Portrait of a Spy

restaurant. The next I was holding my father as he lay dying in the street.”
    “You saw the men who killed him?”
    “There were two,” she said, nodding her head. “They rode motorcycles, very fast, very skillfully. At first, I thought they were just French boys having a bit of fun on a warm summer night. Then I saw the weapons. They were obviously professionals.” She drew on her cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “After that, everything is a blur.”
    “There were reports that witnesses heard you screaming for revenge.”
    “I’m afraid that retribution is the Bedouin way,” Nadia said sadly. “I suppose it runs in my blood.”
    “You admired your father,” Zoe pressed.
    “I did,” Nadia said.
    “He was an art collector.”
    “A voracious one.”
    “I understand you share your father’s passion.”
    “My art collection is private,” Nadia said, reaching for her coffee.
    “Not as private as you think.”
    Nadia looked up sharply but said nothing.
    “My sources tell me that you made an important acquisition last month. They tell me that you were the one who paid the record price for the Rothko at Christie’s in New York.”
    “Your sources are mistaken, Zoe.”
    “My sources are never mistaken. And they’ve told me other things about you as well. Apparently, you’re not as indifferent to the rights of women in the Islamic world as you pretend to be. You’ve quietly given millions of dollars to combat violence against women and millions more to promote female entrepreneurship, which you believe will have the effect of empowering Muslim women as never before. But your charitable works don’t stop there. I’m told you’ve used your fortune to promote free and independent media in the Arab world. You’ve also attempted to counter the spread of dangerous Wahhabi ideology by donating to organizations that promote a more tolerant version of Islam.” Zoe paused. “Taken together, your activities paint a portrait of a courageous woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East.”
    Nadia managed a dismissive smile. “It’s an intriguing story,” she said after a moment. “It’s a shame none of it is true.”
    “That’s too bad,” Zoe replied, “because there are people who would like to help you.”
    “What sort of people?”
    “People of discretion.”
    “In the Middle East, people of discretion are either spies or terrorists.”
    “I can assure you they’re not terrorists.”
    “So they must be spies then.”
    “I wasn’t told their affiliation.”
    Nadia gave her a skeptical look. Zoe held out a card. It had no name, only the number of her BlackBerry.
    “This is my private number. It is important that you proceed with caution. As you know, there are people around you who do not share your goal of changing the Islamic world for the better—including your own bodyguards.”
    “What is your interest in this matter, Zoe?”
    “I have no interest, other than obtaining an interview with a woman I greatly admire.”
    Nadia hesitated. Then she accepted the card and slipped it into her handbag. At that instant, the door of the hotel suite opened again and Madame Dubois entered with Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. She was once again tapping her wristwatch. This time, Nadia rose. Looking suddenly fatigued, she extended her hand toward Zoe.
    “I’m not sure I’m ready to lift the veil just yet,” she said, “but I’d like some time to consider your offer. Would it be possible for you to remain in Paris for a few days?”
    “It will be a terrible hardship,” Zoe said jokingly, “but I’ll try to manage.”
    Nadia released Zoe’s hand and followed her security chief into the corridor. Zoe remained behind for a moment longer before returning to her room three floors below. There she powered on her BlackBerry and called her producer in New York to explain that she would be staying on in Paris to continue the negotiations. Then she placed the BlackBerry on the bedside table and sat for a long time at the end of her bed. She smelled jasmine and lavender, the scent of Nadia, and recalled the instant of their parting. Nadia’s hand had been oddly cold to the touch. It was the hand of fear, thought Zoe. The hand of death.

Chapter 25
Seraincourt, France

    Z OE’S CALL TO N EW Y ORK sounded in the high-ceilinged rooms of Château Treville like a fanfare of trumpets. Gabriel responded by immediately dispatching a