“And more than thirty million dollars to that Saudi telethon to raise money for suicide bombers,” Gabriel added. “Zizi was the largest single donor. Now answer my question, Adrian.”
“Which question is that?”
“What’s the connection between Zizi and bin Shafiq?”
“You’re a quick study, Gabriel. You tell me.”
“Obviously Zizi is bankrolling bin Shafiq’s network.”
“Obviously,” said Carter in agreement.
“But bin Shafiq is a Saudi. He can get money anywhere. Zizi has something more valuable than money. Zizi has a global infrastructure through which bin Shafiq can move men and matériel. And Zizi has a perfect place for a mastermind like bin Shafiq to hide.”
“AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.”
A SILENCE FELL between them like a curtain while Carter drowsily loaded his pipe. Gabriel was still standing in the window, peering into the street. He was tempted to remain there, for Carter’s tobacco, when ignited, smelled like a combination of burning hay and wet dog. He knew, however, that the conversation had passed the point where it might be conducted in front of an insecure window. Reluctantly he lowered himself into the chair opposite Carter and they gazed at each other in silence, Carter puffing contemplatively and Gabriel wearily waving the smoke from his eyes.
“How sure are you?”
“Very.”
“How do you know?”
“Sources and methods,” said Carter mechanically. “Sources and methods.”
“How do you know, Adrian?”
“Because we listen to him,” Carter said. “The National Security Agency is a wonderful thing. We also have sources inside the moderate wing of the House of Saud and the GID who are willing to tell us things. Ahmed bin Shafiq is living largely in the West under an assumed identity. He is buried somewhere within Zizi’s financial empire and the two of them confer on a regular basis. Of this, we are certain.”
There was a manila file folder on the center table, next to Carter’s tea tray. Inside was a single photograph, which Carter handed to Gabriel. It showed a man in a woolen overcoat and trilby, standing at a wrought-iron gate. The face was in left profile, and the features were somewhat gauzy. Judging from the compression of the image, the photograph had been snapped from some distance.
“Is this him?”
“We think so,” Carter replied.
“Where was it taken?”
“Outside Zizi’s house on the ˆ
Ile de la Cité in Paris. The cameraman was on the other side of the Seine, on the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, which accounts for a certain lack of clarity of the image.”
“How long ago?”
“Six months.”
Carter rose slowly to his feet and wandered over to the fireplace. He was about to rap his pipe against the grate when Gabriel reminded him that it was a fake. He sat down again and emptied the pipe into a large cut-glass ashtray.
“How many Americans were killed at the Vatican?” Gabriel asked.
“Twenty-eight, including a Curial bishop.”
“How much money has Zizi al-Bakari given to the terrorists over the years?”
“Hundreds of millions.”
“Go after him,” Gabriel said. “Make a case against him and put him on trial.”
“Against Zizi al-Bakari?”
“Section 18 U.S.C. 2339B-have you ever heard of it, Adrian?”
“You’re quoting American law to me now?”
“It’s a violation of American law to give money to designated terrorist groups, regardless of whether the money was used for specific attacks. You could have probably prosecuted dozens of wealthy Saudis for giving material support to your enemies, including Zizi al-Bakari.”
“You disappoint me, Gabriel. I always thought of you as a fairly reasonable fellow-a bit too concerned with questions of right and wrong at times, but reasonable. We can’t go after Zizi al-Bakari.”
“Why?”
“Money,” said Carter, then added, “And oil, of course.”
“Of course.”
Carter toyed with his lighter. “The Saudi Royal Family has a lot of friends in Washington -the kind of friends only money can buy. Zizi has friends as well. He’s endowed academic chairs and filled them with associates and supporters. He’s underwritten the creation of Arab studies departments at a half dozen major American universities. He almost single-handedly financed a major renovation of the Kennedy Center. He gives to the pet charitable projects of influential senators and invests in the business ventures of their friends and relatives. He owns a chunk of one of our most prominent banks and bits and pieces of several other prominent American companies. He’s also served as a middleman on countless Saudi-American business deals. Is the picture becoming clear to you now?”
It was, but Gabriel wanted to hear more.
“If Zizi’s battalion of Washington lawyers even suspected he was the target of a criminal probe, Zizi would call His Majesty, and His Majesty would call Ambassador Bashir, and Ambassador Bashir would pop over to the White House for a little chat with the president. He would remind the president that a twist or two on the oil spigots would send the price of gasoline over five dollars a gallon. He might even point out that a price spike of that magnitude would surely hurt people in the heartland, who tend to drive long distances, and who also tend to vote for the president’s party.”
“So Zizi gets away with murder-literally.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Ask not about things which, if made plain to you, may cause you trouble.”
“You know your Quran,” Carter said.
“One of the reasons you can’t operate against Zizi or prosecute him is because you’re afraid of what you might find: business entanglements with prominent Americans, shady dealings with Washington insiders. Imagine the reaction of the American people if they learned that a Saudi billionaire with business ties to prominent figures in Washington is actually financing the activities of your enemies. The relationship barely survived the first 9/11. I doubt it would survive a second.”
“No, it wouldn’t-at least not in its present form. There’s already a movement on Capitol Hill to isolate Saudi Arabia because of its support of the global Islamic extremism. A scandal involving Zizi al-Bakari would only add fuel to the fire. Several foreign policy lights in Congress are considering legislation that would put the screws to Saudi Arabia. They have that luxury. They won’t take the fall if the American economy goes into the toilet because of higher fuel prices. The president will.”
“So what do you want from us, Adrian? What do you wish to say to me, in this room where no one is listening?”
“The president of the United States would like a favor,” Carter said, gazing into the fire. “The sort of favor you happen to be very good at. He’d like you to run an agent into the House of Zizi. He’d like you to find out who’s coming and going. And if Ahmed bin Shafiq happens to walk by, he’d like you to take a shot at him. It will be your operation, but we’ll give you whatever support you need. We’ll be over the horizon-far enough over to make certain that we can maintain plausible deniability in Riyadh.”
“You disappoint me, Adrian. I always thought of you as a reasonable fellow.”
“What have I done now?”
“I thought you were going to ask me to kill Zizi al-Bakari and be done with it.”
“Kill Zizi?” Carter shook his head. “Zizi is untouchable. Zizi is radioactive.”
GABRIEL RETURNED TO his outpost by the window and peered into the street as a pair of lovers hurried along the pavement through the swirling rain. “We’re not contract killers,” he said. “We can’t be hired to do dirty jobs you can’t do yourself. You want bin Shafiq dead but you’re not willing to risk the fallout. You’re setting us up to take the fall.”