Portrait of a Spy

SOME RECRUITMENTS ARE LIKE SEDUCTIONS, some border on extortion, and still others are like a ballet of the wounded. But even Ari Shamron, who had haunted the secret world far longer than most, would later say that he had never witnessed anything quite like the recruitment of Nadia al-Bakari. Having listened to the opening act over a secure link at King Saul Boulevard, he declared it one of the most masterful pieces of fieldwork he had ever heard. It was especially high praise given that the person doing the recruiting hailed from a profession for which Shamron had nothing but contempt.

Gabriel had instructed his recruiter to go slowly, and go slowly she did. For the first hour of the encounter, as hushed waiters entered and departed the hotel suite, Zoe questioned Nadia respectfully on the many changes she had made to AAB’s investment profile and on the challenges posed by the global recession without end. Much to Gabriel’s surprise, the reclusive Saudi heiress turned out to be an engaging and forthright conversationalist who seemed far wiser than her thirty-three years. Indeed, there was not a trace of tension until Zoe nonchalantly asked Nadia how often she traveled to Saudi Arabia. The question produced the first uncomfortable silence of the encounter, just as Gabriel had expected it would. Nadia regarded Zoe for a moment with her bottomless dark eyes before responding with a question of her own.

“You’ve been to Saudi Arabia?”

“Once,” replied Zoe.

“For your work?”

“Is there any other reason for a Westerner to go to Saudi Arabia?”

“I suppose not.” Nadia’s expression softened. “Where did you go?”

“I spent two days in Riyadh. Then I went to the Empty Quarter to tour the new Saudi Aramco oil-drilling project at Shaybah. It was very impressive.”

“Actually, you described it as ‘a technological marvel that will ensure Saudi domination of the global oil market for at least another generation.’ ” Nadia gave a fleeting smile. “Do you really think I would agree to a meeting without first reviewing your work? After all, you do have something of a reputation.”

“For what?”

“Ruthlessness,” said Nadia without hesitation. “They say you have something of a puritanical streak. They say you like to destroy companies and executives who step out of line.”

“I don’t do that kind of work any longer. I’m on television now. We don’t investigate. We just talk.”

“You don’t miss being a real journalist?”

“By that you mean a print journalist?”

“Yes.”

“Occasionally,” Zoe admitted, “but then I look at my bank account and I feel much better.”

“Is that why you left London? For money?”

“There were other reasons.”

“What kind of reasons?”

“The kind I generally don’t discuss in professional settings.”

“It sounds as though it had something to do with a man,” Nadia said, her tone conciliatory.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Yes, I am.” Nadia reached for her wineglass but stopped. “I don’t go to Saudi Arabia often,” she said suddenly, “once every three or four months, no more. And when I do go, I don’t stay for long.”

“Because?”

“For the reasons you would expect.” Nadia appeared to choose her next words with great care. “The laws and customs of Islam and Saudi Arabia are old and very important to our society. I’ve learned how to navigate the system in a way that allows me to conduct my business with a minimum of disruption.”

“What about your countrywomen?”

“What about them?”

“Most aren’t as lucky as you are. Women in Saudi Arabia are considered property, not people. Most spend their lives locked away indoors. They’re not permitted to drive an automobile. They’re not permitted to go out in public without a male escort and without first concealing themselves beneath an abaya and a veil. They’re not permitted to travel, even inside the country, without receiving permission from their fathers or older brothers. Honor killings are permissible if a woman brings shame upon her family or engages in un-Islamic behavior, and adultery is a crime punishable by stoning. In the birthplace of Islam, women cannot even enter a mosque except in Mecca and Medina, which is odd, since the Prophet Muhammad was something of a feminist. ‘Treat your women well and be kind to them,’ the Prophet said, ‘for they are your partners and committed helpers.’ ”

Nadia picked at an invisible flaw in the tablecloth. “I admire your honesty, Zoe. Most journalists trying to secure an important interview would resort to platitudes and flattery.”

“I can do that, if you prefer.”

“Actually, I prefer honesty. We don’t have enough of that in Saudi Arabia. In fact, we avoid it at all costs.” Nadia turned her gaze toward the windows. Outside, it was dark enough so that her image was reflected ghostlike in the glass. “I never realized you were so interested in the condition of Muslim women,” she said softly. “There’s no evidence of it in your previous work.”

“How much of it did you read?”

“All of it,” said Nadia. “There were many stories about corrupt businessmen but not one about the plight of Muslim women.”

“I’m interested in the rights of all women, regardless of their faith.” Zoe paused, then added provocatively, “I would think that someone in your position would be interested in them as well.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because you have the power and influence to be an important role model.”

“I run a large company, Zoe. I don’t have the time or desire to involve myself in politics.”

“You don’t have any?”

“Any what?”

“Politics.”

“I am a citizen of Saudi Arabia,” Nadia said. “We have a king, not politics. Besides, in the Middle East, politics can be very dangerous.”

“Was your father killed because of politics?” Zoe asked cautiously.

Nadia turned and gazed at Zoe. “I don’t know why my father was killed. I’m not sure anyone does, other than his murderers, of course.”

A heavy silence fell between them. It was broken a few seconds later by the sound of a door opening. A pair of waiters entered, bearing trays of coffee and pastries. They were followed by Rafiq al-Kamal, the chief of security, and Madame Dubois, who was tapping the face of her Cartier wristwatch as if to say the meeting had gone on long enough. Zoe feared Nadia might latch onto the signal as an excuse to take her leave. Instead, she ordered the intruders from the room with an imperious wave of her hand. She did the same for the waiter holding the tray of pastries, but accepted the coffee. She drank it black with an extraordinary amount of sugar.

“Are these the kinds of questions you propose to ask me on camera? Questions about the rights of women in Saudi Arabia? Questions about the death of my father?”

“We don’t divulge the questions in advance of an interview.”

“Come, come, Zoe. We both know how this works.”

Zoe made a brief show of thought. “If I failed to ask you about your father, I would be brought up on charges of journalistic malpractice. It makes you a deeply compelling figure.”

“What it makes me is a woman without a father.” Nadia removed a packet of Virginia Slims from her handbag and ignited one with a rather ordinary-looking gold lighter.

“You were there that night in Cannes?”

“I was,” said Nadia. “One minute we were all enjoying a wonderful evening in our favorite restaurant. The next I was holding my father as he lay dying in the street.”

“You saw the men who killed him?”

“There were two,” she said, nodding her head. “They rode motorcycles, very fast, very skillfully. At first, I thought they were just French boys having a bit of fun on a warm summer night. Then I saw the weapons. They were obviously professionals.” She drew on her cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling.