The driver smiled but said nothing. He continued along Route 123, past the low-slung shopping centers and business parks of downtown McLean, before finally turning onto Lewinsville Road. He turned again after a quarter mile onto Tysons McLean Drive and followed it up the slope of a gentle rise. The road bent to the left, then to the right, before delivering them to a large checkpoint manned by a dozen uniformed guards, all heavily armed. A clipboard was consulted, a dog sniffed for bombs. Then the Suburban proceeded slowly to the forecourt of a large office building, the headquarters of the National Counterterrorism Center. On the opposite side of the court, connected by a convenient sky bridge, was the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. The complex, thought Gabriel, was a monument to failure. The American intelligence community, the largest and most advanced the world had ever known, had failed to prevent the attacks of 9/11. And for its sins it had been reorganized and rewarded with money, real estate, and pretty buildings.
An employee of the center—a pantsuited, ponytailed woman of perhaps thirty—awaited Gabriel in the lobby. She gave him a guest pass, which he clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket, and led him to the Operations Floor, the NCTC’s nerve center. The giant video screens and kidney-shaped desks gave it the appearance of a television newsroom. The desks were an optimistic shade of pale pine, like something from an IKEA catalog. At one sat Adrian Carter, Fareed Barakat, and Paul Rousseau. As Gabriel took his assigned seat, Carter handed him a photograph of a dark-haired man in his mid-forties.
“Is this the fellow you saw at the Four Seasons?”
“A reasonable facsimile. Who is he?”
“Omar al-Farouk, Saudi national, not quite a member of the royal family, but close enough.”
“Says who?”
“Says our man in Riyadh. He checked him out. He’s clean.”
“Checked him out how? Checked him with whom?”
“The Saudis.”
“Well,” said Gabriel cynically, “that settles it then.”
Carter said nothing.
“Put him under watch, Adrian.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time. Not quite a member of the royal family, but close enough. Besides, Saudi Arabia is our ally in the fight against ISIS. Every month,” Carter added with a glance toward Fareed Barakat, “the Saudis write a big fat check to the king of Jordan to finance his efforts against ISIS. And if the check is one day late, the king calls Riyadh to complain. Isn’t that right, Fareed?”
“And every month,” Fareed replied, “certain wealthy Saudis funnel money and other support to ISIS. The Saudis aren’t alone. Qataris and Emiratis are doing it, too.”
Carter was unconvinced. He looked at Gabriel and said, “The FBI doesn’t have the resources to watch everyone who gives you a funny feeling at the back of your neck.”
“Then let us watch him for you.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Carter’s mobile chirped. He looked at the screen and frowned. “It’s the White House. I need to take this in private.”
He entered one of the fishbowl conference rooms at the edge of the Operations Floor and closed the door. Gabriel looked up at one of the video screens and saw a mouthwash-green airplane approaching the American coastline.
“How good are your sources inside Saudi Arabia?” he asked Fareed Barakat quietly.
“Better than yours, my friend.”
“Do me a favor then.” Gabriel handed Fareed the photograph. “Find out who this asshole really is.”
Fareed snapped a photo of the photo with his mobile phone and forwarded it to the GID headquarters in Amman. At the same time, Gabriel sent a message to King Saul Boulevard ordering surveillance of a guest at the Four Seasons Hotel named Omar al-Farouk.
“You realize,” murmured Fareed, “that we are totally busted.”
“I’ll send Adrian a nice fruit basket when this is all over.”
“He’s not allowed to accept gifts. Believe me, my friend, I’ve tried.”
Gabriel smiled in spite of himself and looked at the video screen. The mouthwash-green airplane had just entered American airspace.
54
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
IT TOOK AN HOUR FOR Dr. Leila Hadawi to navigate the frozen welcome mat at Dulles Airport’s passport control—forty minutes in the long, mazelike line, and another twenty minutes standing before the dais of a Customs and Border Protection officer. The officer was clearly not part of the operation. He questioned Dr. Hadawi at length about her recent travels—Greece was of particular interest—and about the purpose of her visit to the United States. Her response, that she had come to visit friends, was one he had heard many times before.
“Where do the friends live?”
“Falls Church.”
“What are their names?”
She gave him two Arabic names.
“Are you staying with them?”
“No.”
“Where are you staying?”
And on it went until finally she was invited to smile for a camera and place her fingers on the cool glass of a digital scanner. Returning her passport, the customs officer hollowly wished her a pleasant stay in the United States. She made her way to baggage claim, where her suitcase was circling slowly on an otherwise empty carousel. In the arrivals hall she searched for a man with coal-black hair and matching eyewear, but he was nowhere in sight. She was not surprised. While crossing the Atlantic, he had told her that the Office would be relegated to a secondary role, that the Americans were now in charge and would be taking the operational lead.
“And when I’m given my target?” she had asked.
“Send us a text through the usual channel.”
“And if they take my phone away from me?”
“Take a walk. Handbag over the left shoulder.”
“What if they don’t let me take a walk?”
She wheeled her bag outside and, assisted by a well-built American with a military-style haircut, boarded a Hertz shuttle bus. Her car, a bright red Chevrolet Impala, was in its assigned space. She placed her bag in the trunk, climbed behind the wheel, and hesitantly started the engine. The nobs and dials of the instrument panel seemed entirely alien to her. Then she realized she had not driven an automobile since the morning she had returned to her apartment in Jerusalem to find Dina Sarid sitting at her kitchen table. What a disaster it would be, she thought, if she were to kill or seriously injure herself in an accident. She punched a destination into her mobile phone and was informed that her drive of twenty-four miles would take well over an hour because of unusually heavy traffic. She smiled; she was glad for the delay. She removed her hijab and tucked it carefully into her handbag. Then she slipped the car into gear and headed slowly toward the exit.