Portrait of a Spy

“Hellfire missiles don’t need passports, hotel rooms, and airline tickets. They also don’t have a problem operating in Arab countries. We do.” Gabriel paused. “You do realize that Dubai is an Arab country, don’t you, Adrian?”

“I think I may have read something about that.”

Gabriel hesitated. They were now about to enter sensitive territory dealing with capabilities and operational tendencies. Intelligence agencies guard these secrets jealously and expose them to allies only under duress. For the Office, it was akin to heresy. With a nod, Gabriel delegated the task to Uzi Navot, who slipped on his eyeglasses again and stared at Carter for a long moment without speaking.

“We live in a complex world, Adrian,” he said finally, “so sometimes it helps to simplify things. As far as we are concerned, there are two types of countries—places where we can operate with impunity and places where we can’t. We call the first category base countries.”

“Like the United States,” Carter acknowledged with a smile.

“And the United Kingdom,” Navot added with a glance toward the deputy director of MI5. “Despite your best efforts, we come and go as needed and do pretty much as we please. If we get into trouble, we have a network of safe houses and bolt-holes that were put in place by the man seated at my side. In the event of a disaster, God forbid, our agents can take sanctuary in an embassy or ask for help from a friendly secret policeman like Graham.”

Shamron gave Navot a murderous look. Navot carried on as though he hadn’t noticed.

“We refer to the second category as target countries. These are hostile lands. No embassies. No safe houses. The secret policemen aren’t friendly. In fact, were they to get their hands on us, they would torture us, shoot us, hang us on television for their people to see, or put us in jail for a very long time.”

“What do you need?” asked Carter.

“Passports,” said Gabriel, taking over for Navot. “The kind that allow us to enter Dubai without an advance visa.”

“What flavor?”

“American, British, Canadian, Australian.”

“Why Canadian and Aussie?” asked Graham Seymour.

“Because we’re going to need a large team, and I need to spread them out geographically.”

“Why not use your own false passports?”

This time it was Shamron who answered. “Because they require a great deal of time, effort, and scheming to produce. And we would prefer not to waste them on an operation that we’re carrying out for the sake of American equity.”

Carter couldn’t help but smile at the slight directed toward James McKenna. “We’ll get you all the passports you need,” he said.

“And credit cards to go with them,” added Gabriel. “Not the prepaid kind. I want real credit cards from real banks.”

Carter nodded his head, as did Graham Seymour.

“What else?” Carter asked.

“Dubai’s geography presents us with challenges,” Navot said. “As far as we’re concerned, there’s only one way in and out.”

“The airport,” said Carter.

“That’s right,” Gabriel replied. “But we can’t be held hostage by commercial flights. We need our own airplane, American registry, clean provenance.”

“I’ll get you a G5.”

“A Gulfstream isn’t big enough.”

“What do you want?”

Gabriel told him. Carter stared at the ceiling, as if calculating the impact of the request on his operational budgets.

“Next I suppose you’ll tell me you want an American crew, too.”

“I do,” Gabriel said. “I also need weapons.”

“Make and model?”

Gabriel recited them. Carter nodded. “I’ll bring them in through the embassy. Does that cover everything?”

“Everything but the star of the show,” said Gabriel.

“Judging by the sound of her voice on that intercept, you’re not going to have any difficulty convincing her to do it.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Gabriel said, “because she deserves to know that the full faith and credit of the American government are behind her.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so do we.”

“I’ve promised you passports, money, guns, and a Boeing Business Jet with an American crew. What other gesture of American support would you like?”

“I’d like a word with your boss.”

“The director?”

Gabriel shook his head. Carter went to the secure phone and dialed.

It was approaching ten p.m. when the Escalade entered the White House grounds through the Fifteenth Street gate. A uniformed Secret Service agent gave Carter’s credentials a cursory glance, then instructed the driver to pull forward for a quick sniff from Oscar, the omnivorous Alsatian that had tried to take a chunk out of Gabriel’s leg during his last visit. The beast found nothing disagreeable about Carter’s official vehicle other than the right- front tire, against which he urinated forcefully before returning to his crate.

The inspection complete, the SUV maneuvered its way through a labyrinth of reinforced concrete and steel to the parking lot located along East Executive Drive. Carter and Chiara remained inside the vehicle while Gabriel set out alone up the gentle slope of the drive toward the Executive Mansion. Waiting beneath the awning of the Diplomatic Entrance was a tall, trim figure dressed in a dark suit and an open-neck white shirt. The greeting was cordial but restrained—a brief handshake, followed by a languid gesture of the arm that suggested a stroll around the most heavily guarded eighteen acres on earth. Gabriel gave a terse nod, and when the president of the United States turned to his right, toward the old magnolia tree that had never quite recovered from being struck by an airplane, Gabriel followed.

Carter watched the two men intently as they headed down the drive—one crisp and precise in his movements, the other graceful and loose limbed. As they were nearing the walkway leading to the Oval Office, they paused suddenly and turned in unison to face one another. Even from a distance, and even in the darkness, Carter could see that the exchange was not altogether pleasant.

Their dispute apparently resolved, they set off again, past the putting green and the small playground that had been erected for the president’s young children, and disappeared from view. The agent-runner in Carter compelled him to mark the time on his secure Motorola cell phone, which he did a second time when Gabriel and the president reappeared. The president’s hands were now in the pockets of his trousers, and he was bent forward slightly at the waist, as if leaning into a stiff headwind. Gabriel appeared to be doing most of the talking. He was stabbing at the air with his finger, as if trying to reinforce a particularly important point.

Their circuit of the South Lawn complete, the two men arrived back at the Diplomatic Entrance, where they had one final exchange. Gabriel appeared resolute at the end of it, as did the president. He placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, then, with a final nod of his head, entered the White House. Gabriel stood there for a moment, entirely alone. Then he turned and headed back down the drive to the Escalade. Carter said nothing until they had navigated their way through the security labyrinth and were back on Fifteenth Street.

“How was he?”

“He definitely knows your name,” Gabriel said. “And he admires you a great deal.”

“Perhaps he could say something to his terrorism czar.”

“I’m working on that.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

Carter smiled. “Good man.”