Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel. Daniel SilvaЧитать онлайн книгу.
and lavender in the confined space was mildly hallucinogenic. On Nadia’s breath was the faintest trace of the last cigarette she had smoked.
“Do you come to Paris often, Zoe?”
“Not as often as I used to,” she answered.
“You’ve stayed at the Crillon before?”
“Actually, it’s my first time.”
“You really must allow me to pay for your room.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Zoe said with a gracious smile.
“It’s the least I can do.”
“It would also be unethical.”
“How so?”
“It could create the appearance that I’m accepting something of value in return for a favorable news piece. My company forbids it. Most journalistic enterprises do, at least the reputable ones.”
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”
“A reputable journalistic enterprise?” Zoe offered a confiding smile. “One or two.”
“Including yours?”
“Including mine,” said Zoe. “In fact, I would feel much more comfortable if you would allow me to pay for lunch.”
“Don’t be silly. Besides,” Nadia added, “I’m sure the famous Zoe Reed would never allow herself to be influenced by a nice lunch in a Paris hotel.”
They passed the rest of the journey in silence. When the doors of the elevator finally rattled open, al-Kamal surveyed the vestibule before leading Zoe and Nadia briskly into the Louis XV Suite. The classical French furnishings in the sitting room had been rearranged to create the impression of an elegant private dining room. Before the tall windows overlooking the Place de la Concorde was a round table set for two. Nadia surveyed the room with approval before snuffing out the single candle burning amid the crystal and silver. Then, with a movement of her dark eyes, she invited Zoe to sit.
There ensued a somewhat farcical few moments of unfurling napkins, closing doors, furtive glances, and murmured exchanges—some in French, some in Arabic. Finally, at Nadia’s insistence, the security men retreated into the corridor, accompanied by Madame Dubois, who was visibly uneasy about the prospect of leaving her boss alone with the famous reporter. The sommelier poured a few drops of Montrachet into Nadia’s glass. Nadia pronounced it satisfactory, then looked at Zoe’s BlackBerry, which was resting on the table like an uninvited guest. “Would you mind turning that off?” she asked, attempting to make light of the request. “One can never be too careful these days when it comes to electronic devices. You never know who might be listening.”
“I understand completely,” said Zoe.
Nadia returned her glass to the table and said, “I’m sure you do.”
Were it not for the miniature transmitter carefully concealed in the hotel suite, those four words, at once innocent and ominous, might have been the last heard by the man of medium height and build pacing the rooms of a château north of Paris. Instead, with a few keystrokes on his notebook computer, the audio feed resumed with only a brief interruption. In the courtyard of the Crillon, the couple from Montreal departed, replaced by two women in their mid-thirties. One had sandstone-colored hair and childbearing hips; the other had dark hair and walked with a slight limp. She pretended to read a glossy Paris fashion magazine. It helped to quiet the clock ticking relentlessly in her head.
SOME RECRUITMENTS ARE LIKE SEDUCTIONS, some border on extortion, and still others are like a ballet of the wounded. But even Ari Shamron, who had haunted the secret world far longer than most, would later say that he had never witnessed anything quite like the recruitment of Nadia al-Bakari. Having listened to the opening act over a secure link at King Saul Boulevard, he declared it one of the most masterful pieces of fieldwork he had ever heard. It was especially high praise given that the person doing the recruiting hailed from a profession for which Shamron had nothing but contempt.
Gabriel had instructed his recruiter to go slowly, and go slowly she did. For the first hour of the encounter, as hushed waiters entered and departed the hotel suite, Zoe questioned Nadia respectfully on the many changes she had made to AAB’s investment profile and on the challenges posed by the global recession without end. Much to Gabriel’s surprise, the reclusive Saudi heiress turned out to be an engaging and forthright conversationalist who seemed far wiser than her thirty-three years. Indeed, there was not a trace of tension until Zoe nonchalantly asked Nadia how often she traveled to Saudi Arabia. The question produced the first uncomfortable silence of the encounter, just as Gabriel had expected it would. Nadia regarded Zoe for a moment with her bottomless dark eyes before responding with a question of her own.
“You’ve been to Saudi Arabia?”
“Once,” replied Zoe.
“For your work?”
“Is there any other reason for a Westerner to go to Saudi Arabia?”
“I suppose not.” Nadia’s expression softened. “Where did you go?”
“I spent two days in Riyadh. Then I went to the Empty Quarter to tour the new Saudi Aramco oil-drilling project at Shaybah. It was very impressive.”
“Actually, you described it as ‘a technological marvel that will ensure Saudi domination of the global oil market for at least another generation.’ ” Nadia gave a fleeting smile. “Do you really think I would agree to a meeting without first reviewing your work? After all, you do have something of a reputation.”
“For what?”
“Ruthlessness,” said Nadia without hesitation. “They say you have something of a puritanical streak. They say you like to destroy companies and executives who step out of line.”
“I don’t do that kind of work any longer. I’m on television now. We don’t investigate. We just talk.”
“You don’t miss being a real journalist?”
“By that you mean a print journalist?”
“Yes.”
“Occasionally,” Zoe admitted, “but then I look at my bank account and I feel much better.”
“Is that why you left London? For money?”
“There were other reasons.”
“What kind of reasons?”
“The kind I generally don’t discuss in professional settings.”
“It sounds as though it had something to do with a man,” Nadia said, her tone conciliatory.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“Yes, I am.” Nadia reached for her wineglass but stopped. “I don’t go to Saudi Arabia often,” she said suddenly, “once every three or four months, no more. And when I do go, I don’t stay for long.”
“Because?”
“For the reasons you would expect.” Nadia appeared to choose her next words with great care. “The laws and customs of Islam and Saudi Arabia are old and very important to our society. I’ve learned how to navigate the system in a way that allows me to conduct my business with a minimum of disruption.”
“What about your countrywomen?”
“What about them?”
“Most aren’t as lucky as you are. Women in Saudi Arabia are considered property, not people. Most spend their lives locked away indoors. They’re not permitted to drive an automobile. They’re not permitted to go out in public without a male escort and without first concealing themselves beneath an abaya and a veil. They’re not