Portrait of a Spy

is highly dubious about your philanthropic activities and the motivations behind them. Max believes they are a cover for your real agenda, which is much more in keeping with that of your late father. Max believes you are a jihadist. Simply put, Max believes you are a liar.”
    “Maybe you are the liar.”
    “I’m an intelligence officer, Nadia, which means I lie for a living.”
    “Are you lying to me now?”
    “Just a little,” said Gabriel contritely. “I’m afraid that crumpled little soul over there isn’t really named Max.”
    “But he still believes I’m a liar?”
    “He’s hopeful that’s not the case. But he needs to know that we’re all on the same side before this conversation can continue.”
    “What side is that?”
    “The side of the angels, of course.”
    “The same angels who murdered my father in cold blood.”
    “There’s that word again, Nadia. Your father wasn’t murdered. He was killed by enemy forces on a battlefield of his choosing. He died a martyr’s death in the service of the great jihad. Unfortunately, the violent ideology he helped to propagate didn’t die with him. It lives on in a crescent of sacred rage stretching from the tribal areas of Pakistan to the streets of London. And it lives on in a lethal new terror network based in the mountains of Yemen. This network has a charismatic leader, a skilled operational mastermind, and a cadre of willing shahid s. What it lacks is the one thing you can provide.”
    “Money,” said Nadia.
    “Money,” repeated Gabriel. “The question is, are you really a woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East, or are you actually your father’s daughter?”
    Nadia was silent for a moment. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to decide that without my help,” she said finally, “because as of this moment, this little interrogation session is officially over. If there is something you want from me, I suggest you tell me what it is. And I wouldn’t wait too long. You might have questions about where I stand, but you should have none about the chief of my security detail. Rafiq al-Kamal is a true Wahhabi believer and very loyal to my father. And if I had to guess, he’s starting to get a little suspicious about what’s going on in here.”

Chapter 31
Seraincourt, France

    T HE TEAM FILED SLOWLY FROM the room—everyone but Eli Lavon, who remained at his perch near the windows, and Gabriel, who settled into the place vacated by Sarah. He gazed at Nadia for a moment in respectful silence. Then, in a somber voice borrowed from Shamron, he proceeded to tell her a story. It was the story of a charismatic Islamic cleric named Rashid al-Husseini, of a well-intentioned CIA operation gone terribly wrong, and of a lethal terror network that was starved of the operating capital it needed to achieve its ultimate goals. The briefing was remarkably complete—indeed, by the time Gabriel finally finished, the weak autumn sun had set and the room was in semidarkness. Lavon was by then a mere silhouette, indistinguishable except for the wisp of disheveled hair that surrounded his head like a halo. Nadia sat motionless at the end of the long couch, feet drawn beneath her, arms folded under her breasts. Her dark eyes stared unblinking into Gabriel’s as he spoke, as though she were posing for a portrait. It was a portrait of an unveiled woman, thought Gabriel, oil on canvas, artist unknown.
    From the adjacent room rose a swell of laughter. When it died away, there was music. Nadia closed her eyes and listened.
    “Is that Miles Davis?” she asked.
    “ ‘Dear Old Stockholm,’ ” said Gabriel with a slow nod.
    “I’ve always been very fond of Miles Davis, despite the fact that my father, as a devout Wahhabi Muslim, briefly attempted to prevent me from listening to music of any sort.” She paused for a moment, still listening. “I’m also quite fond of Stockholm. Let us hope Rashid hasn’t put it on his list of targets.”
    “A very wise man once told me that hope is not an acceptable strategy when lives are at stake.”
    “Perhaps not,” said Nadia, “but hope is very much in vogue at the moment in Washington.”
    Gabriel smiled and said, “You still haven’t answered my question, Nadia.”
    “Which question is that?”
    “What was more painful? Learning that your father was a terrorist or that he had misled you?”
    She stared at Gabriel with an unsettling intensity. After a moment, she