Portrait of a Spy

wadi. Nadia could feel heavy stones thudding against the undercarriage of the car as they drove along a pitted unpaved track.

“I wish you’d told me where we were going,” al-Kamal said, clutching the armrest for support. “We could have taken one of the Range Rovers.”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“It’s a desert camp. How did you think we were going to get there?”

Nadia laughed in spite of herself. “I hope my father isn’t watching this.”

“Actually, I hope he is.” Al-Kamal looked at her for a long moment without speaking. “I never left your father’s side, Nadia, even when he was discussing highly sensitive business with men like Sheikh Bin Tayyib. He trusted me with his life. Unfortunately, I couldn’t protect him that night in Cannes, but I would have gladly stepped in front of those bullets. And I would do the same for you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I think I do, Rafiq.”

“Good,” he said. “If God wills it, this meeting tonight will be a success. But next time, tell me first so I can make proper arrangements. It’s better that way. No surprises.”

“Zizi’s rules?” she asked.

“Zizi’s rules,” he replied, nodding his head. “Zizi’s rules are like the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Follow them carefully and God will grant you a long and happy life. Ignore them . . .” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “That’s when bad things happen.”

They came upon a cluster of cars parked haphazardly along the edge of the wadi: Range Rovers, Mercedes, Toyotas, and a few battered pickup trucks. Adjacent to the parking area, aglow with internal lighting, stood two large communal tents. A dozen smaller tents were scattered across the desert floor, each fitted with a generator and a satellite dish. Nadia smiled beneath the cover of her niqab. The Saudis loved to return to the desert each winter to reconnect with their Bedouin heritage, but their devotion to the old ways only went so far.

“The sheikh is obviously doing quite well for himself.”

“You should see his villa in Mecca,” al-Kamal said. “This is all bought and paid for by the government. As far as the al-Saud are concerned, it’s money well spent. They take care of the ulema, and the ulema takes care of them.”

“Why this spot?” asked Nadia, looking around.

“Long before there was such a thing as Saudi Arabia, members of the sheikh’s clan used to bring their animals here in the winter. The Bin Tayyibs have been camping here for centuries.”

“The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you came here when you were a boy.”

Al-Kamal gave a rare smile. “I did.”

The security man gestured to the driver to park in a spot isolated from the other cars. After helping Nadia out of the backseat, he paused to look at a Toyota Camry. But for the thin coating of fine powdery dust, it looked as though it had just rolled onto the dock at Dhahran.

“Your dream car?” asked Nadia sardonically.

“It’s the model they give to graduates of the terrorist rehabilitation program. They give them a car, a down payment on a house, and a nice girl to marry—all the trappings of a normal life so they stay tethered to this world rather than the world of jihad. They buy the loyalty of the ulema, and they buy the loyalty of the jihadis. It’s the way of the desert. It’s the al-Saud way.”

Al-Kamal instructed the driver to stay with the car and then led Nadia toward the two communal tents. Within a few seconds a young man appeared to welcome them. He wore a calf-length thobe in the style of the Salaf and a taqiyah skullcap with no headdress. His beard was long but sparse, and his eyes were unusually gentle for a Saudi man. After offering them the traditional greeting of peace, he introduced himself as Ali and said he was a talib, or student, of Sheikh Bin Tayyib. He looked to be about thirty.

“The meal is just getting started. Your bodyguard is free to join us, if he wishes. The women are over there,” he added, gesturing toward the tent on the left. “There are several members of the sheikh’s family here tonight. I’m sure you’ll be made to feel very welcome.”

Nadia exchanged a final brief glance with al-Kamal before setting off toward the tent. Two veiled women appeared and, greeting her warmly in Nedji Arabic, drew her through the opening. Inside were twenty more women just like them. They were seated on thick Oriental rugs, around heaping platters of lamb, chicken, eggplant, rice, and flat bread. Some wore the niqab like Nadia, but most were fully veiled. In the enclosed space of the tent, their energetic chatter sounded like the clicking of cicadas. It fell silent for a few seconds while Nadia was introduced by one of the women who had greeted her. Apparently, they had been waiting for Nadia’s arrival to begin eating, for one of the women loudly exclaimed, “Al-hamdu lillah!”—Thanks be to God! Then the women set upon the platters as if they had not eaten in many days and would not see food again for a very long time.

Still standing, Nadia searched the shapeless veiled forms for a moment before settling herself between two women in their twenties. One was named Adara, the other Safia. Adara came from Buraydah and was the sheikh’s niece. Her brother had gone to Iraq to fight the Americans and had vanished without a trace. Safia turned out to be the wife of Ali, the talib. “I was named for the Muslim woman who killed a Jewish spy in the time of the Prophet,” she said proudly before adding the obligatory “peace be upon him.” Rafiq al-Kamal had been right about the Toyota Camry; it had been given to Ali after his graduation from the terrorist rehabilitation program. Safia had been given to him as well, along with a respectable dowry. They were expecting their first child in four months’ time. “Inshallah, it will be a boy,” she said.

“If it is the will of God,” repeated Nadia with a serenity that did not match her thoughts.

Nadia served herself a small portion of chicken and rice and looked around at the other women. A few had removed their niqabs, but most were attempting to eat with their faces covered, including Adara and Safia. Nadia did the same, all the while listening to the constant hum of chatter around her. It was frightfully banal: family gossip, the newest shopping center in Riyadh, the accomplishments of their children. Only their sons, of course, for their female offspring were symbols of reproductive failure. This was how they spent their lives, locked away in separate rooms, in separate tents, in the company of women just like themselves. They attended no theater productions, because there was not one playhouse in the entire country. They went to no discotheques, because music and dancing were both strictly haram. They read nothing but the Koran—which they studied separately from men—and heavily censored magazines promoting clothing they were not allowed to wear in public. Occasionally, they would grant one another physical pleasure, the dirty little secret of Saudi Arabia, but for the most part they led lives of crushing, depressing boredom. And when it was over they would be buried in the Wahhabi tradition, in a grave with no marker, beneath the blistering sands of the Nejd.

Despite it all, Nadia couldn’t help but feel strangely comforted by the warm embrace of her people and her faith. That was the one thing Westerners would never understand about Islam: it was all-encompassing. It woke you in the morning with the call to prayer and covered you like an abaya as you moved through the rest of your day. It was in every word, every thought, and every deed of a pious Muslim. And it was here, in this communal gathering of veiled women, in the heart of the Nejd.

It was then she felt the first terrible pang of guilt. It swept up on her with the suddenness of a sandstorm and without the courtesy of a warning. By throwing in her lot with the Israelis and the Americans, she was effectively renouncing her faith as a Muslim. She was a heretic, an apostate, and the punishment for apostasy was death. It was a death these veiled, bored women gathered around her would no doubt condone. They had no choice; if they dared to rise to her defense, they would suffer the same fate.

The guilt quickly passed and was replaced by fear. To steel herself, she thought of Rena, her guide, her beacon. And she thought how appropriate it was that her act of betrayal should occur here, in the sacred land of the Nejd, in the comforting embrace of veiled women. And if she had any misgivings about the path she had chosen, it was too late. Because through the opening in the tent she could see Ali, the bearded talib, coming across the desert in his short Salafi thobe. It was time to have a quiet word with the sheikh. After that, Allah willing, the rains would come, and it would be done.