Portrait of a Spy

Chapter 43 Nejd, Saudi Arabia

SHE FOLLOWED THE TALIB INTO the desert, along the rim of the wadi. There was no proper footpath, only a swath of beaten earth, the remnants of an ancient camel track that had been carved into the desert floor long before anyone in the Nejd had ever heard of a preacher called Wahhab or even a trader from Mecca called Muhammad. The talib carried no torch, for no torch was needed. Their way was lit by the hard white stars shining in the vast sky and by the hilal moon floating above a distant spire of rock, like a crescent atop the world’s tallest minaret. Nadia carried her high heels in one hand and with the other lifted the hem of her black abaya. The air had turned bitterly cold, but the earth felt warm against her feet. The talib was walking a few paces ahead. His thobe appeared luminescent in the moon glow. He was reciting verses of the Koran softly to himself, but to Nadia he spoke not a word.

They came upon a tent with no satellite dish or generator. Two men crouched outside the entrance, their young, bearded faces lit by the faint glow of a small fire. The talib offered them a greeting of peace, then pulled open the flap of the tent and gestured for Nadia to enter. Sheikh Marwan Bin Tayyib, dean of the department of theology at the University of Mecca, sat cross-legged on a simple Oriental carpet, reading the Koran by the light of a gas lantern. Closing the book, he regarded Nadia through his small round spectacles for a long moment before inviting her to sit. She lowered herself slowly to the carpet, careful not to expose her flesh, and arranged herself piously next to the Koran.

“The veil becomes you,” Bin Tayyib said admiringly, “but you may remove it, if you wish.”

“I prefer to keep it on.”

“I never realized you were so devout. Your reputation is that of a liberated woman.”

The sheikh clearly did not mean it as a compliment. He intended to test her, but then she had expected nothing less. Neither had Gabriel. Hide only us, he had said. Adhere to the truth when possible. Lie as a last resort. It was the way of the Office. The way of the professional spy.

“Liberated from what?” Nadia asked, deliberately provoking him.

“From the sharia,” said the sheikh. “I’m told you never wear the veil in the West.”

“It is impractical.”

“It is my understanding that more and more of our women are choosing to remain veiled when they travel. I’m told that many Saudi women cover their faces when they are having tea at Harrods.”

“They don’t run large investment companies. And most of them drink more than just tea when they’re in the West.”

“I hear you are one of them.”

Adhere to the truth when possible. . . .

“I confess that I am fond of wine.”

“It is haram,” he said in a scolding tone.

“Blame it on my father. He permitted me to drink when I was in the West.”

“He was lenient with you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “he wasn’t lenient. He spoiled me terribly. But he also gave me his great faith.”

“Faith in what?”

“Faith in Allah and His Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

“If my memory is correct, your father regarded himself as a descendant of Wahhab himself.”

“Unlike the al-Asheikh family, we are not direct descendants. We come from a distant branch.”

“Distant or not, his blood flows through you.”

“So it is said.”

“But you have chosen not to marry and have children. Is this, too, a matter of practicality?”

Nadia hesitated.

Lie as a last resort. . . .

“I came of age in the wake of my father’s murder,” she said. “My grief makes it impossible for me to even contemplate the idea of marriage.”

“And now your grief has led you to us.”

“Not grief,” Nadia said. “Anger.”

“Here in the Nejd, it is sometimes difficult to tell the two apart.” The sheikh gave her a sympathetic smile, his first. “But you should know that you are not alone. There are hundreds of Saudis just like you—good Muslims whose loved ones were killed by the Americans or are rotting to this day in the cages of Guantánamo Bay. And many have come to the brothers in search of revenge.”

“None of them watched their father being murdered in cold blood.”

“You believe this makes you special?”

“No,” Nadia said, “I believe it is my money that makes me special.”

“Very special,” the sheikh said. “It’s been five years since your father was martyred, has it not?”

Nadia nodded.

“That is a long time, Miss al-Bakari.”

“In the Nejd, it is the blink of an eye.”

“We expected you sooner. We even sent our brother Samir to make contact with you. But you rejected his entreaties.”

“It wasn’t possible for me to help you at the time.”

“Why not?”

“I was being watched.”

“By whom?”

“By everyone,” she said, “including the al-Saud.”

“They warned you against taking any action to avenge your father’s death?”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“They said there would be financial consequences?”

“They didn’t go into specifics, except to say the consequences would be grave.”

“And you believed them?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they are liars.” Bin Tayyib allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment. “How do I know that you are not a spy sent here by the al-Saud to entrap me?”

“How do I know that you are not the spy, Sheikh Bin Tayyib? After all, you are the one who’s on the al-Saud payroll.”

“So are you, Miss al-Bakari. At least that’s the rumor.”

Nadia gave the sheikh a withering look. She could only imagine how she must have appeared to him—two coal-black eyes glaring over a black niqab. Perhaps there was value to the veil after all.

“Try to see it from our point of view, Miss al-Bakari,” Bin Tayyib continued. “In the five years since your father’s martyrdom, you have said nothing about him in public. You seem to spend as little time in Saudi Arabia as possible. You smoke, you drink, you shun the veil—except, of course, when you are trying to impress me with your piety—and you throw away hundreds of millions of dollars on infidel art.”

Obviously, the sheikh’s test was not yet over. Nadia remembered the last words Gabriel had spoken to her at Château Treville. You’re Zizi’s daughter. Never let them forget it.

“Perhaps you’re right, Sheikh Bin Tayyib. Perhaps I should have cloaked myself in a burqa and declared my intention to avenge my father’s death on television. Surely that