“He’s the president, chairman, and lord high emperor of AAB Holdings—A for Abdul, A for Aziz, and B for al-Bakari. AAB owns banks and investment houses. AAB does shipping and steel. AAB is cutting down the forests of the Amazon and strip-mining the Andes of Peru and Bolivia. AAB has a Belgian chemical company and a Dutch pharmaceutical. AAB’s real estate and development division is one of the world’s largest. Abdul Aziz al-Bakari owns more hotels than anyone else in the world.”

Carter picked up where Gabriel left off. “He has a palace in Riyadh he rarely visits and two former wives there he never sees. He owns a mansion on the Île de la Cité in Paris, a princely estate in the English countryside, a townhouse in Mayfair, oceanfront villas in Saint-Tropez, Marbella, and Maui, ski chalets in Zermatt and Aspen, a Park Avenue apartment recently appraised at forty million dollars, and a sprawling compound overlooking the Potomac that I pass every day on the way to work.”

Carter seemed to find the mansion on the Potomac the most grievous of al-Bakari’s sins. Carter’s father had been an Episcopal minister from New Hampshire, and beneath his placid exterior beat the heart of a Puritan.

“Al-Bakari and his entourage travel the world in a gold-plated 747,” he continued. “Twice a year, once in February and again in August, AAB’s operations go seaborne when al-Bakari and his entourage set up shop aboard Alexandra, his three-hundred-foot yacht. Have I forgotten anything?”

“His friends call him Zizi,” Gabriel replied. “He has one of the world’s largest private collections of French Impressionist art, and we’ve been telling you for years that he’s up to his eyeballs in funding terrorism, especially against us.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Realize what?”

“That Zizi’s a collector.”

“A very aggressive one, actually.”

“Ever had the pleasure of meeting him?”

“I’m afraid Zizi and I are at different ends of the trade.” Gabriel frowned. “So what’s the connection between Zizi al-Bakari and Ahmed bin Shafiq?”

Carter blew thoughtfully on his tea, a sign that he was not yet ready to answer Gabriel’s question.

“An interesting fellow, al-Bakari. Did you know that his father was Ibn Saud’s personal banker? As you might expect, Papa al-Bakari did quite well—well enough to give his son ten million dollars to start his own company. That was nothing compared to the seed money he got from the al-Saud when things started to take off. A hundred million, if the rumor mill is to be believed. AAB is still a favorite dumping ground for Saudi Royal cash, which is one of the reasons why Zizi is so interested in making sure the House of Saud survives.”

Gabriel’s heart sank as Carter reached for the tobacco pouch.