Portrait of a Spy

case. It was captured by Nadia’s compromised BlackBerry and by the transmitter concealed in her stylish Prada handbag, and broadcast securely to the forty-second floor of the Burj Al Arab hotel, where Gabriel and Eli Lavon sat tensely before their computers.

The welcome ceremony complete, the minister gestured disdainfully toward the reporters, but the notoriously reclusive heiress declined and headed directly for her limousine. At which point the minister suggested she ride with him instead. After consulting briefly with Rafiq al-Kamal, Nadia climbed into the back of the minister’s official car—a moment that was broadcast to the entire country, thirty minutes later, on Dubai TV. Gabriel dispatched a secure e-mail to Adrian Carter at Rashidistan, informing him that NAB was safely on the ground. But this time she was not alone. NAB was at the side of the minister of finance. And NAB was the lead of the midday news.

The property in question wasn’t much to look at—a few uninviting acres of salt flats and sand located just up the beach from the Palm Jumeirah. An Italian company had broken ground on a rather conventional resort a few years back but had been forced to pull up stakes when the financing went the way of water in the desert. AAB Holdings and its British partner, the predatory investment firm of Rogers & Cressey, wished to resuscitate the project, though their plans were anything but conventional. The high-rise hotel would surpass the Burj Al Arab in luxury, the fitness centers and tennis facilities would be among the finest in the world, and the swimming pools would be both architectural and environmental wonders. Top chefs would operate the restaurants while internationally renowned stylists would run the hair salons. The condominium units would start at the equivalent of three million dollars. The shopping arcade would make the Mall of the Emirates seem positively downmarket.

The impact on Dubai’s reeling economy promised to be immense. According to AAB’s own projections, the development would pump more than a hundred million dollars into Dubai’s economy on an annual basis. In the short term, it would send an unambiguous signal to the rest of the global financial community that the emirate was once again open for business. Which was why the minister appeared to be hanging on Nadia’s every word as she toured the site, blueprints in hand, a construction hard hat on her head. The image was carefully crafted on her part. No longer could the Muslim world oppress more than half its population simply because of gender. Only when the Arabs treated women as equals could they regain their former glory.

After leaving the site, the delegations headed to the minister’s ornate offices to discuss a package of incentives that Dubai was proposing to help close the deal. At the conclusion of the meeting, Nadia was driven to the palace for a private word with the Ruler, after which she embarked on what was described as the private portion of her schedule. It included tea with members of the Dubai Women’s Business Forum, a visit to an Islamic school for girls, and a tour of the migrant workers camp at Sonapur. Moved to tears by the terrible conditions, she broke her long public silence, calling on government and business to impose minimum standards for pay and treatment of migrant workers. She also pledged twenty million dollars of her own money to help construct a new camp at Sonapur, complete with air-conditioned bunkhouses, running water, and basic recreational facilities. Neither Dubai TV nor the Khaleej Times dared to publicize the remarks. The minister had warned them not to.

It was approaching six in the evening when Nadia left the camp and started back to Dubai city. Darkness had fallen by the time her motorcade reached the Jumeirah Beach district, and the famous dhow-shaped wings of the Burj Al Arab were lit the color of magenta. The general manager and his senior staff were waiting outside the entrance as Nadia emerged from the back of her car, the hem of her abaya soiled by the grime of Sonapur. Weary from a day of travel and meetings that had begun at dawn in Paris, she gave them a perfunctory greeting before heading directly to her usual suite on the forty-second floor. Two members of her security detail were already stationed outside the door. Rafiq al-Kamal gave the rooms a cursory inspection before allowing Nadia to enter.

“My last meeting of the day will run from nine until ten or so,” she said, tossing the Prada handbag onto a divan in the sitting room. “Tell Mansur to book an eleven o’clock departure slot. And please ask Rahimah to be on time for once in her life. Otherwise, she can fly back to Paris on Air France.”

“Perhaps I should tell her to be at the airport no later than eleven-thirty.”

“It’s tempting,” Nadia said, smiling, “but I don’t think her father would appreciate that.”

Al-Kamal seemed reluctant to leave.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He hesitated. “At the camp today . . .”

“What is it, Rafiq?”

“No one ever lifts a finger for those poor wretches. It’s about time someone spoke up. I’m glad it was you.” He paused, then added, “And I was proud to be at your side.”

She smiled. “Nine o’clock,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

“Zizi’s rules,” he said.

She nodded. “Zizi’s rules.”

Alone, Nadia stripped off the abaya and headscarf and changed into the Chanel suit. She covered a portion of her hair with a matching scarf and slipped on the Harry Winston wristwatch. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Adhere to the truth when possible. Lie as a last resort. The truth was staring back at her in the glass. The lie was in the next room. She opened the communicating door to the adjoining suite and knocked twice. The door swung back instantly, revealing a woman who may or may not have been Sarah Bancroft. She placed a finger to her lips and drew Nadia silently inside.

Chapter 56 Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

THE SUITE WAS REGISTERED UNDER the name Thomas Fowler. Thus the jungle of complimentary flowers, the platters of complimentary Arabian sweets, and the unopened bottle of complimentary Dom Pérignon sweating in a bucket of melted ice. The recipient of this largess was pacing the garish sitting room, working over the final details of a land and development deal he had no intention of actually making. Every few seconds, a member of his staff would pose a question or rattle off a few encouraging numbers—all for the benefit of the Ruler’s hidden microphones. None of the staff bothered to acknowledge Nadia’s presence, nor did they seem to think it odd when Sarah immediately led her into the bathroom. In the vanity area was a tentlike structure made of an opaque silver material. Sarah relieved Nadia of her BlackBerry before opening the flap. Gabriel was already seated inside. He gestured for Nadia to sit in the empty chair.

“A tent in the bathroom,” said Nadia, smiling. “How Bedouin of you.”

“You’re not the only people who come from the desert.”

She looked around the interior, clearly intrigued. “What is it?”

“We call it the chuppah. It allows us to speak freely in rooms we know are bugged.”

“May I have it when we’re done?”

He smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

She touched the fabric. It had a metallic quality.

“Isn’t the chuppah used in Jewish wedding ceremonies?”

“We take our vows beneath the chuppah. They’re very important to us.”

“So is this our wedding ceremony?” she asked, still stroking the fabric.

“I’m already spoken for. Besides, I gave you a solemn vow in a manor house outside Paris.”

She placed her hand in her lap. “Your script for today was a work of art,” she said. “I only hope I did it justice.”

“You were magnificent, Nadia, but that was a rather expensive ad lib at Sonapur.”

“Twenty million dollars for a new camp? It was the least I could do for them.”

“Shall I ask the CIA to pick up the tab?”

“My treat,” she said.

Gabriel examined Nadia’s Chanel suit. “It fits you well.”