Portrait of a Spy

just hope the president doesn’t fall out of love when it comes time to make the tough decisions.”
    The ferry shuddered as it nudged against the side of the dock. Gabriel stood abruptly. Carter gathered up the empty cups and wrappers and swept the crumbs onto the floor with the back of his hand.
    “I need to know your intentions.”
    “I intend to return to my command post and tell my team that we’re going home.”
    “Is that final?”
    “I never make threats.”
    “Then do me one favor.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Drive slowly.”
    They left the ferry a few seconds apart and made their way along the slick jetty to a little car park at the edge of the terminal. Carter climbed into the passenger seat of a Mercedes and headed for the German border; Gabriel slipped behind the wheel of his Audi and sped over the Seedamm, toward the opposite side of the lake. Despite Carter’s admonition, he drove very fast. As a result, he was pulling up to the safe house when Carter called him back with the outlines of the new operational accord. Its parameters were simple and unambiguous. Gabriel and his team would be allowed to retain their ascendency in the field so long as the operation did not touch the sacred soil of Saudi Arabia. On this point, said Carter, there was no room for further negotiation. The president would not permit Israeli intelligence to make mischief in the land of Mecca and Medina. Saudi was the game-changer. Saudi was the third rail. If the operation crossed the Saudi border, said Carter, all bets were off. Gabriel killed the connection and sat alone in the darkness, debating what to do. Ten minutes later, he called Carter back and reluctantly accepted the terms. Then he headed into the safe house and told his team they were playing on borrowed time.

Chapter 38
Paris

    F ROM THE MANY FLOORS OF her mansion on the Avenue Foch, Nadia al-Bakari had carved for herself a comfortable pied-à-terre. It contained an office, a sitting room, her bedroom suite, and a private art gallery hung with twelve of her most cherished paintings. Scattered throughout the apartment were many photographs of her father. In none was he smiling, preferring instead to display the juhayman , the traditional “angry face” of the Arabian Bedouin. The one exception was an unposed photo snapped by Nadia aboard the Alexandra on the final day of his life. His expression was vaguely melancholy, as if he were somehow aware of the fate that awaited him later that night in the Old Port of Cannes.
    Framed in silver, the photograph stood on Nadia’s bedside table. Next to it was a Thomas Tompion clock, purchased at auction for the sum of two and a half million dollars and given to Nadia on the occasion of her twenty-fifth birthday. Lately, it had been running several minutes fast, which Nadia found eerily appropriate. She had been gazing at its stately features on and off since waking with a start at three a.m. Craving caffeine, she could feel the onset of a pounding headache. Nevertheless, she remained motionless in her large bed. During the final session of her training, Gabriel reminded her to avoid any changes to her daily schedule—a schedule that several dozen members of her household and personal staff could recite from memory. Without fail, she rose each morning at seven sharp, not a moment sooner or later. Her breakfast tray was to be left on the credenza in her office. Unless otherwise specified, it was to contain a thermos flask of café filtre , a pitcher of steamed milk, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and two six-inch slices of tartine with butter and strawberry preserves on the side. Her newspapers were to be placed on the right side of her desk—the Wall Street Journal on top, followed by the International Herald Tribune , the Financial Journal , and Le Monde —along with her leather-bound itinerary for the day. The television was to be tuned to the BBC, with the volume muted and the remote within easy reach.
    It was now half past six. Thinking of anything but the throbbing in her head, she closed her eyes and willed herself into a gauzy half sleep, which was disturbed thirty minutes later by the butterfly knock of her longtime housekeeper, Esmeralda. As was her custom, Nadia remained in bed until Esmeralda had departed. Then she pulled on a dressing gown and, under the watchful gaze of her father, padded barefoot into her office.
    The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted her. She poured a cup, added