Portrait of a Spy. Daniel Silva

government-issue treats arrayed atop the sideboard in the dining room. “High blood pressure,” Carter explained, as he drew coffee from a pump-action thermos. “It started on Inauguration Day, and it rises and falls in relation to the terrorist threat level. It’s sad to say, but after ten years of fighting Islamic terror, I seem to have become a living, breathing National Threat Advisory.”

      “What level are we today?”

      “Didn’t you hear?” asked Carter. “We’ve abandoned the old color-coded system.”

      “What’s your blood pressure telling you?”

      “Red,” said Carter dourly. “Bright red.”

      “Not according to your director of homeland security. She says there’s no immediate threat.”

      “She doesn’t always write her own lines.”

      “Who does?”

      “The White House,” said Carter. “And the president doesn’t like to needlessly alarm the American people. Besides, raising the threat level would conflict with the convenient narrative making its way around the Washington chattering classes these days.”

      “Which narrative is that?”

      “The one that says America overreacted to 9/11. The one that says al-Qaeda is no longer a threat to anyone, let alone the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. The one that says it’s time to declare victory in the global war on terror and turn our attention inward.” Carter frowned. “God, but I hate it when journalists use the word ‘narrative.’ There was a time when novelists wrote narrative and journalists were content to report facts. And the facts are quite simple. There exists in the world today an organized force that seeks to weaken or even destroy the West through acts of indiscriminate violence. This force is a part of a broader radical movement to impose sharia law and restore the Islamic Caliphate. And no amount of wishful thinking will make it go away.”

      They sat on opposite sides of the rectangular table. Carter picked at the edge of a stale croissant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Gabriel knew better than to rush the proceedings. In conversation, Carter could be a bit of a wanderer. Eventually, he would make his way to the point, but there would be several detours and digressions along the way, all of which would undoubtedly prove useful to Gabriel at a later date.

      “In some respects,” Carter continued, “I’m sympathetic to the president’s desire to turn the page of history. He views the global war on terrorism as a distraction from his larger goals. You might find this difficult to believe, but I’ve seen him on just two occasions. He calls me Andrew.”

      “But at least he’s given us hope.”

      “Hope is not an acceptable strategy when lives are at stake. Hope is what led to 9/11.”

      “So who’s pulling the strings inside the administration?”

      “James McKenna, assistant to the president for homeland security and counterterrorism, also known as the terrorism czar, which is interesting since he’s issued an edict banning the word ‘terrorism’ from all our public pronouncements. He even discourages its use behind closed doors. And heaven forbid if we happen to place the word ‘Islamic’ anywhere near it. As far as James McKenna is concerned, we aren’t engaged in a war against Islamic terrorists. We’re engaged in an international effort against a small band of transnational extremists. These extremists, who just happen to be Muslims, are an irritant, but pose no real threat to our existence or way of life.”

      “Tell that to the families of those who died in Paris, Copenhagen, and London.”

      “That’s an emotional response,” Carter said sardonically. “And James McKenna doesn’t tolerate emotion when it comes to talking about terrorism.”

      “You mean extremism,” said Gabriel.

      “Forgive me,” Carter said. “McKenna is a political animal who fancies himself an expert on intelligence. He worked on the staff of the Senate Select Intelligence Committee in the nineties and came to Langley shortly after the Greek arrived. He lasted only a few months, but that doesn’t stop him from describing himself as a veteran of the CIA. To hear McKenna tell it, he’s an Agency man who has the best interests of the Agency at heart. The truth is somewhat different. He loathes the Agency and all those who toil within its walls. Most of all, he despises me.”

      “Why?”

      “Apparently, I embarrassed him during a senior staff meeting. I don’t remember the incident, but it seems McKenna has never gotten over it. Beyond that, I’m told McKenna regards me as a monster who’s done irreparable harm to America’s image in the world. Nothing would make him happier than to see me behind bars.”

      “It’s good to know the U.S. intelligence community is functioning smoothly again.”

      “Actually, McKenna is under the impression it’s working just fine now that he’s running the entire show. He even managed to get himself appointed chairman of our new High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group. If a major terrorist figure is captured anywhere in the world, under any circumstances, James McKenna will be in charge of questioning him. It’s a great deal of power to place in the hands of a single person, even if that person were competent. But, unfortunately, James McKenna doesn’t fall into that category. He’s ambitious, he’s well intentioned, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And if he isn’t careful, he’s going to get us all killed.”

      “Sounds charming,” said Gabriel. “When do I get to meet him?”

      “Never.”

      “So why am I here, Adrian?”

      “You’re here because of Paris, Copenhagen, and London.”

      “Who carried it out?”

      “A new branch of al-Qaeda,” said Carter. “But I’m afraid they had support from a person who occupies a sensitive and powerful position in Western intelligence.”

      “Who?”

      Carter said nothing more. His right hand was shaking.

      Chapter 12

      Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

      THEY ADJOURNED TO THE REAR terrace and settled into a pair of wrought-iron chairs along the balustrade. Carter balanced a coffee cup on his knee and gazed toward the gray spires rising gracefully above Georgetown University. Paradoxically, he was speaking of a shabby district of San Diego, where, on a summer day in 1999, there arrived a young Yemeni cleric named Rashid al-Husseini. With money provided by a Saudi-based Islamic charity, the Yemeni purchased a run-down commercial property, established a mosque, and went in search of a congregation. He did most of his hunting on the campus of San Diego State University, where he acquired a devoted following among Arab students who had come to America to escape the stifling social oppression of their homelands, only to find themselves lost and adrift in the ghurba, the land of strangers. Rashid was uniquely qualified to serve as their guide. The only son of a former Yemeni government minister, he had been born in America, spoke colloquial American English, and was the not-so-proud owner of an American passport.

      “All sorts of strays and lost souls began stumbling into Rashid’s mosque, including a pair of Saudis named Khalid al-Mihdhar and Nawaf al-Hazmi.” Carter glanced at Gabriel and added, “I trust you’re familiar with the names.”

      “They were two of the muscle hijackers from American Flight 77, personally selected by none other than Osama Bin Laden himself. In January 2000, they were present at the planning meeting in Kuala Lumpur, after which the Bin Laden Unit of the CIA managed to lose track of them. Later, it was discovered that both had flown to Los Angeles and were probably still in the United States—a fact you neglected to tell the FBI.”

      “Much to my everlasting shame,” said Carter. “But this isn’t a story about al-Mihdhar and al-Hazmi.”

      It was a story, Carter resumed, about Rashid al-Husseini, who soon developed a reputation in the Islamic world