The Messenger

22.

THERE SHE IS,” Wazir bin Talal shouted above the roar of the Sikorsky’s rotor blades. He pointed out the right side of the aircraft. Alexandra, Zizi’s vast private yacht, was slicing through the waters west of the island. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s very large,” Sarah shouted back at him.

“Two hundred seventy-five feet,” said bin Talal, as though he had built it himself.

Two hundred eighty-two, Sarah thought. But who’s counting? Yossi had described it as a floating emirate. She permitted them to enter her thoughts. Her last contact had been Sunday afternoon. Eli Lavon had bumped into her in Oxford Street while she was picking up a few odds and ends for the trip. We’ll be with you the entire time, he had told her. Don’t look for us. Don’t try to make contact unless it’s a force-ten calamity. We’ll come to you. Have a nice trip.

She leaned back in her seat. She was still wearing the jeans and woolen sweater she put on that morning. Only ten hours removed from the chilly damp of London, her body was unprepared for the onslaught of tropical heat. The jeans felt as though they were glued to her thighs, and the sweater seemed to be sawing at the side of her neck. She glanced at bin Talal, who seemed to be having no difficulty adjusting to the abrupt change of climate. He had a wide face, two small dark eyes, and a goatee beard. Dressed as he was now, in his tailored gray suit and tie, he might have been mistaken for a financier. His hands, however, betrayed the true nature of his work. They looked like mallets.

The roar of the rotor blade made further conversation impossible, and for this she was eternally grateful. Her loathing of him was now limitless. Since just after dawn he had been a constant presence at her side, menacing in his politeness. At the airport he had insisted on coming with her to the duty-free shops and had intervened with a company credit card when she bought a flask of aloe lotion. During the flight he had shown an endless interest in all aspects of her life. Please, Miss Sarah, tell me about your childhood…Please, Miss Sarah, tell me about your interest in art…Please, Miss Sarah, tell me why you decided to leave Washington and come to London… To escape him she had feigned sleep. Two hours later, when she feigned waking, he probed at her some more. You say your father worked for Citicorp? You know, it’s quite possible he and Mr. al-Bakari have actually met. Mr. al-Bakari has had many dealings with Citicorp… With that she had slipped on her headphones to watch an in-flight film. Bin Talal had selected the same one.

When she looked out the window again, Alexandra seemed to fill the horizon. She could see Nadia and Rahimah catching the last of the day’s sunlight on the foredeck, their black hair twisting in the wind. And Abdul amp; Abdul huddled with Herr Wehrli on the afterdeck, plotting their next conquest. And floating above it all, dressed in white with one arm raised in greeting, was Zizi. Turn back, she thought. Drop me on solid ground. You stay here, Mr. bin Talal. I’ll see myself back to London, thank you. But she knew there was no turning back now. Gabriel had given her one last chance in Surrey, and she had agreed to see it through.

The Sikorsky settled over Alexandra’s stern and sank slowly toward the helipad. Sarah saw something else: Zizi in the exhibition room of Julian’s gallery, warning her that no one could slip a forgery past him, in business or in art. I’m not a forgery, she told herself as she climbed out of the helicopter. I’m Sarah Bancroft. I used to be a curator at the Phillips Collection in Washington. Now I work for Isherwood Fine Arts in London. I’ve forgotten more about art than you’ll ever know. I don’t want your job or your money. In fact, I don’t want anything to do with you.

BIN TALAL showed her to her quarters. They were larger than her flat in Chelsea: a sprawling bedroom with separate seating area, a marble bathroom with sunken tub and Jacuzzi, a sweeping private deck which at that moment was lit by the setting sun. The Saudi laid her bag on the king-size bed like a hotel bellman and started to pull at the zipper. Sarah tried to stop him.

“That’s not necessary. I can see to my own bag, thank you.”

“I’m afraid it is necessary, Miss Sarah.”

He lifted the top and started removing her things.

“What are you doing?”

“We have rules, Miss Sarah.” The profound courtesy was now absent from his voice. “It’s my job to make certain the guests adhere to those rules. No alcohol, no tobacco, and no pornography of any kind.” He held up an American fashion magazine she’d picked up at the airport in Miami. “I’m afraid I have to confiscate this. Do you have any alcohol?”

She shook her head. “And no cigarettes either.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“Occasionally, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

“I’ll need your mobile phone until you leave Alexandra.”

“Why?”

“Because guests aren’t allowed to use cellular telephones aboard this craft. Besides, they won’t function because of the ship’s electronics.”

“If it won’t function, then what’s the use of confiscating it?”

“I assume your cell phone has the ability to take photographs as well as record and store video and audio clips?”

“That’s what the little man said who sold it to me, but I never use it that way.”

He held out his enormous hand. “Your telephone, please. I can assure you it will be well cared for.”

“I have work to do. I can’t be cut off from the world.”

“You’re more than welcome to use our shipboard satellite phone system.”

And you’ll be listening in, won’t you?

She dug her phone from her handbag, switched off the power, and surrendered it to him.

“Now your camera, please. Mr. al-Bakari does not like cameras around when he is trying to relax. It is against the rules to photograph him, his employees, or any of his guests.”

“Are there other guests besides me?”

He ignored her question. “Did you bring a BlackBerry or any other kind of PDA?”

She showed it to him. He held out his hand.

“If you read my e-mail, so help me-”

“We have no desire to read your e-mail. Please, Miss Sarah, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can settle in and relax.”

She handed him the BlackBerry.

“Did you bring an iPod or any other type of personal stereo?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Mr. al-Bakari believes personal stereos are rude and inconsiderate. Your room contains a state-of-the-art audio and visual entertainment system. You won’t need your own.”

She gave him the iPod.

“Any other electronics?”

“A hair dryer.”

He held out his hand.

“You can’t take a girl’s hair dryer.”

“You have one in your bathroom that’s compatible with the ship’s electrical system. In the meantime, let me have yours, just so there’s no confusion.”

“I promise not to use it.”

“Your hair dryer, please, Miss Sarah.”

She pulled the hair dryer from her suitcase and gave it to him.

“Mr. al-Bakari has left a gift for you in the closet. I’m sure he would be flattered if you wore it to dinner. It’s scheduled for nine o’clock this evening. I suggest you try to sleep until then. You’ve had a long day-and then there’s the time difference, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to be awakened at eight o’clock?”

“I can manage on my own. I brought a travel alarm clock.”

He smiled humorlessly. “I’ll need that, too.”

MUCH TO HER surprise she did sleep. She dreamt nothing and woke in darkness, unsure of where she was. Then a puff of warm sea wind caressed her breast, like the breath of a lover, and she realized she was aboard Alexandra and that she was utterly alone. She lay very still for a moment, wondering if they were looking at her. Assume they’re watching your every move and listening to your every word, Eli had told her. She pictured another scene taking place somewhere aboard the ship. Wazir bin Talal downloading every e-mail from her BlackBerry. Wazir bin Talal running a check on every number dialed from her mobile telephone. Wazir bin Talal tearing apart her hair dryer and her iPod and her travel alarm clock, looking for bugs and tracking devices. But there were no bugs or tracking devices, for Gabriel had known they would ransack her possessions the moment she entered their camp. In a situation like this, Sarah, simple is best. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Telephone codes. Physical recognition signals.

She raised her wristwatch to her face and saw it was five minutes to eight. She closed her eyes again and allowed the breeze to flow over her body. Five minutes later the bedside telephone purred softly. She reached out in the darkness and brought the receiver to her ear.

“I’m awake, Mr. bin Talal.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

The voice wasn’t bin Talal’s. It was Zizi’s.

“I’m sorry, Mr. al-Bakari. I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously,” he said pleasantly. “Did you manage to get a little rest?”

“I think so.”

“And your flight?”

“It was fine, sir.”

“Can we make a deal?”

“That depends entirely on the deal, Mr. al-Bakari.”

“I would prefer it if you called me Zizi. It’s what my friends call me.”

“I’ll try.” Then she added playfully: “Sir.”

“I look forward to seeing you at dinner, Sarah.”

The connection went dead. She hung up the phone and went onto the sundeck. It was very dark now. A fingernail moon hung low on the horizon, and the sky was a blanket of wet shimmering stars. She looked toward the stern and saw a pair of winking emerald navigation lights hovering several miles in the distance. There were more lights off the prow. She remembered what Eli had said during her street training. Sometimes the easiest way to tail a man is to walk in front of him. She supposed the same applied to watching at sea.

She went back into her room, shed her clothing, and padded into the bathroom. Avert your eyes, Wazir, she thought. No pornography. She bathed in Zizi’s hedonistic Jacuzzi tub and listened to Keith Jarrett on Zizi’s state-of-the-art audio system. She wrapped herself in Zizi’s terry-cloth robe and dried her hair with Zizi’s hair dryer. She applied makeup to her face, just enough to erase the effects of the transatlantic journey, and as she arranged her hair loosely about her shoulders she thought briefly of Gabriel.

“How do you like to wear your hair, Sarah?”

“Down, mostly.”

“You have very nice cheekbones. A very graceful neck. You should think about wearing your hair up from time to time. Like Marguerite.”

But not tonight. When she was satisfied with her appearance she went into the bedroom and opened the closet door. Lying on one of the shelves was a gift-wrapped box. She removed the paper and lifted the lid. Inside was an ivory-colored crushed-silk pantsuit and silk camisole. It fit her perfectly, just like everything else. She added the Harry Winston watch, the Bulgari earrings, the Mikimoto pearls, and the Tiffany bracelet. At five minutes to nine she left the room and made her way to the afterdeck. Try to forget we even exist. Be Sarah Bancroft, and nothing can go wrong.

ZIZI GREETED her lavishly.

“Sarah! So lovely to see you again. Everyone, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is everyone. There are too many names for you to remember at once, unless you’re one of those people who’s extremely good with names. I suggest we do it slowly. Please sit down, Sarah. You’ve had a very long day. You must be famished.”

