Portrait of a Spy

it’s better to leave the past undisturbed. Better for Nadia. Better for you.”
    Gabriel examined Shamron carefully. “Am I mistaken, Ari, or are you actually feeling guilty about pulling me back in?”
    “You made your wishes clear last summer in Cornwall. I should have respected them.”
    “You never did before. Why start now?”
    “Because you’ve earned it. And the last thing you need at this stage of your life is a confrontation with the child of a man you killed in cold blood.”
    “I don’t plan to confess my sins.”
    “You might not have a choice in the matter,” Shamron said. “But promise me one thing, Gabriel. If you insist on using her, be certain you don’t make the same mistake the Americans made with Rashid. Assume she is a mortal enemy and treat her accordingly.”
    “Why don’t you join us? We have plenty of room at the safe house for one more.”
    “I’m an old man,” Shamron said gloomily. “I’d just be in the way.”
    “So what are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to sit here alone and worry. These days that seems to be my lot in life.”
    “Don’t start worrying just yet, Ari. It’s possible Nadia won’t come.”
    “She’ll come,” Shamron said.
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “Because in her heart she knows that you are the one whispering in her ear. And she won’t be able to resist the opportunity to have a look at your face.”
    Operational doctrine dictated that Gabriel return immediately to Château Treville, but anger obliged him to make a pilgrimage to the Champs-Élysées. He arrived shortly after midnight to find that all evidence of the bombing had been carefully erased. The shops and restaurants had been repaired. The buildings had been given new windows and a fresh coat of paint. The paving stones had been washed of the blood. There was no expression of outrage, no memorial to the dead, no plea for sanity in a world gone mad. Indeed, were it not for the pair of gendarmes standing watch over the street corner, it might have been possible to imagine that nothing disagreeable had ever occurred there. For a moment, Gabriel regretted his decision to come, but as he was leaving, a secure e-mail from the team at Seraincourt unexpectedly lifted his spirits. It said that Nadia al-Bakari, the daughter of a man whom Gabriel had killed in the Old Port of Cannes, had just been overheard canceling a trip to Saint Petersburg. Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his coat pocket and walked on through the lamplight. The veil that hid his future had been torn in two. He saw a beautiful woman with raven hair crossing the forecourt of a château north of Paris. And an old man sitting alone in a Montmartre apartment, worrying himself to death.

Chapter 27
Paris

    N ADIA AL- B AKARI PERSONALLY TELEPHONED Zoe Reed at 10:22 a.m. the next morning to invite her to tea at her mansion on the Avenue Foch. Zoe politely declined. It seemed she already had plans.
    “I’m spending the afternoon with an old friend from London. He made a pile of money in private equity and bought himself a château in the Val-d’Oise. I’m afraid he’s throwing a small party in my honor.”
    “A birthday party?”
    “How did you know?”
    “My security staff conducted a discreet background check before our lunch at the Crillon. As of today you are thirty—”
    “Please don’t say it aloud. I’m trying to pretend it’s just a bad dream.”
    Nadia managed to laugh. Then she asked the name of Zoe’s friend from London.
    “Fowler. Thomas Fowler.”
    “What firm is he with?”
    “Thomas doesn’t do firms. Thomas is militantly independent. Apparently, you met him a few years ago in the Caribbean. One of the French islands. Can’t remember which. St. Barts, I think it was. Or maybe it was Antigua.”
    “I’ve never set foot on Antigua.”
    “So it must have been St. Barts.”
    There was silence.
    “Did I lose you?” asked Zoe.
    “No, I’m still here.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Where did I meet him?”
    “He said it was in a bar near one of the beaches.”
    “Which bar?”
    “Not sure about that.”
    “Which beach?”
    “Don’t think Thomas mentioned it.”
    “Was Thomas alone that day?”
    “Actually, he was with his wife. Lovely girl. Bit on the pushy side, but I suppose that comes with the territory.”
    “Which territory is that?”
    “Being the wife of a billionaire like Thomas.”
    More silence, longer than the first.
    “I’m afraid I don’t remember