Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva
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more than just humiliation and ideology to produce terrorism on a global scale. It also takes money. The masterminds need money to inspire, money to recruit and train, and money to operate. With money, they can strike at will. Without it, they are nothing. Your father understood the power of money. So do you. That’s why we went to so much trouble to speak with you, Nadia. That’s why you’re here.”
Eli Lavon had slipped silently into the room and was watching the proceedings impassively from a perch along the windows. Nadia regarded him carefully for a moment, as if trying to place him in the cluttered drawers of her memory.
“Is he in charge?” she inquired.
“Max?” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “No, Max isn’t in charge. I’m the one who’s been cursed with the responsibility of command. Max is merely my guilty conscience. Max is my worried soul.”
“He doesn’t look worried to me.”
“That’s because Max is a professional. And like all professionals, Max is very good at concealing his emotions.”
“Like you.”
“Yes, like me.”
She glanced at Lavon and asked, “What’s bothering him?”
“Max thinks I’ve lost a step. Max is trying to prevent me from making what he thinks will be the biggest mistake of an otherwise unblemished career.”
“What mistake is that?”
“You,” said Gabriel. “I’m convinced you are the answer to my prayers, that we can work together in order to eliminate a grave threat to the security of the West and the Middle East. But as you can see, Max is much older than I am, and he’s terribly set in his ways. He finds the idea of our partnership laughable and naïve. He believes that, as a Muslim woman from Saudi Arabia, you acquired your hatred of Jews with the milk of your mother’s breast. Max is also convinced that you are, first and foremost, your father’s daughter. And Max believes that, like your father, you have two faces—one you show to the West and another you show at home.”
Nadia smiled for the first time. “Perhaps you should remind Max that I’m not allowed to show my face at home, at least not in public. And perhaps you should also remind Max that I risk my life every day trying to change that.”
“Max is highly dubious about your philanthropic activities and the motivations behind them. Max believes they are a cover for your real agenda, which is much more in keeping with that of your late father. Max believes you are a jihadist. Simply put, Max believes you are a liar.”
“Maybe you are the liar.”
“I’m an intelligence officer, Nadia, which means I lie for a living.”
“Are you lying to me now?”
“Just a little,” said Gabriel contritely. “I’m afraid that crumpled little soul over there isn’t really named Max.”
“But he still believes I’m a liar?”
“He’s hopeful that’s not the case. But he needs to know that we’re all on the same side before this conversation can continue.”
“What side is that?”
“The side of the angels, of course.”
“The same angels who murdered my father in cold blood.”
“There’s that word again, Nadia. Your father wasn’t murdered. He was killed by enemy forces on a battlefield of his choosing. He died a martyr’s death in the service of the great jihad. Unfortunately, the violent ideology he helped to propagate didn’t die with him. It lives on in a crescent of sacred rage stretching from the tribal areas of Pakistan to the streets of London. And it lives on in a lethal new terror network based in the mountains of Yemen. This network has a charismatic leader, a skilled operational mastermind, and a cadre of willing shahids. What it lacks is the one thing you can provide.”
“Money,” said Nadia.
“Money,” repeated Gabriel. “The question is, are you really a woman who is singlehandedly trying to change the face of the modern Middle East, or are you actually your father’s daughter?”
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