He settled her near the end of the long table and went to his own place at the opposite end. An Abdul was seated to her right and Herr Wehrli the banker to her left. Across from her was Mansur, the chief of the travel department, and Herr Wehrli’s skittish wife, who seemed to find the entire spectacle appalling. Next to Frau Wehrli sat Jean-Michel, the personal trainer. His long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he was gazing at Sarah with unabashed interest, much to the distress of his wife, Monique. Farther along the table sat Rahimah and her beautiful boyfriend, Hamid, who was an Egyptian film star of some sort. Nadia sat proprietarily next to her father. Several times during the long meal, Sarah cast her eyes in Zizi’s direction only to find Nadia glaring back at her. Nadia, she suspected, was going to be as much of a problem as bin Talal.

Zizi, after reliably establishing that Sarah did not speak Arabic, decreed that the languages of the night were French and English. Their conversation was frighteningly banal. They talked of clothing and films, restaurants that Zizi liked to commandeer and a hotel in Nice that he was thinking about buying. The war, terrorism, the plight of the Palestinians, the American president-none of these seemed to exist. Indeed, nothing seemed to exist beyond the rails of Alexandra or the boundaries of Zizi’s empire. Zizi, sensing that Sarah was being left out, asked her once again to explain how she had found the van Gogh. When she refused to rise to his baiting, he smiled wolfishly and said, “One day I’ll get it out of you.” And Sarah, for the first time, felt a sickening rush of complete terror.

During the dessert course he rose from his place and pulled a chair alongside hers. He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, and the tops of his pudgy cheeks were colored red from the sun.

“I trust you found the food to your liking.”

“It was delicious. You must have been cooking all afternoon.”

“Not me,” he said modestly. “My chefs.”

“You have more than one?”

“Three, actually. We have a crew and staff of forty. They work exclusively for me, regardless of whether Alexandra is at sea or waiting in port. You’ll get to know them during our trip. If you need something, don’t hesitate to ask. I take it your accommodations are satisfactory?”

“More than satisfactory, Mr. al-Bakari.”

“Zizi,” he reminded her. He toyed with a strand of ebony prayer beads. “Mr. bin Talal told me you were upset by some of our rules and security procedures.”

“Perhaps taken by surprise would be a better description. I wish you would have told me in advance. I would have packed lighter.”

“Mr. bin Talal can be somewhat fanatical in his devotion to my security. I apologize for his behavior. That said, Sarah, when one enters the world of AAB Holdings, one has to adhere to certain rules-for the safety of everyone.” He flicked his wrist, and wrapped his prayer beads around the first two fingers of his right hand. “Did you have a chance to think about my offer?”

“I still don’t know what it is.”

“But you are interested. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Let’s just say I’m intrigued, and I’m willing to discuss the matter further.”

“You are a shrewd businesswoman, Sarah. I admire that. Enjoy the sun and the sea. We’ll talk in a few days when you’ve had a chance to relax.”

“A few days? I have to get back to London.”

“Julian Isherwood got along without you for many years, Sarah. Something tells me he’ll survive while you take a much deserved vacation with us.”

And with that he went back to his own end of the table and sat down next to Nadia. “Welcome to the family,” said Herr Wehrli. “He likes you very much. When you negotiate your salary, be unreasonable. He’ll pay whatever you want.”

DINNER THAT EVENING aboard Sun Dancer had been far less extravagant and the conversation far more animated. They did not avoid topics such as war and terrorism. Indeed they embraced them wholeheartedly and argued about them long past midnight. At the end of the evening there was another quarrel, this one about whose night it was to do the dishes. Dina and Rimona claimed exemption on the grounds that they had performed the task the last night in Surrey. Gabriel, in one of his few command decisions of the day, inflicted the task on the new boys: Oded and Mordecai, two experienced all-purpose fieldhands, and Mikhail, a gunman on loan to the Office from the Sayeret Matkal. He was a Russian-born Jew with bloodless skin and eyes the color of glacial ice. “A younger version of you,” Yaakov had said. “Good with a gun, but no conscience. He practically took down the command structure of Hamas by himself.”

Their accommodations lacked the grandeur of Alexandra’s, and no one was granted the privilege of private quarters. Gabriel and Lavon, veterans of manhunts past, bunked together in the prow. Lavon was used to Gabriel’s erratic operational sleeping habits and was not surprised the following morning when he woke before dawn to find Gabriel’s bed unoccupied. He climbed out of his bunk and went up to the deck. Gabriel was standing at the prow, coffee in hand, his gaze fixed on the smudge of light on the distant horizon. Lavon went back to his bunk and slept two more hours. When he returned to the deck, Gabriel was standing in the exact same spot, staring out at the empty sea.

23.

HER DAYS QUICKLY ACQUIRED SHAPE.

She would rise early each morning and linger in a drowsy half-sleep in the enormous bed, listening to Alexandra slowly stirring to life around her. Then, usually around seven-thirty, she would ring the steward and order her morning coffee and brioche, which would come on a tray, always with a fresh flower, five minutes later. If there was no rain she would take her breakfast in the shade of her starboard-facing private sundeck. Alexandra was on a southeasterly heading, steaming without haste toward an unnamed destination, and usually Sarah could just make out the low, flat islands of the Bahamian chain in the distance. Zizi’s suite was one level above her. Some mornings she could hear him on the telephone, closing the day’s first deals.

After breakfast she would place two calls to London on the shipboard system. First she would dial her apartment in Chelsea and, invariably, would find two or three ersatz voice messages left by the Office. Then she would call the gallery and speak to Chiara. Her soft, Italian-accented English was like a lifeline. Sarah would pose questions about pending deals; Chiara would then read Sarah’s telephone messages. Contained in the seemingly benign patter was vital information: Sarah telling Chiara that she was safe and that there was no sign of Ahmed bin Shafiq; Chiara telling Sarah that Gabriel and the others were close by and that she was not alone. Hanging up on Chiara was the hardest part of Sarah’s day.

By then it was usually ten o’clock, which meant that Zizi and Jean-Michel were finished working out and the gym was now free to other staff and guests. The rest of them were a sedentary lot; Sarah’s only company each morning was Herr Wehrli, who would torment himself on the elliptical machine for a few minutes before retiring to the sauna for a proper Swiss sweat. Sarah would run thirty minutes on the treadmill, then row for thirty more. She had been on the Dartmouth crew, and within a few days began to see definition in her shoulders and back that hadn’t been there since Ben’s death.

After her workout Sarah would join the other women on the foredeck for a bit of sun before lunch. Nadia and Rahimah remained distant, but the wives gradually warmed to her, especially Frau Wehrli and Jihan, the fair-haired young Jordanian wife of Hassan, Zizi’s communications specialist. Monique, Jean-Michel’s wife, spoke rarely to her. Twice Sarah peered over the top of her paperback novel and saw Monique glaring at her, as though she were plotting to shove Sarah over the rail when no one else was looking.

Lunch was always a slow, lengthy affair. Afterward the ship’s crew would bring Alexandra to a stop for what Zizi referred to as the afternoon jet-ski derby. For the first two days Sarah remained safely on the deck, watching while Zizi and his executives leaped and plunged through the swells. On the third day he convinced her to take part and personally gave her a lesson in how to operate her craft. She sped away from Alexandra’s stern, then killed the engine and gazed for a long time at the pinprick of white on the horizon behind them. She must have strayed too far, because a few moments later Jean-Michel came alongside her and gestured for her to return to the mother ship. “One hundred meters is the boundary,” he said. “Zizi’s rules.”

His day was rigorously scheduled. A light breakfast in his room. Phone calls. Exercise with Jean-Michel in the gym. A late-morning meeting with staff. Lunch. The jet-ski derby. Another meeting with staff that usually lasted until dinner. Then, after dinner, phone calls late into the night. On the second day the helicopter departed Alexandra at ten in the morning and returned an hour later with a delegation of six men. Sarah examined their faces as they filed into Zizi’s conference room and concluded that none of them was Ahmed bin Shafiq. Later, an Abdul volunteered three of their names, which Sarah stored in her memory for later retrieval. That afternoon she encountered Zizi alone in one of the lounges and asked him whether they could discuss his job offer.

“What’s the rush, Sarah? Relax. Enjoy yourself. We’ll talk when the time is right.”

“I have to be getting back to London, Zizi.”

“To Julian Isherwood? How can you go back to Julian after this?”

“I can’t stay forever.”

“Of course you can.”

“Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said. “One of our little traditions. As honorary captain, I get to pick our destination. I keep it secret from the others. We’re planning to make a call tomorrow at Grand Turk. You can go ashore if you like and do a bit of shopping.”

Just then Hassan appeared, handed Zizi a phone, and murmured something in Arabic into his ear that Sarah couldn’t understand. “Will you excuse me, Sarah? I have to take this.” And with that he disappeared into his conference room and closed the door.

She woke the following morning to the sensation of utter stillness. Instead of lingering in bed, she rose immediately and went out onto the sundeck and saw that they had anchored off Cockburn Town, the capital of Turks and Caicos. She had breakfast in her room, checked in with Chiara in London, then made arrangements with the crew for a shore craft to take her into town. At eleven-thirty she went astern and found Jean-Michel waiting for her, dressed in a black pullover and white Bermuda shorts.

“I volunteered to be your escort,” he said.

“I don’t need an escort.”

“No one goes ashore without security, especially the girls. Zizi’s rules.”

“Is your wife coming?”

“Unfortunately, Monique is not well this morning. It seems dinner didn’t agree with her.”

