Portrait of a Spy

Abbas said he had just spoken to “an associate of the Yemeni.” It seemed the Yemeni’s enterprise had suffered a string of recent setbacks and was in desperate need of additional financing. The associate wished to appeal to Nadia personally and was willing to discuss future plans, including several pending deals in America. This associate, whom Abbas described as “extremely close” to the Yemeni, had suggested Dubai as a meeting site. Apparently, he was a frequent visitor to the fabulously rich emirate and even kept a modest apartment in the Jumeirah Beach district. Needless to say, the associate of the Yemeni was well aware of Miss al-Bakari’s security concerns and would be willing to meet her in a place where she would feel both safe and comfortable.

“Where?”

“The Burj Al Arab.”

“When?”

“A week from Thursday.”

“I’m supposed to be in Istanbul that day on business.”

“The associate’s schedule is very busy. It will be his one and only chance to meet with you for the foreseeable future.”

“When does he need an answer?”

“I’m afraid he needs it now.”

“What time would he like to see me?”

“Nine in the evening.”

“My bodyguards won’t permit any changes.”

“The associate assures me there won’t be any.”

“Then please tell him I’ll be at the Burj next Thursday evening at nine p.m. And tell him not to be late. Because I never invest money with people who are late for meetings.”

“I assure you he won’t be late.”

“Will there be anyone else in attendance?”

“Just me—unless, of course, you would rather go alone.”

“Actually, I would prefer it if you came.”

“Then I would be honored to be at your side. I’ll be waiting in the lobby. You have my mobile number.”

“I’ll see you next Thursday, Inshallah.”

“Inshallah, Miss al-Bakari.”

Carter clicked pause.

“The next recording is a call that was placed to Samir’s home just six hours earlier. He was sleeping soundly at the time and wasn’t pleased when the phone rang. His mood changed when he heard the voice at the other end. The gentleman never bothered to identify himself. He placed the call from Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, using a cell phone that had no history and no longer seems to be operative. There’s some dropout and a great deal of background noise. Here’s a sample.”

Carter clicked play.

“Tell her we need more money. Tell her we’re willing to discuss future plans. Make it clear that we’re sending someone important.”

Pause.

“So who exactly is the close associate of the Yemeni who wishes to meet with Nadia?” Carter asked rhetorically. “This phone call appears to provide the answer. It took a bit of work because of the poor quality, but NSA was able to manipulate the recording and conduct voice-match analysis. They ran it through every database we have, including databases of radio and cell phone communications collected in Iraq during the height of the insurgency. One hour ago, they came up with a match. Anyone care to venture a guess as to the identity of the man Samir Abbas was speaking to?”

“I’m tempted to say it was Malik al-Zubair,” Gabriel said, “but that’s not possible. You see, Adrian, Malik is a rumor. Malik is a hunch on Dina’s part.”

“No, he’s not,” Carter conceded. “Dina was right. Malik is for real. He was in Jeddah two days ago. And he may or may not be coming to the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai next Thursday evening to have a word with his new patron, Nadia al-Bakari. The question is, what do we do about it?”

Carter rapped his pipe against the rim of his ashtray. The Shura Council was now in session.

Chapter 49 The Plains, Virginia

IT WAS AN AMERICAN OPERATION, which meant it was an American decision to make. McKenna clearly had no intention of offering the first opinion, lest the ground shift suddenly beneath his feet, so he adroitly deferred to Carter, who began, in typical Carter fashion, with a detour. It was to a place called Forward Operating Base Chapman, a CIA post in remote eastern Afghanistan, where, in December 2009, a CIA asset named Humam Khalil Abu-Mulal al-Balawi came calling to deliver a report to his handlers. A Jordanian physician with links to the jihadist movement, Dr. Balawi had been providing the CIA with critical information used to target al-Qaeda militants in Pakistan. His true mission, however, was to penetrate the CIA and Jordanian intelligence—a mission that came to a disastrous conclusion that day when he detonated a bomb hidden beneath his coat, killing seven CIA officers. It was among the worst single attacks against the Agency in its history, and certainly the worst during Adrian Carter’s long career as director of operations. It demonstrated that al-Qaeda was willing to expend extraordinary time and effort to exact revenge against the intelligence services that pursued it. And it proved that when spies ignore the basic rules of tradecraft, officers could end up dead.

“Are you suggesting that Nadia al-Bakari is in league with al-Qaeda?” asked McKenna.

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. In fact, it is my opinion that when the secret history of the global war on terror is finally written, Nadia will be regarded as one of the most valuable assets who ever worked on the side of the West. Which is why I would hate to lose her because we got greedy and sent her into a situation we shouldn’t have.”

“Malik isn’t inviting her to South Waziristan,” McKenna said. “He’s asking to meet with her in one of the most famous hotels in the world.”

“Actually,” Carter replied, “we don’t know whether it’s going to be Malik al-Zubair or Nobody al-Nobody. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“It violates tradecraft. You remember tradecraft, don’t you, Jim? Rule one says we control as many environmental factors as possible. We choose the time. We choose the place. We pick out the furniture. We order the drinks. And, if possible, we serve the drinks. And we sure as hell don’t let someone like Nadia al-Bakari get within a country mile of a man like Malik.”

“But sometimes we play the hand we’re dealt,” McKenna countered. “Isn’t that what you told the president the day after we lost those seven CIA officers?”

Gabriel noticed a rare flash of anger in Carter’s eyes, but when he spoke again, his voice was as calm and underpowered as ever. “My father was an Episcopal minister, Jim. I don’t play cards.”

“Then what are you recommending?”

“This operation has worked better than any of us ever dared to hope,” Carter said. “Maybe we shouldn’t push our luck with a risky pass play late in the fourth quarter.”

Shamron appeared annoyed. He considered the use of American sports metaphors to be inappropriate for a business as vital as espionage. In Shamron’s opinion, intelligence officers did not blow fourth-quarter leads, or strike out, or fumble the ball. There was only success or failure—and the price of failure in a neighborhood like the Middle East was usually blood.

“Call it a day?” Shamron asked. “Is that what you’re saying, Adrian?”

“Why not? The president got his victory, and so did the Agency. Better still, everybody lives to fight another day.” Carter brushed the palms of his hands together twice and said, “Halas.”

McKenna seemed perplexed. Gabriel explained the reference to him.