves. The result was an attack on the Vatican that left more than seven hundred people dead and the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in ruins. With Sarah Bancroft’s help, Gabriel hunted down the man who planned the attack—a renegade Saudi intelligence officer named Ahmed Bin Shafiq—and killed him in a hotel room in Istanbul. A week later, on the Quai Saint-Pierre in Cannes, he killed Zizi, too.
    Despite his adherence to Saudi traditions, Zizi had but two wives, both of whom he had divorced, and a single child—a beautiful daughter named Nadia. She buried her father in the Wahhabi tradition, in an unmarked desert grave, and immediately consolidated her hold on his assets. She moved AAB’s European headquarters from Geneva, which bored her, to Paris, where she was more comfortable. A few of the firm’s more pious employees refused to work for a woman—especially one who shunned the veil and consumed alcohol—but most stayed on. Under Nadia’s guiding hand, the company entered previously uncharted territories. She acquired a famous French fashion company, an Italian maker of luxury leather goods, a substantial portion of an American investment bank, and a German motion picture production company. She also made significant changes to her personal holdings. Her father’s many homes and estates were quietly put up for sale, as was the Alexandra and his 747. Nadia now traveled on a more modest Boeing Business Jet and owned just two homes—a graceful mansion on the Avenue Foch in Paris and a lavish palace in Riyadh that she rarely saw. Despite her lack of formal business training, she had proved to be an adept and skillful manager. The total value of the assets now under AAB’s control was higher than at any point in company history, and Nadia al-Bakari, at just thirty-three, was regarded as one of the richest women in the world.
    AAB’s media relations, such as they were, fell under the purview of Nadia’s executive assistant, a well-preserved Frenchwoman of fifty named Yvette Dubois. Madame Dubois rarely bothered to acknowledge requests from reporters, especially those employed by American companies. But upon receiving a follow-up call from the famous Zoe Reed, she decided a response was in order. She allowed another day to elapse, then, for good measure, she placed the call in the middle of the night, New York time, when she assumed Ms. Reed would be sleeping. For reasons not known to Madame Dubois, that turned out not to be the case. The conversation that followed was cordial but hardly promising. Madame Dubois explained that the offer of a one-hour prime-time special, while flattering, was entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Ms. al-Bakari was traveling constantly and had several large deals pending. More to the point, Ms. al-Bakari simply didn’t do the kind of interview Ms. Reed had in mind.
    “Will you at least give her the request?”
    “I’ll give it