They rode into the harbor in silence. Jean-Michel docked the boat expertly, then followed her along a waterfront shopping street while she ran her errands. In one boutique she selected two sundresses and a new bikini. In another she bought a pair of sandals, a beach bag, and a pair of sunglasses to replace the pair she’d lost in the previous day’s jet-ski derby. Then it was over to the pharmacy for shampoo and body lotion and a loofah to remove the peeling skin from her sunburned shoulders. Jean-Michel insisted on paying for everything with one of Zizi’s credit cards. On the way back to the boat, Rimona walked past, hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses and a floppy straw hat. And in a tiny bar overlooking the harbor, she noticed a familiar-looking man with a white bucket hat and sunglasses, peering mournfully into a drink with a festive umbrella. Only when she was back aboard Alexandra did she realize it had been Gabriel.

When she telephoned London the next day, Julian came briefly on the line and asked when she was planning to return. Two days later he did so again, but this time his voice contained an audible note of agitation. Late that afternoon Zizi rang Sarah’s room. “Would you come up to my office? I think it’s time we talked.” He hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

SHE DRESSED as professionally as possible: white Capri pants, a yellow blouse that covered her arms, a pair of flat-soled sandals. She considered putting on a bit of makeup but decided she could make no improvements to what a week in the Caribbean sun had already accomplished. Ten minutes after receiving the summons, she left her suite and headed upstairs to Zizi’s office. He was seated at the conference table along with Daoud Hamza, Abdul amp; Abdul, and Herr Wehrli. They rose in unison as Sarah was shown into the room, then gathered up their papers and filed wordlessly out. Zizi gestured for Sarah to sit. At the opposite end of the room, Al Jazeera flickered silently on a large flat-panel television: Israeli troops destroying the home of a Hamas suicide bomber while his mother and father wept for the cameras. Zizi’s gaze lingered on the screen a moment before turning toward Sarah.

“I’ve invested tens of millions of dollars in the Palestinian territories, and I’ve given them millions more in charitable donations. And now the Israelis are tearing it to shreds while the world stands by and does nothing.”

Where was the world’s condemnation yesterday, Sarah thought, when twenty-two charred and broken bodies lay scattered along a Tel Aviv street? She looked down at her hands, at Zizi’s gold bangle and Zizi’s Harry Winston watch, and said nothing.

“But let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Zizi said.

“Please, let’s.” She looked up and smiled. “You’d like to make me an extravagant offer to come work for you.”

“I would?”

“Yes, you would.”

Zizi returned her smile. “We have an opening in our art department.” His smile faded. “An unexpected opening, but an opening nonetheless. I’d like you to fill it.”

“Your art department?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s how we refer to the various divisions of the operation. Hassan is chief of the communications department. Mansur’s department is travel. Herr Wehrli is banking. Mr. bin Talal is-”

“Security.”

“Exactly,” Zizi said.

“Who’s the chief of your art department?”

“At the moment, it’s me. But I’d like you to take over that job.”

“What about Andrew Malone?”

“Andrew Malone is no longer working for me.” Zizi fussed for a moment with his prayer beads. His eyes went again to the television screen and remained there while he spoke. “My arrangement with Andrew was supposed to be exclusive. I paid him a generous retainer. In return he was to give me advice with no possible conflict of interest on his part. As it turned out, Andrew repeatedly betrayed me. For the last several years he’s been taking money from me and from the people I’ve been buying from, a flagrant violation of our agreement. Among the dealers and collectors who made payments to Andrew in violation of his contract was Julian Isherwood.” He looked at her. “Were you aware of any cash payment by Julian Isherwood to Andrew Malone?”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “And if it happened, I’m sorry.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Andrew would have sworn Julian to secrecy. He was careful to cover his tracks in his double dealings. Unfortunately he could not hide the evidence of his betrayal inside his bank accounts. That’s how we found out about it.”

He made another glance at the television and frowned. “The job I have in mind for you is much larger than Andrew’s. Not only will you assist me in the acquisition of works, but you will also be responsible for the care and conservation of the collection. It’s my intention to begin lending some of my pieces to European and American museums as a means of fostering better cultural relations between my country and the West. As a former curator, you are more than suited to manage those transactions.” He scrutinized her for a moment. “Would you be interested in such a position?”

“I would, but-”

“-but you would like to discuss money and benefits before giving me an answer, which I understand completely. If you don’t mind my asking, how much is Julian paying you now?”

“Actually, I think I would mind.”

He sighed heavily and gave his prayer beads a twirl. “Is it your intention to make this as difficult as possible?”

“I try not to make a habit of negotiating against myself.”

“I’m prepared to pay you a salary of five hundred thousand dollars a year, plus housing, plus an unlimited expense account. The job would require a great deal of travel-and, of course, you would be spending a great deal of time with me and my extended family. That was the reason I invited you on this cruise. I wanted you to get to know us. I trust you’ve enjoyed yourself and our hospitality.”

“Very much,” she said.

He held up his hands. “Well?”

“I’ll need a guaranteed contract of three years.”

“Done.”

“Five hundred the first year, six hundred the second, and seven fifty the third.”

“Done.”

“And then there’s the signing bonus.”

“Name your figure.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“I was prepared to give you another five hundred. Do we have a deal?”

“I believe we do.” Her smile quickly faded. “I’m not looking forward to telling Julian about it.”

“It’s just business, Sarah. Julian will understand.”

“He’s going to feel very hurt.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if I spoke to him.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll do it myself. I owe it to him.”

“You’re obviously a woman of integrity.” He stood suddenly. “I’ll instruct the lawyers to draw up your contract. Herr Wehrli will issue you a check for your signing bonus, along with an AAB credit card for your expenses.” He extended his hand. “Welcome to the family, Sarah.”

She shook it, then moved toward the door.

“Sarah?”

She turned around.

“Please don’t make the same mistake Andrew did. As you can see I’m very generous to the people who work for me, but I get very angry when they betray me.”

JULIAN ISHERWOOD, upon hearing the news, was predictably appalled. He railed against Zizi, then against Sarah. “Don’t bother coming back to the gallery for your things!” he shouted. “You’re not welcome here-you or your bloody Saudi sheikh!” After slamming down the phone he made his way over to Green’s, where he found Oliver Dimbleby and Jeremy Crabbe huddled conspiratorially at the end of the bar.

“Why the long face, Julie?” Dimbleby asked a touch too gleefully.

“I’ve lost her.”

“Who?”

“Sarah,” said Isherwood. “She’s left me for Zizi al-Bakari.”

“Don’t tell me she’s actually taken Andrew Malone’s old job.”

Isherwood nodded solemnly.

“Tell her to stay out of Zizi’s cookie jar,” said Crabbe. “He’ll chop off her hand. Legal there, you know.”

“How did he get her?” Dimbleby asked.

“Money, of course. That’s how they get everything.”

“True, indeed,” said Dimbleby. “At least we still have the lovely Elena.” We do, thought Isherwood. But for how long?

FOUR THOUSAND MILES away, aboard Sun Dancer, Gabriel shared in Isherwood’s gloomy mood, though for very different reasons. After hearing news of Sarah’s hiring he retreated to his outpost at the prow, refusing to acknowledge the congratulations offered him by the rest of his team.

“What’s his problem?” Yaakov asked Lavon. “He actually did it! He’s put an agent inside Jihad Incorporated!”

“Yes,” said Lavon. “And one day he’ll have to get her out again.”

24.

ZIZI’S SECRET DESTINATION TURNED out to be the French island of Saint-Barthélemy. They arrived the following morning and dropped anchor off Gustavia, the island’s picturesque port and administrative capital. Sarah was finishing her workout when Nadia came into the gym, dressed in a flattering white bikini and sheer white beach dress.

“Why aren’t you ready?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m taking you to Saline Beach -the greatest beach in the world.”

When Sarah hesitated, Nadia touched her arm affectionately. “Listen, Sarah, I know I haven’t been terribly friendly since you arrived, but we’re going to be spending a lot of time together now that you’re working for my father. We might as well be friends.”

Sarah made a show of thought. “I need ten minutes.”

“Five.” Nadia smiled warmly. “What do you expect? I’m my father’s daughter.”

Sarah went up to her cabin, showered quickly, and changed into a bathing suit and a sundress. She dropped a few things into her new beach bag, then went astern. Nadia was already aboard the launch, along with Rafiq al-Kamal and Jafar Sharuki. Jean-Michel was behind the wheel, checking the instrument panel.

“Just us?” Sarah asked as she climbed aboard and settled next to Nadia in the forward compartment.

“Rahimah might join us later,” Nadia said. “But to tell you the truth, I hope she doesn’t. I could use a break from her.”

Jean-Michel eased the boat away from Alexandra’s stern, then increased the throttle and sped away. They raced along the southern side of the island, past the outskirts of Gustavia, then around the Grande Pointe. Two minutes later they entered a small bay guarded at either end by rugged outcroppings of gray-brown volcanic rock. Between the rocks, and beneath a sky of intense luminous blue, lay a sweeping crescent beach. “Welcome to Saline,” Nadia said.

Jean-Michel guided the craft carefully through the gentle breakers and came to a stop a few yards from the shoreline. Rafiq and Sharuki leaped overboard into the shallow water and made their way to the prow. Nadia stood and slipped overboard into Rafiq’s powerful arms. “It’s the best part about having bodyguards,” she said. “You never have to get wet on the way to the beach.”

Sarah reluctantly climbed into the arms of Sharuki. A few seconds later she was deposited gently in the hard sand at the water’s edge. As Jean-Michel turned the launch around and headed back to Alexandra, Nadia stood at the tide line and looked for a suitable place to make camp. “Down there,” she said, then she took Sarah’s arm and led her toward the distant end of the beach, which was empty of other people. Rafiq and Sharuki trailed after them with the chairs and the bags. Fifty yards removed from the nearest beachgoer, Nadia stopped and murmured something in rapid Arabic to Rafiq, who responded by spreading a pair of towels on the sand and opening the chairs.

