The Messenger

anything?”
    “His friends call him Zizi,” Gabriel replied. “He has one of the world’s largest private collections of French Impressionist art, and we’ve been telling you for years that he’s up to his eyeballs in funding terrorism, especially against us.”
    “I didn’t realize that.”
    “Realize what?”
    “That Zizi’s a collector.”
    “A very aggressive one, actually.”
    “Ever had the pleasure of meeting him?”
    “I’m afraid Zizi and I are at different ends of the trade.” Gabriel frowned. “So what’s the connection between Zizi al-Bakari and Ahmed bin Shafiq?”
    Carter blew thoughtfully on his tea, a sign that he was not yet ready to answer Gabriel’s question.
    “An interesting fellow, al-Bakari. Did you know that his father was Ibn Saud’s personal banker? As you might expect, Papa al-Bakari did quite well—well enough to give his son ten million dollars to start his own company. That was nothing compared to the seed money he got from the al-Saud when things started to take off. A hundred million, if the rumor mill is to be believed. AAB is still a favorite dumping ground for Saudi Royal cash, which is one of the reasons why Zizi is so interested in making sure the House of Saud survives.”
    Gabriel’s heart sank as Carter reached for the tobacco pouch.
    “He’s among the world’s richest men,” Carter said, “and one of the world’s most charitable. He’s built mosques and Islamic centers all across Europe. He’s financed development projects in the Nile Delta and famine relief in Sudan. He’s given millions to the Palestinian refugees and millions more to development projects in the West Bank and Gaza.”
    “And more than thirty million dollars to that Saudi telethon to raise money for suicide bombers,” Gabriel added. “Zizi was the largest single donor. Now answer my question, Adrian.”
    “Which question is that?”
    “What’s the connection between Zizi and bin Shafiq?”
    “You’re a quick study, Gabriel. You tell me. ”
    “Obviously Zizi is bankrolling bin Shafiq’s network.”
    “Obviously,” said Carter in agreement.
    “But bin Shafiq is a Saudi. He can get money anywhere. Zizi has something more valuable than money. Zizi has a global infrastructure through which bin Shafiq can move men and matériel. And Zizi has a perfect place for a mastermind like bin Shafiq to hide.”
    “AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.”

    A SILENCE FELL between them like a curtain while Carter drowsily loaded his pipe. Gabriel was still standing in the window, peering into the street. He was tempted to remain there, for Carter’s tobacco, when ignited, smelled like a combination of burning hay and wet dog. He knew, however, that the conversation had passed the point where it might be conducted in front of an insecure window. Reluctantly he lowered himself into the chair opposite Carter and they gazed at each other in silence, Carter puffing contemplatively and Gabriel wearily waving the smoke from his eyes.
    “How sure are you?”
    “Very.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Sources and methods,” said Carter mechanically. “Sources and methods.”
    “How do you know, Adrian?”
    “Because we listen to him,” Carter said. “The National Security Agency is a wonderful thing. We also have sources inside the moderate wing of the House of Saud and the GID who are willing to tell us things. Ahmed bin Shafiq is living largely in the West under an assumed identity. He is buried somewhere within Zizi’s financial empire and the two of them confer on a regular basis. Of this, we are certain.”
    There was a manila file folder on the center table, next to Carter’s tea tray. Inside was a single photograph, which Carter handed to Gabriel. It showed a man in a woolen overcoat and trilby, standing at a wrought-iron gate. The face was in left profile, and the features were somewhat gauzy. Judging from the compression of the image, the photograph had been snapped from some distance.
    “Is this him?”
    “We think so,” Carter replied.
    “Where was it taken?”
    “Outside Zizi’s house on the ˆ
    Ile de la Cité in Paris. The cameraman was on the other side of the Seine, on the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, which accounts for a certain lack of clarity of the image.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Six months.”
    Carter rose slowly to his feet and wandered over to the fireplace. He was about to rap his pipe against the grate when Gabriel reminded him