Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva
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except in Mecca and Medina, which is odd, since the Prophet Muhammad was something of a feminist. ‘Treat your women well and be kind to them,’ the Prophet said, ‘for they are your partners and committed helpers.’ ”
Nadia picked at an invisible flaw in the tablecloth. “I admire your honesty, Zoe. Most journalists trying to secure an important interview would resort to platitudes and flattery.”
“I can do that, if you prefer.”
“Actually, I prefer honesty. We don’t have enough of that in Saudi Arabia. In fact, we avoid it at all costs.” Nadia turned her gaze toward the windows. Outside, it was dark enough so that her image was reflected ghostlike in the glass. “I never realized you were so interested in the condition of Muslim women,” she said softly. “There’s no evidence of it in your previous work.”
“How much of it did you read?”
“All of it,” said Nadia. “There were many stories about corrupt businessmen but not one about the plight of Muslim women.”
“I’m interested in the rights of all women, regardless of their faith.” Zoe paused, then added provocatively, “I would think that someone in your position would be interested in them as well.”
“Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because you have the power and influence to be an important role model.”
“I run a large company, Zoe. I don’t have the time or desire to involve myself in politics.”
“You don’t have any?”
“Any what?”
“Politics.”
“I am a citizen of Saudi Arabia,” Nadia said. “We have a king, not politics. Besides, in the Middle East, politics can be very dangerous.”
“Was your father killed because of politics?” Zoe asked cautiously.
Nadia turned and gazed at Zoe. “I don’t know why my father was killed. I’m not sure anyone does, other than his murderers, of course.”
A heavy silence fell between them. It was broken a few seconds later by the sound of a door opening. A pair of waiters entered, bearing trays of coffee and pastries. They were followed by Rafiq al-Kamal, the chief of security, and Madame Dubois, who was tapping the face of her Cartier wristwatch as if to say the meeting had gone on long enough. Zoe feared Nadia might latch onto the signal as an excuse to take her leave. Instead, she ordered the intruders from the room with an imperious wave of her hand. She did the same for the waiter holding the tray of pastries, but accepted the coffee. She drank it black with an extraordinary amount of sugar.
“Are these the kinds of questions you propose to ask me on camera? Questions about the rights of women in Saudi Arabia? Questions about the death of my father?”
“We don’t divulge the questions in advance of an interview.”
“Come, come, Zoe. We both know how this works.”
Zoe made a brief show of thought. “If I failed to ask you about your father, I would be brought up on charges of journalistic malpractice. It makes you a deeply compelling figure.”
“What it makes me is a woman without a father.” Nadia removed a packet of Virginia Slims from her handbag and ignited one with a rather ordinary-looking gold lighter.
“You were there that night in Cannes?”
“I was,” said Nadia. “One minute we were all enjoying a wonderful evening in our favorite restaurant. The next I was holding my father as he lay dying in the street.”
“You saw the men who killed him?”
“There were two,” she said, nodding her head. “They rode motorcycles, very fast, very skillfully. At first, I thought they were just French boys having a bit of fun on a warm summer night. Then I saw the weapons. They were obviously professionals.” She drew on her cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “After that, everything is a blur.”
“There were reports that witnesses heard you screaming for revenge.”
“I’m afraid that retribution is the Bedouin way,” Nadia said sadly. “I suppose it runs in my blood.”
“You admired your father,” Zoe pressed.
“I did,” Nadia said.
“He was an art collector.”
“A voracious one.”
“I understand you share your father’s passion.”
“My art collection is private,” Nadia said, reaching for her coffee.
“Not as private as you think.”
Nadia looked up sharply but said nothing.
“My sources tell me that you made an important acquisition last month. They tell me that you were the one who paid the record price for the Rothko at Christie’s in New York.”
“Your sources are mistaken, Zoe.”
“My sources are never mistaken. And they’ve told me other things about you as well. Apparently, you’re not as indifferent to the rights of women in the Islamic world as you pretend to be. You’ve quietly given millions of dollars to combat violence against women and millions more to promote female entrepreneurship, which you believe will have the effect of empowering Muslim women as never before. But your charitable works don’t stop there. I’m told you’ve used your fortune to promote free and independent media in the Arab world. You’ve also attempted to counter the spread of dangerous Wahhabi ideology by donating to organizations that promote a more tolerant version of Islam.” Zoe paused. “Taken together, your activities paint a portrait of a courageous woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East.”
Nadia managed a dismissive smile. “It’s an intriguing story,” she said after a moment. “It’s a shame none of it is true.”
“That’s too bad,” Zoe replied, “because there are people who would like to help you.”
“What sort of people?”
“People of discretion.”
“In the Middle East, people of discretion are either spies or terrorists.”
“I can assure you they’re not terrorists.”
“So they must be spies then.”
“I wasn’t told their affiliation.”
Nadia gave her a skeptical look. Zoe held out a card. It had no name, only the number of her BlackBerry.
“This is my private number. It is important that you proceed with caution. As you know, there are people around you who do not share your goal of changing the Islamic world for the better—including your own bodyguards.”
“What is your interest in this matter, Zoe?”
“I have no interest, other than obtaining an interview with a woman I greatly admire.”
Nadia hesitated. Then she accepted the card and slipped it into her handbag. At that instant, the door of the hotel suite opened again and Madame Dubois entered with Rafiq al-Kamal at her side. She was once again tapping her wristwatch. This time, Nadia rose. Looking suddenly fatigued, she extended her hand toward Zoe.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to lift the veil just yet,” she said, “but I’d like some time to consider your offer. Would it be possible for you to remain in Paris for a few days?”
“It will be a terrible hardship,” Zoe said jokingly, “but I’ll try to manage.”
Nadia released Zoe’s hand and followed her security chief into the corridor. Zoe remained behind for a moment longer before returning to her room three floors below. There she powered on her BlackBerry