The two bodyguards made an outpost for themselves about twenty yards away. Nadia removed her beach dress and sat on her towel. Her long dark hair was combed straight back and shimmering with gel. She wore silver-tinted sunglasses, through which it was possible to see her wide liquid eyes. She glanced over her shoulder toward the bodyguards, then removed her top. Her breasts were heavy and beautifully formed. Her skin, after two weeks in the sun, was deeply tanned. Sarah sat down in one of the chairs and buried her feet in the sand.

“Do you like having them?” Sarah asked.

“The bodyguards?” Nadia shrugged. “When you’re the daughter of Zizi al-Bakari, bodyguards are a fact of life. Do you know how much I’m worth to a kidnapper or a terrorist?”

“Billions.”

“Exactly.” She reached into her beach bag and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims. She lit one for herself and offered one to Sarah, who shook her head. “I don’t smoke on Alexandra in deference to my father’s wishes. But when I’m away from him…” Her voice trailed off. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Cross my heart.” Sarah inclined her head toward the bodyguards. “What about them?”

“They wouldn’t dare tell my father.”

Nadia returned the cigarettes to her bag and exhaled smoke toward the cloudless blue sky. Sarah closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of very cold rosé in there, would you?”

“I wish,” Nadia said. “Jean-Michel always manages to smuggle a little wine on board. I’m sure he’d give you a bottle or two if you asked nicely.”

“I’m afraid Jean-Michel wants to give me more than just wine.”

“Yes, he’s very attracted to you.” Nadia pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead and closed her eyes. “There’s a restaurant just behind the dunes. We can have a drink at the bar later if you like.”

“I didn’t realize you drank.”

“Not much, but I do love banana daiquiris on a day like today.”

“I thought your religion forbade it.”

Nadia waved her hand dismissively.

“You’re not religious?” Sarah asked.

“I love my faith, but I’m also a modern Saudi woman. We have two faces. When we are at home, we are obligated to keep it hidden behind a black veil. But in the West…”

“You can drink the occasional daiquiri and lie topless on the beach.”

“Exactly.”

“Does your father know?”

She nodded. “He wants me to be a true woman of the West but remain faithful to the tenets of Islam. I’ve told him that’s not possible, at least not in the strictest sense, and he respects that. I’m not a child, Sarah. I’m twenty-seven years old.”

She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “And how old are you?”

“Thirty-one,” Sarah said.

“Have you ever been married?”

Sarah shook her head. Her face was still turned to the sun, and her skin felt as though it was burning. Nadia knows, she thought. They all know.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” Nadia said. “Why aren’t you married yet?”

Because of a telephone call I received at 8:53 the morning of September 11, 2001…

“All the usual excuses,” she said. “First there was college, then my doctorate, then work. I suppose I’ve never had time for love.”

“No time for love? How sad.”

“It’s an American disease.”

Nadia lowered her sunglasses over her eyes and rolled onto her back.

“The sun is strong,” Sarah said. “You should cover up.”

“I never burn. It’s one of the good things about being a Saudi.” She reached out and lazily buried the end of her cigarette in the sand. “It must be very strange for you.”

“What’s that?”

“An all-American girl like you, working for Zizi al-Bakari.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Nadia, but I’m hardly an all-American girl. I spent most of my childhood in Europe. When I went back to America to go to college, I felt terribly out of place. It took me a long time to adjust.”

“It doesn’t bother you working for a Saudi?”

“Why should it?”

“Because many people in your country blame us for the attacks on 9/11.”

“I don’t happen to be one of them,” Sarah said, then she recited the lines that Gabriel had given her in Surrey. “Osama chose Saudis to carry out the attacks so he could drive a wedge between your country and ours. He’s declared war on the House of Saud as well as America. We’re allies in the fight against al-Qaeda, not adversaries.”

“The Saudi intelligence services have warned my father repeatedly that he is a target of the terrorists because of his close relationship with the Royal Family. That’s why we have such stringent security.” She gestured toward the bodyguards. “That’s why we have to bring gorillas to the beach instead of two nice-looking boys.”

She rolled over onto her stomach, exposing her back to the warm sun. Sarah closed her eyes and drifted into a hazy dream-filled sleep. She woke an hour later to find their once-secluded spot surrounded by other people. Rafiq and Sharuki were now seated directly behind them. Nadia appeared to be sleeping. “I’m hot,” she murmured to the bodyguards. “I’m going for a swim.” When Rafiq started to get to his feet, Sarah motioned for him to stay. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

She walked slowly into the water, until the waves began breaking over her waist, then plunged beneath the surface and kicked hard several times until she was past the rough surf. When she broke through the surface again, Yaakov was floating next to her.

“How long are you planning to stay in Saint Bart’s?”

“I don’t know. They never tell me anything.”

“Are you safe?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Have you seen anyone who could be bin Shafiq?”

She shook her head.

“We’re here with you, Sarah. All of us. Now swim away from me and don’t look back. If they ask about me, tell them I was flirting with you.”

And with that he disappeared beneath the surface and was gone. Sarah went back to the beach and laid down on a towel next to Nadia.

“Who was that man you were talking to?” she asked.

Sarah felt her heart give a sideways lurch. She managed to answer calmly. “I don’t know,” she said, “but he was hitting on me right in front of his girlfriend.”

“What do you expect? He’s a Jew.”

“How can you tell?”

“Trust me, I can tell. Never talk to strangers, Sarah. Especially Jews.”

SARAH WAS in her cabin dressing for dinner when she heard the whine of the Sikorsky’s engine. She fastened the pearls around her neck and hurried up to the afterdeck, where she found Zizi seated on a couch in the cool evening air, dressed in a pair of fashionably cut faded blue jeans and a white pullover. “We’re going to the island for dinner tonight,” he said. “Nadia and I are taking the last helicopter. You’ll come with us.”

They boarded the Sikorsky twenty minutes later. As they floated over the harbor, the lights of Gustavia glowed softly against the gathering darkness. They passed over the ridge of steep hills behind the port and descended toward the airfield, where the others were waiting at the end of the tarmac, clustered around a convoy of gleaming black Toyota Land Cruisers.

With Zizi safely in place, the convoy set out toward the airport exit. On the opposite side of the road, in the parking lot of the island’s main shopping center, Sarah briefly glimpsed Yossi and Rimona sitting astride a motor scooter. She leaned forward and looked over at Zizi, who was seated next to his daughter.

“Where are we going?”

“We’ve commandeered a restaurant in Gustavia for dinner. But first we’re going to a villa on the other side of the island for drinks.”

“Have you commandeered the villa, too?”

Zizi laughed. “Actually it’s being rented by a business associate of ours.”

A cell phone shrieked. It was answered on the first ring by Hassan, who handed it to Zizi after ascertaining the identity of the caller. Sarah looked out her window. They were speeding now along the Baie de Saint-Jean. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the headlights of the last Land Cruiser trailing close behind them. An image formed in her mind: Yossi at the helm of his scooter, with Rimona clinging to his waist. She dropped the image into an imaginary shredder and made it go away.

The convoy slowed suddenly as they entered the busy little beach town of Saint-Jean. There were shops and restaurants on both sides of the narrow road and sunburned pedestrians weaving haphazardly through the sluggish traffic. Jean-Michel swore softly as a man and a woman on a motorbike squirted past through a narrow opening in the traffic jam.

On the other side of the village the traffic thinned suddenly, and the road climbed the cliffs along the edge of the bay. They rounded a hairpin turn and for an instant the sea lay below them, mercury-colored in the light of the newly risen moon. The next town was Lorient, less glamorous than Saint-Jean and far less crowded: a tidy shopping center, a shuttered gas station, a beauty salon that served local women, a burger stand that catered to shirtless boys who rode motorcycles. Seated alone at a chrome-topped table, dressed in khaki shorts and sandals, was Gabriel.

Zizi closed his cell phone with a loud snap and handed it over his shoulder without looking to Hassan. Nadia was holding a strand of her own hair and inspecting the ends for damage. “There’s a decent nightclub in Gustavia,” she said absently. “Maybe we can go dancing after dinner.” Sarah made no reply and looked out the window again. They passed a cemetery with aboveground gravesites and started up a steep hill. Jean-Michel down-shifted and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Halfway up the grade the road bent sharply to the left. As the Land Cruiser swerved, Sarah was thrust against Nadia’s body. Her bare skin felt feverish from the sun.

A moment later they were heading onto a narrow windswept point. Near the end of the point the convoy slowed suddenly and turned through a security gate, into the forecourt of a large white villa ablaze with light. Sarah glanced over her shoulder as the iron gate began to close automatically. A motor scooter sped past, ridden by a man with khaki shorts and sandals, then disappeared. The door of the Land Cruiser opened. Sarah climbed out.

HE STOOD in the entranceway, next to a fair-haired woman of early middle age, and greeted each member of Zizi’s large entourage as they came filing up the flagstone steps. He was tall, with the broad square shoulders of a swimmer and narrow hips. His hair was dark and tightly curled. He wore a pale-blue Lacoste sweater and white trousers. The sleeves of the sweater were pulled down to his wrists, and his right hand was thrust into his pocket. Zizi took Sarah by the arm and made the introduction.

“This is Sarah Bancroft, the new chief of my art department. Sarah, this is Alain al-Nasser. Alain runs a venture capital firm for us in Montreal.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sarah.”

Fluent English, lightly accented. Hand firmly in the pocket. He nodded at the woman.

“My wife, Sophie.”

“Bonsoir, Sarah.”

The woman extended her hand. Sarah shook it, then held out her own hand to Alain al-Nasser, but he looked quickly away and threw his arms elaborately around Wazir bin Talal. Sarah went inside the villa. It was large and airy with one side open to a large outdoor terrace. There was a turquoise swimming pool, and beyond the pool only the darkening sea. A table had been laid with drinks and snacks. Sarah searched in vain for a bottle of wine and settled for papaya juice instead.

She carried her drink onto the terrace and sat down. The gas lanterns were twisting in the night wind. So was Sarah’s hair. She tucked the rebellious strands behind her ears and looked back into the villa. Alain al-Nasser had abandoned Sophie to Jean-Michel and was now in close consultation with Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and bin Talal. Sarah sipped her juice. Her mouth was sandpaper. Her heart was banging against her breastbone.

