Portrait of a Spy

of the Rashidistan team began to applaud, but Carter sat with his hands over his face, saying nothing at all.
    “I’ve done this a hundred times,” he said finally, “and each time I still feel like I’m going to be sick.”
    “He deserved to die—for Nadia, if nothing else.”
    “So why do I feel this way?”
    “Because, in the end, it’s never clean or smart or forward-leaning, even when you take the shot from a room on the other side of the world.”
    “Why did you make me wait?”
    “Look at the time in Yemen.”
    It was 10:03 a.m., the moment United Airlines Flight 93 plunged into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, instead of its likely target, the dome of the U.S. Capitol. Carter said nothing more. His right hand was shaking.
    After that, there was just one last issue still to be resolved. In the end, it came down to a simple business transaction: five million dollars for a name. It was provided by Faisal Qahtani, Shamron’s old source from the Saudi GID. Fittingly enough, the five million dollars were deposited into the Zurich branch of TransArabian Bank.
    They put the target under surveillance and spent weeks debating what to do. From his lakeside throne in Tiberias, Shamron decreed that only biblical justice would suffice. But Uzi Navot, in a sign of his rising influence, managed to overrule him. Gabriel had nearly given up his life in a quest for American equity, and under no circumstances would Navot squander it on an ill-advised covert operation in the heart of the American capital. Besides, he said, giving the Americans the name of a traitor would add still more value to King Saul Boulevard’s side of the ledger.
    Navot waited until his next official visit to Washington to whisper the name to Adrian Carter. In return, he made only one request. Carter readily agreed. It was, he said, the least they could do.
    The Bureau took over the surveillance and started tearing through phone records, credit card bills, and computer hard drives. Before long, they had more than enough to proceed to the next stage. They sent a plane to Cornwall. Then they put a chalk mark at the base of the brown wooden sign along MacArthur Boulevard and waited.
    The chalk mark was in the shape of a cross. It intrigued Ellis Coyle, because it was the first time it had been used. It meant Coyle’s handler wished to conduct a crash face-to-face meeting. It was risky—any direct contact between source and case officer was inherently dangerous—but it was also a rare opportunity.
    Coyle rubbed out the mark with the toe of his shoe and entered the park with Lucy at his heels. The leash was still attached to the dog’s collar. Coyle didn’t dare remove it. A bitter old dowager from Spring Valley had confronted him recently about his failure to collect Lucy’s droppings. There had been threats of community sanction, perhaps even a word with the authorities. The last thing Coyle needed now was an encounter with the police, not when he was just a few weeks from retirement. He promised to end his rebellious ways and began secretly plotting the demise of the dowager’s hateful little pug.
    It was a few minutes past nine, and the clearing at the top of the trail was in darkness. Coyle glanced toward the picnic tables and saw the dark silhouette of a man seated alone. He led Lucy around the perimeter of the clearing, checking for evidence of surveillance, before walking over. Only when he was a few feet away did he realize that the man was not his usual handler from Saudi intelligence. He had gray temples and green eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. He looked at the dog in a way that made Coyle shiver.
    “I’m sorry,” Coyle said. “I thought you were someone else.”
    He turned to leave. The man spoke to his back.
    “Who did you think I was?”
    Coyle turned. The man with bright green eyes hadn’t moved.
    “Who are you?” Coyle asked.
    “I’m the one you sold to Saudi intelligence for thirty pieces of silver, along with Nadia al-Bakari. If it were up to me, I’d send you to hell for what you did. But this is your lucky night, Ellis.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want to watch your face while they put the handcuffs on you.”
    Coyle stepped away in fear and began frantically looking around. The man at the table gave a half smile.
    “I was wondering whether you would accept your fate with the same dignity she accepted hers. I suppose I have my answer.”
    Coyle dropped Lucy’s leash and started to run, but