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Chapter 23 Paris

IN THE AFTERMATH, THE TEAM would recall the period of preparation that came next as among the most unpleasant they had ever endured. The cause was none other than Gabriel, whose brittle mood cast a pall over the rooms of Château Treville. He quibbled over the placement of observation posts, second-guessed backup plans, and even briefly considered requesting a change of venue. Under normal circumstances, the team would not have hesitated to push back, but they could sense that something about the operation had set Gabriel on edge. Dina reckoned it was Covent Garden and the terrible memories of the shot not taken, a theory that was dismissed by Eli Lavon. It was not London that weighed on Gabriel’s mind, Lavon explained, but Cannes. Gabriel had violated a personal canon that night; he had killed Zizi in front of his daughter. Zizi al-Bakari, financier of mass murder, had deserved to die. But Nadia, his only child, had not been obliged to witness it.

Only Zoe Reed remained shielded from Gabriel’s bout of bad temper. She spent an unhurried final day in New York, then, at five-thirty that afternoon, boarded Air France Flight 17 bound for Paris. An experienced traveler, she carried only a small overnight bag and a briefcase containing her notebook computer and research packet, which included a file of highly classified material, along with a detailed briefing paper on strategy for the luncheon. The items were handed to Zoe shortly after takeoff by her seatmate, an operative from the Office’s New York station, and were collected again shortly before landing.

Still in possession of a British passport, Zoe breezed through customs in the EU express line and took a car service into the city center. It was approaching nine when she arrived at the Crillon; after checking into her room, she changed into a tracksuit and went for a run along the footpaths of the Jardin des Tuileries. At eleven thirty, she presented herself at an exclusive salon next to the hotel for a wash and blow-dry, then returned to her room to dress for lunch. She departed her room early and was standing in the elegant lobby, hands clasped to conceal a bout of nerves, as the stately grandfather clock tolled quarter past the hour.

It was the quiet time of the year at the Crillon, the annual ceasefire between the running battle of the summer season and the celebrity-strewn ambush of the winter holidays. Monsieur Didier, the chief concierge, stood behind his barricade, gold half-moon reading glasses perched at the end of his regal nose, looking like the last man on earth anyone would ask for assistance. Herr Schmidt, the imported German day manager, stood a few feet away at reception, holding a telephone to his ear, while Isabelle, the special events coordinator, fussed with orchids in the sparkling entrance hall. Her efforts went largely unnoticed by the bored-looking Arab businessman sitting near the elevators and by the pair of lovers huddled over their café crèmes in the cold shadows of the interior courtyard. The businessman was actually an employee of AAB’s generously staffed security department. The lovers were Yaakov and Chiara. The hotel staff believed them to be an agreeable couple from Montreal who had popped into Paris on short notice to comfort a friend going through a messy divorce.

As the clock struck the bottom of the hour, Isabelle drifted over to the doorway and peered expectantly into the leaden Paris afternoon. Zoe glanced into the courtyard and saw Yaakov tapping a book of matches on the tabletop. It was the prearranged signal indicating that the motorcade—two S-Class Mercedes sedans for the hired help and a Maybach 62 for Her Highness—had departed AAB’s building on the Boulevard Haussmann and was en route to the hotel. At that moment, the cars were actually stuck in traffic along the narrow rue de Miromesnil. Once free of the obstruction, it took just five minutes for them to reach the entrance of the Crillon, where Isabelle, flanked by the better-looking half of the bell staff, now stood. The undercover AAB security man was no longer feigning boredom. He was now hovering at Zoe’s shoulder, making little effort to conceal the fact he was armed.

Outside, six car doors opened in unison, and six men, all former members of the elite Saudi National Guard, emerged. One was familiar to Gabriel and the rest of the team: Rafiq al-Kamal, the burly former chief of Zizi al-Bakari’s personal security detail, who now served in the same capacity for his daughter. It was al-Kamal who had conducted the advance sweep of the hotel earlier that morning. And it was al-Kamal who now walked a subservient step behind Nadia as she flowed from the back of her Maybach into the lobby where Zoe stood with a porcelain smile fixed upon her face and her heart beating against her breastbone.

There exist in the file rooms of King Saul Boulevard many photos of a younger version of Nadia, or, as Eli Lavon was fond of saying, Nadia before the fall. Zoe had been given access to some of the more illustrative shots during the flight from New York. They showed a petulant woman in her mid-twenties, darkly beautiful, spoiled, and superior. She was a woman who smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol behind her father’s back and who, in violation of Muhammad’s teachings, bared her flesh on some of the world’s most glamorous beaches. Her father’s death had straightened Nadia’s carriage and lent a serious light to her face, yet it had robbed her of none of her beauty. She wore a radiant dress of winter white, with her dark hair hanging straight between her shoulder blades like a satin cape. Her nose was long and straight. Her eyes were wide and nearly black. Pearls lay against the caramel-colored skin of her neck. A thick gold bracelet sparkled on her slender wrist. Her scent was an intoxicating blend of jasmine, lavender, and the sun. Her hand, when it closed around Zoe’s, was as cool as marble.

“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” Nadia said in an accent that betrayed no origin other than unfathomable wealth. “I’ve heard so much about your work.”

She smiled for the first time, a cautious effort that did not quite extend to her eyes. Zoe felt slightly claustrophobic in the enclosure of the bodyguards, but Nadia conducted herself as though she were unaware of their presence.

“I’m sorry to make you come all the way to Paris on such short notice.”

“Not at all, Ms. al-Bakari.”

“Nadia,” she said, her smile genuine now. “I insist you call me Nadia.”

Al-Kamal appeared anxious to move the party out of the lobby, as did Madame Dubois, who was rocking slightly from heel to toe. Zoe suddenly felt an unseen hand on her elbow nudging her toward the elevators. She squeezed into a cramped carriage next to Nadia and her bodyguards and had to turn her shoulders slightly in order for the door to close. The scent of jasmine 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.