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

She looked up, startled, and saw Nadia standing over her.

“Who?”

“Alain?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the way you were looking at him, Sarah.”

Think of something, she thought.

“I was looking at Jean-Michel.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it?”

“It’s never a good idea to mix romance and work.”

“He is beautiful, though.”

“Very,” said Sarah. “But trouble.”

“They all are.”

“How well do you know Alain?”

“Not very,” she said. “He’s been working for my father for about three years.”

“I take it he’s not Saudi?”

“We don’t do names like Alain. He’s Lebanese. Raised in France, I think.”

“And now he lives in Montreal?”

“I suppose.” Nadia’s expression darkened. “It’s best not to ask too many questions about my father’s business-or the people who work for him. My father doesn’t like it.”

Nadia walked away and sat down next to Rahimah. Sarah looked out to sea, at the lights of a passing vessel.

We know he’s concealed somewhere within Zizi’s empire. He might come as an investment banker or a portfolio manager. He might come as a real estate developer or a pharmaceutical executive…

Or a venture capitalist named Alain al-Nasser. Alain who is Lebanese but was raised in France, I think. Alain with a rounded face that does not quite match his body but looks vaguely like one she had seen in a country house in Surrey that does not exist. Alain who was at that very moment being led into a back room for a private meeting with the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. Alain who would not shake Sarah’s hand. Is it merely because he fears contamination by an infidel female? Or is it because the hand is slightly withered, the result of a shrapnel wound he received in Afghanistan?

“In a situation like this, Sarah, simple is best. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Telephone codes. Physical recognition signals.”

“Physical recognition signals?”

“Wristwatch on the left hand, wristwatch on the right. Coat collar up, coat collar down. Handbag in the left, handbag in the right.”

“Newspapers folded under the arm?”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve always been partial to hair myself.”

“Hair?”

“How do you like to wear your hair, Sarah?”

“Down, mostly.”

“You have very nice cheekbones. A very graceful neck. You should think about wearing your hair up from time to time. Like Marguerite.”

“Too old-fashioned.”

“Some things never go out of fashion. Put your hair up for me now.”

She reached into her handbag, for the clasp Chiara had given her on her last day at the gallery, and did as Gabriel asked.

“You look very beautiful with your hair up. This will be our signal if you see a man you think is bin Shafiq.”

“And what happens then?”

“Leave that to us, Sarah.”

25.

THAT NIGHT, for the first time since boarding Alexandra, Sarah did not sleep. She lay in the large bed, forcing herself to remain motionless so that bin Talal, if he was watching her through concealed cameras, would not suspect her of a restless conscience. Shortly before six the sky began to grow light, and a red stain appeared above the horizon. She waited another half-hour before ordering coffee. When it came she had a pounding headache.

She went onto the sundeck and stood at the rail, her gaze on the light slowly coming up in the harbor, her thoughts on Alain al-Nasser of Montreal. They had remained at his villa a little more than an hour, then had driven to Gustavia for dinner. Zizi had taken over a restaurant called La Vela on the edge of the harbor. Alain al-Nasser had not come with them. Indeed his name had not been mentioned at dinner, at least not within earshot of Sarah. A man who might have been Eli Lavon had strolled past the restaurant during dessert. Sarah had looked down to dab her lips on her napkin, and when she had looked up again the man had vanished.

She felt a sudden craving for physical movement and decided to go to the gym before it was commandeered by Zizi. She pulled on a pair of span-dex shorts, a tank top, and her running shoes, then went into the bathroom and pinned up her hair in front of the mirror. The gym, when she arrived, was in silence. She had expected to find it empty but instead saw Jean-Michel hunched over an apparatus, working on his biceps. She greeted him coolly and mounted the treadmill.

“I’m going to the island for a real run. Care to join me?”

“What about Zizi’s workout?”

“He says his back is sore.”

“It sounds as though you don’t believe him.”

“His back is always sore whenever he wants a day off.” He finished his set and wiped his glistening arms with a towel. “Let’s go before the traffic gets too heavy.”

They boarded a launch and set out toward the inner harbor. There was no wind yet, and the waters were still calm. Jean-Michel tied up at a public dock, near an empty café that was just opening for breakfast. They stretched for a few moments on the quay, then set out through the quiet streets of the old town. Jean-Michel moved effortlessly beside her. As they started the twisting ascent up the hillside behind the port, Sarah fell a few paces behind. A motor scooter overtook her, ridden by a helmeted girl in blue jeans with shapely hips. She pushed herself harder and closed the gap. At the top of the hill she stopped to catch her breath while Jean-Michel jogged lightly in place.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve gained nearly ten pounds on this trip.”

“It’s nearly over.”

“How much longer are we staying?”

“Two more days in Saint Bart’s.” He pulled his lips down in typically Gallic expression. “Maybe three. Zizi’s getting anxious to leave. I can tell.”

Just then the first flight of the day swept low over their heads and plunged down the opposite side of the hill toward the runway below. Without warning Jean-Michel started down the road after it. They ran past the airport and the island’s main shopping center, then rounded a bend in the road and started toward Saint-Jean village. The first traffic began to appear; twice they had to leap onto the sandy shoulder of the road to avoid approaching trucks. Jean-Michel led her through an opening in the stone wall at the edge of the road and down a sandy pathway to the beach. “It’s better if we run here,” he said. “I’m going to do a couple of fast intervals. Do you think you can stay out of trouble?”

“What makes you think I can’t keep up with you?”

He lengthened his stride. Sarah struggled to keep pace with him.

“The interval is about to begin,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“I thought this was the interval.”

Jean-Michel sprinted away. Sarah, exhausted from her sleepless night, slowed to a walk, reveling in the fact that for the first time since entering Zizi’s camp she was alone. It did not last long. Two minutes later Jean-Michel came sprinting back toward her, arms pumping like pistons. Sarah turned and started running again. Jean-Michel overtook her and slowed his pace.

“I’m famished,” she said. “How about some breakfast?”

“First we finish the run. We’ll have something at that café next to the boat.”

It took them twenty minutes to cover the distance back to the harbor. The café was beginning to fill by the time they arrived, but Jean-Michel found an empty table outside in the shade and sat down. Sarah looked over the menu for a few moments, then lifted her gaze toward the men’s clothing boutique opposite the café. The window display was filled with handmade French dress shirts of expensive-looking cotton. Sarah closed the menu and looked at Jean-Michel.

“I should buy Zizi a thank-you present.”

“The last thing Zizi needs is a gift. He truly is the man who has everything.”

“I should get him something. He was very generous to me.”

“I’m sure he was.”

She touched Jean-Michel’s arm and pointed to the boutique.

“The last thing Zizi needs is another shirt,” he said.

“They’re very nice-looking, though.”

Jean-Michel nodded. “They’re French,” he said. “We still can do a few things well.”

“Give me your credit card.”

“It’s an AAB company card.”

“I’ll reimburse you.”

He produced a card from the pocket of his running shorts and handed it over. “Don’t bother paying me back,” he said. “Trust me, Sarah, you won’t be the first person to buy Zizi a present with his own money.”

“What size shirt does he wear?”

“Sixteen-and-a-half-inch neck, thirty-three sleeve.”

“Very impressive.”

“I’m his personal trainer.”

She gave Jean-Michel her breakfast order-tartin, scrambled eggs, and café au lait-then walked over to the boutique. She stood outside for a moment, gazing at the shirts in the window, then slipped through the entrance. An attractive young woman with short blond hair greeted her in French. Sarah selected two shirts, one dark blue, the other pale yellow, and gave the woman Zizi’s measurements. The woman disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later with the shirts.

“Do you have a gift box?”

“Of course, Madame.”

She produced one from beneath the counter, then carefully wrapped the shirts in tissue paper and placed them inside.

“Do you have a gift card of some sort?” Sarah asked. “Something with an envelope?”

Again the woman reached beneath the counter. She placed the card before Sarah and handed her a pen.

“How will you be paying, Madame?”

Sarah gave her the credit card. While the saleswoman rang up the purchases, Sarah leaned over the gift card and wrote: Alain al-Nasser- Montreal. Then she inserted the card into the envelope, licked the adhesive flap, and sealed it tightly. The saleswoman then placed the credit card receipt in front of Sarah. She signed it, then handed the woman the pen, along with the sealed envelope.

“I don’t understand, Madame.”

“Sometime this morning a friend of mine is going to come here to see whether I forgot something,” Sarah said. “Please give my friend this envelope. If you do, you’ll be paid handsomely. Discretion is important. Do you understand me, Madame?”

“Of course.” She smiled at Sarah mischievously, then looked at Jean-Michel sitting in the café. “Your secret is safe with me.”

The woman placed the gift box in a paper bag and handed it to Sarah. Sarah winked at her, then went out and returned to the café. Her breakfast was waiting for her when she sat down.

“Any problems?” Jean-Michel asked.

Sarah shook her head and handed him the credit card. “No,” she said. “No problems at all.”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER Sarah and Jean-Michel boarded the launch and returned to Alexandra. Gabriel waited another fifteen minutes before entering the boutique. He collected the gift card from the saleswoman and gave her one hundred euros for her trouble. Five minutes after that he was seated at the tiller of a Zodiac, heading out of the inner harbor toward the anchorage.

Alexandra lay directly before him, by far the largest private vessel in port, second in scale only to the cruise ship that had come in overnight. Gabriel turned a few degrees to port and headed toward Sun Dancer, which was anchored several hundred yards away, near the twin rocks that stood guard over the entrance of the harbor. He tied off the Zodiac at the stern and went into the main salon, which had been converted into a mobile command and operations center. There was a secure satellite telephone and a computer with a link to King Saul Boulevard. Two dozen cellular phones and several handheld radios stood in formation in their chargers, and a video camera with telephoto lens was trained on Alexandra.

