Portrait of a Spy

that, having lived a double life for years, she was a natural dissembler. She also had two important advantages over other assets who had tried to penetrate the global jihadist movement: her name and her bodyguards. Her name guaranteed her instant access and credibility while her bodyguards gave her a layer of protection that most agents of penetration had to live without. As the only surviving child of a murdered Saudi billionaire, Nadia al-Bakari was one of the most heavily guarded private citizens in the world. No matter where she went, she would be surrounded by her loyal palace guard, along with a secondary ring of Office security. Getting to her would be all but impossible.
    Nadia’s most valuable asset, though, was her money. Gabriel was confident that she would have no shortage of suitors once she returned to the world of jihad and terror. The challenge for Gabriel and his team would be to place the money in the hands of the right one. It was Nadia herself who supplied the name of a potential candidate while walking with Gabriel and Sarah one afternoon in the garden of the château.
    “He sought me out not long after my father’s death and asked for a contribution to an Islamic charity. He described himself as an associate of my father. A brother.”
    “And the charity?”
    “It was nothing more than a front for al-Qaeda. Samir Abbas is the man you’re looking for. Even if he’s not involved with this new network, he will know people who are.”
    “What does he do?”
    “He’s employed by TransArabian Bank at its offices in Zurich. As you probably know, TransArabian is based in Dubai and is one of the largest financial institutions in the Middle East. It’s also regarded as the bank of choice for the global jihadist movement, of which Samir Abbas is a member in good standing. He manages the accounts of well-to-do Middle Eastern clients, which leaves him uniquely positioned to seek contributions for the so-called charities.”
    “Is any of your personal fortune under TransArabian management?”
    “Not at the moment.”
    “Perhaps you should consider opening an account. Nothing too large. Just enough to get Samir’s attention.”
    “How much shall I give him?”
    “Can you spare a hundred million?”
    “A hundred million?” She shook her head. “My father would never have given them that kind of money.”
    “How much then?”
    “Let’s make it two hundred million.” She smiled. “That way he’ll know we really mean business.”
    Within twelve hours of the conversation, Gabriel had a team on the ground in Zurich, and Samir Abbas, wealth-management specialist for TransArabian Bank of Dubai, was under Office surveillance. Eli Lavon remained behind at Château Treville to button up the last details of the operation, including the ticklish question of how a Paris-based Saudi businesswoman was going to fund a terror group without arousing the suspicions of the French and other European financial authorities. Through her secret funding of the Arab reform movement, Nadia had already shown them the way. All Gabriel needed was a painting and a willing accomplice. Which explained why on Christmas Eve, as the rest of France was preparing for several days of feasting and celebration, he asked Lavon to drive him to the Gare du Nord. Gabriel had a ticket for the 3:15 train to London and a catastrophic headache from lack of sleep. Lavon was more on edge than usual at this stage of an operation. Unmarried and childless, he always became depressed around the holidays.
    “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
    “Take a train to London on Christmas Eve? Actually, I think I’d rather walk.”
    “I was talking about Nadia.”
    “I know, Eli.”
    Lavon stared out the car window at the crowds streaming toward the entrance of the train station. It was the usual lot—businessmen, students, tourists, African immigrants, and pickpockets, all watched over by heavily armed French police officers. The entire country was waiting for the next bomb to explode. So was the rest of Europe.
    “Are you ever going to tell me what it was she said to you that evening in the garden?”
    “No, I’m not.”
    Lavon had expected the answer. Even so, he couldn’t conceal his disappointment.
    “How long have we been working together?”
    “A hundred and fifty years,” said Gabriel. “And never once have I kept a shred of important information from you.”
    “So why now?”
    “She asked me to.”
    “Have