Portrait of a Spy

They need friends wherever they can find them, even if they happen to wear the short thobes and unkempt beards of the Salaf.”
    Nadia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If the sheikh was speaking the truth, the rulers of Saudi Arabia had renewed the Faustian bargain, the deal with the devil that had led to 9/11 and countless other deaths after that. The al-Saud had no choice, she thought. They were like a man holding a tiger by the ears. If they kept their grip on the beast, they might survive a little longer. But if they released it, they would be devoured in an instant.
    “Do the Americans know about this?” she asked.
    “The so-called special relationship between the Americans and the House of Saud is a thing of the past,” Bin Tayyib said. “As you know, Miss al-Bakari, Saudi Arabia is forming new alliances and finding new customers for its oil. The Chinese don’t care about things like human rights and democracy. They pay their bills on time, and they don’t poke their noses into things that are none of their business.”
    “Things like jihad?” she asked.
    The sheikh nodded. “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, taught us there were Five Pillars of Islam. We believe there is a sixth. Jihad is not a choice. It is an obligation. The al-Saud understand this. Once again, they are willing to look the other way, provided the brothers don’t make trouble inside the Kingdom. That was Bin Laden’s biggest mistake.”
    “Bin Laden is dead,” said Nadia, “and so is his group. I’m interested in the one who can make bombs go off in the cities of Europe.”
    “Then you are interested in the Yemeni.”
    “Do you know him?”
    “I’ve met him.”
    “Do you have the ability to speak to him?”
    “That is a dangerous question. And even if I could speak to him, I certainly wouldn’t bother to tell him about a rich Saudi woman who’s looking for vengeance. You have to believe in what you are doing.”
    “I am the daughter of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari and a descendant of Muhammad Abdul Wahhab. I certainly believe in what I am doing. And I am after far more than just vengeance.”
    “What are you after?”
    Nadia hesitated. The next words were not her own. They had been dictated to her by the man who had killed her father.
    “I wish only to resume the work of Abdul Aziz al-Bakari,” she said gravely. “I will place the money in the hands of the Yemeni to do with as he pleases. And perhaps, if God wills it, bombs will one day explode in the streets of Washington and Tel Aviv.”
    “I suspect he would be most grateful,” the sheikh said carefully. “But I am certain he will be unable to offer any sort of guarantees.”
    “I’m not looking for any guarantees. Only a pledge that he will use the money wisely and carefully.”
    “You are proposing a one-time payment?”
    “No, Sheikh Bin Tayyib, I am proposing a long-term relationship. He will attack them. And I will pay for it.”
    “How much money are you willing to provide?”
    “As much as he needs.”
    The sheikh smiled.
    “Al-hamdu lillah.”
    Nadia remained in the tent of the sheikh for another hour. Then she followed the talib along the edge of the wadi to her car. The skies poured with rain during the drive back to Riyadh, and it was still raining late the following morning when Nadia and her entourage boarded their plane for the flight back to Europe. Once clear of Saudi airspace, she removed her niqab and abaya and changed into a pale Chanel suit. Then she telephoned Thomas Fowler at his estate north of Paris to say that her meetings in Saudi Arabia had gone better than expected. Fowler immediately placed a call to a little-known venture capital firm in northern Virginia—a call that was automatically routed to Gabriel’s desk in Rashidistan. Gabriel spent the next week carefully monitoring the financial and legal maneuverings of one Samir Abbas of the TransArabian Bank in Zurich. Then, after dining poorly with Carter at a seafood restaurant in McLean, he headed back to London. Carter let him take an Agency Gulfstream. No handcuffs. No hypodermic needles. No hard feelings.

Chapter 44
St. James’s, London

    O N THE DAY AFTER G ABRIEL’S return to London, the venerable Christie’s auction house announced a surprise addition to its upcoming sale of Venetian Old Masters: Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene , oil on canvas, 110 by 92 centimeters, previously attributed to the workshop of Palma Vecchio, now firmly attributed to