Gabriel stood before the monitor and watched Sarah step out onto her private sundeck. Then he looked at Yaakov, who was on the phone to Tel Aviv. When Yaakov hung up a moment later, Gabriel held up the gift card. Alain al-Nasser- Montreal.

“That’s our girl,” Yaakov said. “Have a seat, Gabriel. King Saul Boulevard has had a busy morning.”

GABRIEL POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee from a thermos and sat down.

“Technical hacked into the reservation system of the villa rental firm early this morning,” Yaakov said. “The villa where Sarah went last night was rented by a company called Meridian Construction of Montreal.”

“Meridian Construction is controlled entirely by AAB Holdings,” Lavon said.

“Did the reservation say who would be staying there?” Gabriel asked.

Yaakov shook his head. “The booking was handled by a woman named Katrine Devereaux at Meridian headquarters. She paid for everything in advance and instructed the rental company to have the house open and ready for his arrival.”

“When did he get here?”

“Three days ago, according to the records.”

“How much longer is he staying?”

“The reservation is for four more nights.”

“What about his car?”

“There’s a Cabriolet parked at the house now. The sticker on the back says Island Rental Cars. No computerized reservation system. Everything’s on paper. If we want the particulars we’ll have to break in the old-fashioned way.”

Gabriel looked at Mordecai, a neviot man by training. “Their office is at the airport,” Mordecai said. “It’s nothing more than a booth with a sliding aluminum shutter over the window and one door for the staff to come in and out. We could be inside in a matter of seconds. The problem is that the airport itself is under guard at night. We could lose the entire operation just to find out the name and credit card number he used to rent his car.”

“Too risky,” Gabriel said. “Any activity on the telephone?”

Mordecai had placed a transmitter in the junction box overnight. “One call this morning,” he said. “A woman. She phoned a hair salon in Saint-Jean and made an appointment for this afternoon.”

“What did she call herself?”

“Madame al-Nasser,” Mordecai said. “There’s one small problem with the tap. As it stands now, we’re at the outside edge of its range. The signal is weak and full of interference. If bin Shafiq picked up the phone right now we might not be able to make a voice ID on him because of static on the line. We need a listening post.”

Gabriel looked at Yaakov. “What about moving the boat?”

“The waters off that point are too rough to be used as an anchorage. If we dropped anchor out there to watch the villa, we’d stick out like a sore thumb. We might as well just walk up to al-Nasser’s front door and introduce ourselves.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Mikhail as he entered the salon. “I volunteer.”

“We need a static post,” Yaakov said.

“So we’ll get one.” Gabriel held up the gift card again. “What about this name? Do you recognize it?”

“It’s not an alias that we know about,” Yaakov said. “I’ll have King Saul Boulevard run it through the computers and see what they come up with.”

“What now?” asked Mikhail.

“We’ll spend the day watching him,” Gabriel said. “We’ll try to get his photograph and his voice. If we can, we’ll send them to King Saul Boulevard for analysis.”

“It’s a small island,” Lavon said, his tone cautionary. “And we have limited personnel.”

“That can work to our advantage. In a place like this, it’s not uncommon to see the same people every day.”

“True,” Lavon said, “but bin Talal’s goons will get nervous if they see too many familiar faces.”

“And what if King Saul Boulevard tells us that Alain al-Nasser of Montreal is really a Saudi GID officer named Ahmed bin Shafiq?” Mikhail asked. “What do we do then?”

Gabriel glanced up at the monitor and looked at Sarah. “I’m going back to Gustavia,” he said, still gazing at the screen. “We need a listening post.”

THE WELL-BRED ENGLISHWOMAN who greeted him fifteen minutes later at the Sibarth villa rental agency had sun-streaked brown hair and pale blue eyes. Gabriel played the role of Heinrich Kiever, a German of means who had stumbled upon paradise and now wished to stay on a bit longer. The Englishwoman smiled-she had heard many such tales before-then printed out a listing of available properties. Gabriel scanned it and frowned. “I was hoping for something here,” he said, tapping the map that lay spread over her desk. “On this point on the north side of the Island.”

“Pointe Milou? Yes, it’s lovely, but I’m afraid we have nothing available there at the moment. We do have something here, though.” She tapped the map. “The next point over. Pointe Mangin.”

“Can you see Pointe Milou from the house?”

“Yes, quite clearly. Would you like to see some photographs?”

“Please.”

The woman produced a brochure and opened it to the appropriate page. “It’s four bedrooms, Herr Kiever. Did you need something that large?”

“Actually, we might be having some company.”

“Then I suspect this will do brilliantly. It’s a bit pricey, twelve thousand a week, and I’m afraid there’s a two-week minimum.”

Gabriel shrugged, as if to say money was no object.

“No children and absolutely no pets. You don’t have a dog, do you?”

“Heavens no.”

“There’s a two-thousand-dollar security deposit as well, bringing the grand total to twenty-six thousand, payable in advance, of course.”

“When can we have it?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s ten-fifteen now. If we rush things along, we should be able to have you and your wife in by eleven-thirty at the latest.”

Gabriel smiled and handed her a credit card.

THOUGH THE ENGLISHWOMAN did not know it, the first guests arrived at the villa fifteen minutes after Gabriel and Dina had settled in. Their possessions were quite unlike those of ordinary visitors to the island. Mordecai brought a voice-activated receiver and a Nikon camera with a long lens, while Mikhail arrived with a nylon rucksack containing cellular phones, radios, and four handguns. An hour later they glimpsed their quarry for the first time when he strode onto the terrace, dressed in white shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt. Mordecai snapped several photos of him. Five minutes later, when al-Nasser emerged shirtless from the pool after a vigorous swim, he snapped several more. Gabriel examined the images on the computer but deemed them unworthy of sending to King Saul Boulevard for analysis.

At one in the afternoon the light on the voice-activated recorder turned from red to green. A burst of tone came over the line, followed by the sound of someone inside the house dialing a local number. After two rings the call was answered by a woman at La Gloriette restaurant. Gabriel closed his eyes in disappointment when the next voice on the line was that of Madame al-Nasser, requesting a lunch reservation for two o’clock. He briefly considered putting a team inside the restaurant but ruled it out after obtaining a description of the cramped beachside dining room. Mordecai, however, managed to take two more photographs of al-Nasser, one as he was climbing out of his car in the parking lot and a second as he was sipping a drink at his table. In both he was wearing dark sports sunglasses and a long-sleeved shirt. Gabriel dispatched them to King Saul Boulevard for analysis. One hour later, as al-Nasser and his wife were leaving the restaurant, King Saul Boulevard sent a flash over the secure link that the results were inconclusive.

At 3:30 they departed La Gloriette and drove to Saint-Jean village, where al-Nasser dropped his wife at the hair salon. From there he went to Gustavia, where, at 3:50, he boarded a launch and headed to Alexandra. Yossi recorded his arrival from the bridge of Sun Dancer , along with the warm embrace he received from Zizi al-Bakari as they entered the upstairs office suite for a private meeting. Sarah was not on board to see al-Nasser’s arrival, for at that moment she and most of Zizi’s entourage were snorkeling in Île Fourche, a small deserted island about a mile northeast of Saint-Bart’s.

The meeting lasted a little over an hour. Yossi recorded al-Nasser’s departure from Zizi’s office and the altogether determined expression on his face as he boarded the launch and headed back to Gustavia. Mikhail followed him back to Saint-Jean village, where he collected his newly coiffed wife from the salon shortly after six o’clock. By 6:30 al-Nasser was once again swimming laps in his pool, and Mikhail was seated glumly next to Gabriel in the villa on the other side of the inlet.

“We’ve been chasing him all day,” Mikhail said, “and what have we got to show for it? A few useless pictures. Alain al-Nasser is obviously bin Shafiq. Let’s take him now and be done with it.”

Gabriel gave him a disdainful look. “Some day, when you’re a little older and wiser, I’ll tell you a story about the night an Office hit team thought they had the prize in their sights and killed an innocent waiter by mistake.”

“I know the story, Gabriel. It happened in Lillehammer. Inside the Office you still refer to it as Leyl-ha-Mar: the Night of Bitterness. But it was a long time ago.”

“It is still the greatest operational blunder in the history of the Office. They killed the wrong man, and they got caught doing it. They broke all the rules. They acted hastily, and they let their emotions get the better of them. We’ve come too far to have another Leyl-ha-Mar. First we get proof-airtight, unassailable proof-that Alain al-Nasser is Ahmed bin Shafiq. Only then do we start talking about killing him. And we pull the trigger only if we can get Sarah and the entire team off this island without getting caught.”

“How are we going to get proof?”

“The photographs aren’t good enough,” Gabriel said. “We need his voice.”

“He doesn’t speak.”

“Everyone speaks. We just have to make him speak while we’re listening.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

Just then the green light shone on the telephone recorder and a burst of dial tone came blaring over the speakers. Madame al-Nasser’s call lasted less than thirty seconds. When it was over, Gabriel listened to it again, just to make certain he’d got the details right.

“Le Poivre.”

“We’d like a table for two at nine o’clock.”

“We’re booked then, Madame. I can do eight or nine-thirty.”

“Eight is too early. We’ll take the nine-thirty, please.”

“You’re name?”

“Al-Nasser.”

Gabriel pressed the Stop button and looked at Mikhail-Patience, my boy. Good things come to those who wait.

THE RESTAURANT known as Le Poivre is one of the island’s undiscovered gems. It stands at the far end of a pleasant little shopping center in Saint-Jean, at the intersection of the main coast road and a narrow track that climbs the heights overlooking the beach. It has no view, other than the traffic and the parking lot, and little in the way of ambience. The dining room is the size of an average suburban patio. The service is sometimes listless, but the food, when it finally arrives, is always among the best on the island. Still, because of its unremarkable location, those who come to Saint Bart’s to be seen are rarely seen at Le Poivre, and nothing much out of the ordinary ever happens there. It is why, to this day, they still talk about the incident that occurred there involving Monsieur and Madame al-Nasser.

