Portrait of a Spy

can make an introduction.”
    “The sooner the better,” she said.
    “These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”
    “I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”
    “So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”
    The meeting unwound in the same precise manner with which it had been planned and executed. Abbas returned to his office, Nadia to her airplane, Oded and Mordecai to the safe house on the western shore of the lake. Gabriel didn’t bother to acknowledge their arrival. He was hunched over the computer in the living room, headphones over his ears, resignation on his face. He clicked pause, then rewind, then play.
    “These are not the type of men who like to be told what to do, Miss al-Bakari, especially by women.”
    “I’m not just any woman. I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, and I have been waiting for a very long time.”
    “So have they—hundreds of years, in fact. They are men of great patience. And you must be patient, too.”
    “I have one request, Mr. Abbas. Because of what happened to my father, it is essential that I know who I will be meeting with and that I will be safe.”
    “You needn’t worry, Miss al-Bakari. The person I have in mind poses absolutely no threat to your security.”
    “Who is it?”
    “His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”
    Gabriel clicked pause, then rewind, then play.
    “His name is Marwan Bin Tayyib. He’s the dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca and a very holy man.”
    Gabriel pressed stop. Then, reluctantly, he forwarded the name to Adrian Carter at Langley. Carter’s response arrived five minutes later. It was a reservation for the morning flight back to Washington. Economy plus, of course. Carter’s revenge.

Chapter 40
Langley, Virginia

    W ELL DONE,” SAID C ARTER . “A bravura performance. A work of art. Truly.”
    He was standing outside the elevators on the seventh-floor executive suite, smiling with all the sincerity of the artificial plants that flourished in the permanent gloom of his office. It was the kind of consoling smile worn by executives at sacking time, thought Gabriel. The only thing missing from the picture was the gold watch, the modest severance package, and the complimentary dinner for two at Morton’s steak house. “Come,” said Carter, patting Gabriel’s shoulder, something he never did. “I have something to show you.”
    After descending into a subterranean level of the building, they hiked for what seemed like a mile along gray-and-white corridors. Their destination was a windowed observation deck overlooking a cavernous open space that had the atmosphere of a Wall Street trading floor. On each of the four walls flickered video display panels the size of billboards. Beneath them, two hundred computer screens illuminated two hundred faces. Precisely what they were doing Gabriel did not know. Truth be told, he was no longer certain he was still at Langley or even in the Commonwealth of Virginia.
    “We decided it was time to bring everyone under one roof,” explained Carter.
    “Everyone?” asked Gabriel.
    “This is your operation,” Carter said.
    “This is all for one operation?”
    “We’re Americans,” said Carter with a trace of contrition. “We only do big.”
    “Does it have its own zip code?”
    “Actually, it doesn’t even have a name yet. For now, we’re calling it Rashidistan in your honor. Let me give you the nickel tour.”
    “Under the circumstances, I believe I’m owed at least ten cents’ worth.”
    “Are we going to have another pissing match over turf?”
    “Only if it’s necessary.”
    Carter led Gabriel down a tight spiral staircase onto the floor of the op center. The stale air smelled of freshly laid carpeting and overheated electrical circuitry. A young woman with spiky black hair brushed past without a word and sat at one of the many worktables at the center of the room. Gabriel looked up at one of the video screens and saw several famous Washington pundits chatting in the warm glow of a television studio. The audio was muted.
    “Are they plotting a terrorist attack?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.”
    “So why are we watching them?” asked Gabriel, looking around