The staff know the story well, as do the locals who drink at the tiny bar. Afternoons, during the docile period between lunch and the evening rush, they often recount it over a glass of rosé or an espresso and a cigarette. The reservation had been for 9:30, but they had come on the early side. Odette, the hostess on duty that night, remembers it as 9:15, but Étienne, the bartender, will tell you with great certainty that it was 9:20. There were no tables yet available, and so they had a seat at the bar to wait. Étienne saw to the drinks, of course. A glass of champagne for Madame al-Nasser. A pineapple juice for the gentleman. “Nothing else?” Étienne had asked, but the gentleman had smiled without charm and in a voice barely above a whisper had replied: “Just the juice, please.”

A table opened sometime after 9:30. Again there is mild dispute over the time. Denise, the waitress, recalls it as 9:40, but Odette, keeper of the reservation sheet and watcher of the clock, swears it was no later than 9:35. Regardless of the time, Monsieur and Madame al-Nasser were not happy with the table. Madame complained that it was too close to the entrance of the toilet, but one had the impression that Monsieur al-Nasser disliked the table for a different reason, though he never voiced an opinion.

It was nearly ten before the next table opened. This one was against the rail overlooking the street. Monsieur al-Nasser sat in the chair facing the bar, but Étienne remembers that his gaze was fixed permanently on the traffic flowing along the coast road. Denise apprised them of the evening’s menu and took their drink orders. Madame ordered a bottle of wine. Côtes du Rhône, says Denise. Bordeaux, according to Étienne. Of the wine’s color, however, there is no dispute. It was red, and much of it would soon be splashed across Madame’s white tropical pantsuit.

The catalyst for the incident arrived at Le Poivre at 10:15. He was small of stature and unimpressive of build. Étienne made him at five-eight, a hundred fifty pounds at the most. He wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts that hadn’t been washed in some time, an oversized gray T-shirt with a tear in the left sleeve, a pair of sandals with Velcro straps, and a golf cap that had seen better days. Strangely, no one can summon a compelling portrait of his face. Étienne remembers a pair of outdated eyeglasses. Odette recalls an untrimmed mustache that really didn’t suit his features. Denise only remembers the walk. His legs had a slight outward bend to them, she will tell you. Like a man who can run very fast or is good at football.

He had no name that night but later would come to be known simply as “Claude.” He had come to Saint-Jean by motorbike from the direction of Gustavia and had spent the better part of the evening drinking Heineken at the bar a few doors down. When he arrived at ten-fifteen looking for a table, his breath stank of cigarettes and hops, and his body didn’t smell much better. When Odette explained that there were no tables-“And that I wouldn’t seat him if we had one”-he mumbled something unintelligible and asked for the key to the toilet. To which Odette replied that the toilet was for paying customers only. He then looked at Étienne and said, “Heineken.” Étienne put a bottle on the bar, shrugged at Odette, and handed him the key.

How long he remained inside is also a matter of some dispute. Estimates range from two minutes to five, and wild theories have been spun as to exactly what he was doing in there. The poor couple seated at the table rejected by Monsieur and Madame al-Nasser later described his piss as one for the ages and said it was followed by much flushing and running of water into the basin. When finally he emerged he was pulling at the fly of his khaki shorts and smiling like a man relieved of a great burden. He started back toward the bar, with his gaze targeted squarely upon the waiting Heineken. And then the trouble began.

Denise had just finished refilling Madame al-Nasser’s glass of wine. Madame was raising it for a drink but lowered it in disgust as Claude came out of the toilet tugging at his crotch. Unfortunately, she placed the glass on the table and released it in order to lean forward and tell Monsieur al-Nasser about the spectacle. As Claude teetered past, his hand knocked against the glass, spilling its contents into the lap of Madame al-Nasser.

Accounts of what transpired next vary according to who is telling the story. All agree Claude made what appeared to be a good-faith attempt to apologize, and all agree that it was Monsieur al-Nasser who chose the path of escalation. Harsh words were exchanged, as were threats of violence. The incident might have been resolved peacefully had not Claude offered to pay the dry-cleaning bill. When the offer was hotly refused, he reached into the pocket of his soiled khaki shorts and hurled a few wrinkled euro notes into Monsieur al-Nasser’s face. Denise managed to get out of the way just before Monsieur al-Nasser seized Claude by the throat and pushed him toward the exit. He held him there for a moment, shouting more insults into his face, then pushed him down the steps into the street.

There was a smattering of applause from the other patrons and much concern about the wretched state of Madame al-Nasser’s garments. Only Étienne bothered to tend to the figure sprawled on the pavement. He helped the man to his feet and, with serious reservations, watched as he mounted his motorbike and wobbled down the coast road. To this day Étienne harbors doubts about the authenticity of that evening’s events. A black belt in karate, he saw something in the drunkard’s carriage that told him he was a fellow student of the arts. Had the little man in the glasses and golf hat chosen to fight back, Étienne says with the conviction of one who knows, he could have torn Monsieur al-Nasser’s arm from the socket and served it to him for dinner with his Bordeaux.

“It wasn’t Bordeaux,” Denise will tell you. “It was Côtes du Rhône.”

“Côtes du Rhône, Bordeaux-it doesn’t matter. And I’ll tell you something else. When that little bastard drove away, he was grinning from ear to ear. Like he just won the lotto.”

ELI LAVON had watched Gabriel’s performance from the parking lot, and so it was Lavon who described it for the rest of the team that evening at the villa. Gabriel was slowly pacing the tiled floor, nursing a club soda for his hangover and holding a bag of ice to a swollen left elbow. His thoughts were on the scene now taking place half a world away in Tel Aviv, where a team of specialists in the science of voice identification was deciding whether the man known as Alain al-Nasser would live or die. Gabriel knew what the answer would be. He had known it the instant his quarry had risen from his table in a killing rage. And he had seen proof of it a few seconds later, when he’d managed to lift the right sleeve of his quarry’s shirt and sneak a glance at the ugly shrapnel scar on his forearm. At 11:30 the lights came on in the villa across the inlet. Gabriel went out onto the terrace, and on the opposite point Ahmed bin Shafiq did the same. To Mikhail it seemed that the two men were staring at each other over the darkened divide. At 11:35 the satellite phone purred softly. Yaakov answered it, listened a moment in silence, then rang off and called Gabriel inside.

26.

THEY GATHERED IN THE open-air living room of the villa and sprawled on the sailcloth couches and wicker chairs. Dina made the first pot of coffee, while Lavon taped a large-scale map of the island onto the wall. Gabriel stared at it gloomily for a long time in silence. When finally he spoke, he uttered a single word: “Zwaiter.” Then he looked at Lavon. “Do you remember Zwaiter, Eli?”

Lavon raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Of course Lavon remembered Zwaiter. Chief of Black September in Italy. First to die for Munich. Gabriel could almost see him now, a skinny intellectual in a plaid jacket, crossing the Piazza Annibaliano in Rome with a bottle of fig wine in one hand and a copy of A Thousand and One Nights in the other.

“How long did you watch him, Eli? Two weeks?”

“Nearly three.”

“Tell them what you learned about Wadal Zwaiter before we even thought about killing him.”

“That he stopped each evening in the same small market. That he always went to the Trieste Bar to make a few phone calls, and that he always went into his apartment building through Entrance C. That the lights in the foyer operated on a timer, and that he always stood in the dark for a moment, searching his pockets for a ten-lira coin to operate the lift. That’s where you did it, wasn’t it, Gabriel? In front of the lift?”

“Excuse me, but are you Wadal Zwaiter?”

“No! Please, no!”

“And then you vanished,” Lavon continued. “Two escape cars. A team to cover the route. By morning you were in Switzerland. Shamron said it was like blowing out a match.”

“We controlled every detail. We chose the time and the place of the execution and planned it down to the smallest detail. We did everything right that night. But we can’t do any of those things on this island.” Gabriel looked at the map. “We operate best in cities, not places like this.”

“That might be true,” said Dina, “but you can’t let him leave here alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because he has the resources of a billionaire at his fingertips. Because he can fly off to the Najd at a moment’s notice and be lost to us forever.”

“There are right ways to do these things, and there are wrong ways. This is definitely the wrong way.”

“Don’t be afraid to pull the trigger because of what happened at the Gare de Lyon, Gabriel.”

“This has nothing to do with Paris. We have a professional target. A small battlefield. A hazardous escape route. And an unpredictable variable named Sarah Bancroft. Shall I go on?”

“But Dina is right,” Yossi said. “We have to do it now. We might never get another shot at him.”

“The Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not get caught. That’s our first responsibility. Everything else is secondary.”

“Did you see him aboard Zizi’s yacht today?” Rimona asked. “Shall we watch the tape again? Did you see his face when he came out? What do you think they were talking about, Gabriel? Investments? He tried to kill my uncle. He has to die.”

“What would we do about the woman?” Yossi asked.

“She’s an accomplice,” Lavon said. “She’s obviously part of his network. Why is her voice the only one we hear? Doesn’t she find it a bit odd that her husband never picks up the phone?”

“So do we kill her?”

“If we don’t, we’ll never make it off this island.”

Dina suggested they put the entire operation to a vote. Yaakov shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “this is not a democracy.”

Gabriel looked at Lavon. The two held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Lavon closed his eyes and nodded once.

THEY DID NOT sleep that night. In the morning Yossi rented a second Suzuki Vitara four-wheel-drive, while Yaakov and Rimona each rented Piaggio motorbikes. Oded and Mordecai went to a marine supply outlet in Gustavia and purchased two Zodiacs with outboard engines. Dina spent much of that day calling the island’s most exclusive restaurants trying to book a table for thirty. At 1:30 she learned that Le Tetou, a trendy beachside restaurant in Saint-Jean, had already been booked that evening for a private party and would not be open to the public.

Gabriel rode into Saint-Jean to have a look for himself. The restaurant was an open-air structure, with swatches of colorful cloth hanging from the ceiling and ear-shattering dance music blaring from the speakers. A dozen tables stood beneath a peaked wooden shelter and several more were scattered along the beach. There was a small bar and, like many restaurants on the island, a boutique that sold atrociously expensive women’s beachwear. Lunch service had reached fever pitch, and barefoot girls clad only in bikini tops and ankle-length beach dresses rushed from table to table, dispensing food and drink. A feline-looking bathing-suit model emerged from the boutique and posed for him. When Gabriel gave no sign of approval, the girl frowned and moved on to a table of well-lubricated Americans, who bayed in approval.

He walked over to the bar and ordered a glass of rosé, then carried it over to the boutique. The changing rooms and toilets were down a narrow passage, at the end of which was the parking lot. He stood there for a moment, visualizing movement, calculating time. Then he swallowed half of the rosé and went out.

It was perfect, he thought. But there was one problem. Snatching Sarah from a table was out of the question. Zizi’s bodyguards were heavily armed and to a man were all former officers of the Saudi National Guard. To get Sarah cleanly, they had to move her into the changing rooms at a pre-arranged time. And to do that they would have to get her a message. As Gabriel rode off on his motorbike, he called Lavon at the villa and asked whether she was on the island.

THE RESTAURANT at Saline has no view of the sea, only of the sand dunes and a broad salt marsh framed by scrub-covered green hills. Sarah sat on the shaded veranda, her fingers wrapped around the stem of a wineglass filled with icy rosé. Next to her sat Nadia, the modern Muslim woman, who was working on her third daiquiri and improving in mood with each passing minute. On the opposite side of the table Monique and Jean-Michel were silently quarreling. The Frenchman’s eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses, but Sarah could see he was scrutinizing the young couple who had just arrived on a motorbike and were now tramping up the stairs to the veranda.

The man was tall and lanky, clad in knee-length swimming trunks, flip-flops, and a cotton pullover. His English accent betrayed an Oxbridge education, as did the imperious manner in which he inquired about the availability of a table. The girl’s accent was indeterminate middle European. Her bikini top was still wet from her swim and clung suggestively to a pair of generous suntanned breasts. She asked the hostess about the location of the toilet, loudly enough for Sarah and everyone else in the restaurant to hear, then calmly held Jean-Michel’s gaze as she walked past the table, her emerald beach wrap flowing from a pair of childbearing hips.

Nadia sucked at her daiquiri, while Monique scowled at Jean-Michel, as if she suspected his interest in the girl extended beyond the professional. Two minutes later, when the girl emerged, she was fussing with her hair and swaying playfully to the reggae music issuing from the stereo behind the bar. Office Doctrine, thought Sarah. When operating in public places like bars and restaurants, don’t sit quietly or read a magazine. That only makes you look like a spy. Call attention to yourself. Flirt. Be loud. Drink too much. A quarrel is always nice. But there was something else Sarah noticed that she was sure Jean-Michel had not. Rimona was wearing no earrings, which meant she had left a message for Sarah inside the toilet.

Sarah watched as Rimona sat down next to Yossi and snapped at him for not having a drink waiting for her. A line of clouds was coming over the dunes, and a sudden wind was chasing in the marsh grass. “Looks like a big storm,” said Jean-Michel, and he ordered a third bottle of rosé to help ride it out. Nadia lit a Virginia Slims, then gave the pack to Monique, who did the same. Sarah turned to watch the approaching storm. All the while she was thinking of the clock and wondering how many minutes she should let pass before she went to the bathroom. And what she might find when she went there.

Five minutes later the clouds opened, and a gust of wind hurled rain against Sarah’s back. Jean-Michel signaled the waitress and asked her to lower the awning. Sarah stood, seized her beach bag, and started toward the back of the restaurant.

“Where are you going?” asked Jean-Michel.

“We’re working on our third bottle of wine. Where do you think I’m going?”

He stood suddenly and followed after her.

“This is very thoughtful of you, but I really don’t need your help. I’ve been doing this sort of thing alone since I was a little girl.”

He took her by the arm and led her to the restroom. The door was ajar. He pushed it all the way open, looked quickly around, then stepped aside and allowed her to enter. Sarah closed the door and bolted it, then dropped the toilet seat, loudly enough so that it could be heard beyond the door.

We have several places we like to hide things, Gabriel had told her. Taped to the inside of the toilet tank or hidden inside the seat-cover dispenser. Rubbish bins are always good, especially if they have a lid. We like to hide messages inside tampon boxes, because we’ve found that Arab men, even professionals, are loath to touch them.

She looked beneath the sink, saw an aluminum canister, and put her foot on the pedal. When the lid rose she saw the box, partially concealed by crumpled paper towels. She reached down and plucked it out. Read the message quickly, Gabriel had said. Trust yourself to remember the details. Never, I mean never, take the message with you. We like to use flash paper, so if you have a lighter or matches, set it on fire in the sink and it will disappear. If not, flush it down the toilet. Worst case, put it back in the box and leave it in the trash. We’ll clean it out after you leave.

Sarah looked in her beach bag and saw she had a book of matches. She started to take them out but decided she didn’t have the nerve for it, so she tore the message to bits and flushed them down the toilet. She stood before the mirror a moment and examined her face while she ran water into the basin. You’re Sarah Bancroft, she told herself. You don’t know the woman who left the tampon box in the trash. You’ve never seen her before.

She shut off the taps and returned to the veranda. Rainwater was now spilling over the gutters in torrents. Yossi was in the process of noisily sending back a bottle of Sancerre; Rimona was examining the menu as though she found it of little interest. And Jean-Michel was watching her coming across the room as though seeing her for the first time. She sat down and watched the storm rolling across the marsh, knowing it would soon be over. You’re having dinner at Le Tetou tonight, the message had said. When you see us, pretend to be ill and go to the bathroom. Don’t worry if they send a bodyguard. We’ll take care of him.

ALL THEY NEEDED now was the guest of honor. For much of that day they did not see him. Gabriel grew concerned that bin Shafiq had somehow managed to slip away undetected and briefly considered placing a phone call to the villa to make certain it was still occupied. But at 11:30 they saw him emerge onto the terrace, where, after his customary vigorous swim, he sunned himself for an hour.

At 12:30 he went inside again, and a few minutes later the white Cabriolet came rolling down the drive with the top down and the woman behind the wheel. She drove to a charcuterie in Lorient village, spent ten minutes inside, then returned to the villa on Pointe Milou for an alfresco lunch.

At three o’clock, as the storm was breaking over the coast, the Cabriolet again came down the drive, but this time it was bin Shafiq behind the wheel. Lavon set off after him on one of the newly acquired scooters, with Mordecai and Oded following in support. It quickly became apparent the Saudi was checking for surveillance, because he forsook the crowded roads along the northern coast of the island and headed instead toward the sparsely developed eastern shore. He sped along the rocky coastline of Toiny, then turned inland and raced through a string of scruffy hamlets in the grassy hills of the Grand Fond. He paused for a few seconds at the turnoff for Lorient, long enough so that Mordecai had to come around him. Two minutes later, at the intersection of the road to Saint-Jean, he engaged in the same time-tested routine. This time it was Oded who had to abandon the chase.

Lavon was convinced that bin Shafiq’s ultimate destination was Gustavia. He hurried into town by a different route and was waiting near the Carl Gustav Hotel when the Cabriolet came down the hill from Lurin. The Saudi parked along the edge of the harbor. Ten minutes later, after making another careful check of his tail, this one on foot, he joined Wazir bin Talal at a quayside café. Lavon had sushi at a restaurant up the street and waited them out. An hour later he was back at the villa, telling Gabriel they had a problem.

“WHY IS he meeting with bin Talal? Bin Talal is security-Zizi’s security. We have to consider the possibility that Sarah’s blown. We’ve been operating in close proximity for several days now. It’s a small island. We’re all professionals but…” Lavon’s voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“Zizi’s boys are professionals, too. And so is bin Shafiq. He was driving this afternoon like a man who knew he was being followed.”

“It’s standard procedure,” said Gabriel, playing devil’s advocate without much enthusiasm.

“You can always tell the difference between someone who’s going through the motions and someone who’s thinks he’s got a watcher on his tail. It feels to me like bin Shafiq knows he’s being watched.”

“So what are you suggesting, Eli? Call it off?”

“No,” Lavon said. “But if we can only get one target tonight, make sure it’s Sarah.”

TEN MINUTES LATER. The green light. The burst of dial tone. The sound of a number being dialed.

“ La Terrazza.”

“I’d like to make a reservation for this evening, please.”

“How many in your party?”

“Two.”

“What time?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Can you hold a moment while I check the book?”

“Sure.”

“Would nine-fifteen be all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“All right, we have a reservation for two at nine-fifteen. Your name, please?”

“Al-Nasser.”

“Merci, Madame. Au revoir.”

Click.

GABRIEL WALKED over to the map.

“ La Terrazza is here,” he said, tapping his finger against the hills above Saint-Jean. “They won’t have to leave the villa until nine at the earliest.”

“Unless they go somewhere first,” said Lavon.

“Zizi’s dinner begins at eight. That gives us almost an hour before we would have to move Sarah into place for the extraction.”

“Unless Zizi arrives late,” said Lavon.

Gabriel walked over to the window and looked across the inlet. The weather had broken, and it was now dusk. The sea was beginning to grow dark, and lights were coming on in the hills.

“We’ll kill them at the villa-inside the house or behind the walls in the drive.”

“Them?” asked Lavon.

“It’s the only way we’ll get off the island,” Gabriel said. “The woman has to die, too.”

27.

IN THE TWO HOURS that followed Gabriel’s declaration, there took place a quiet movement of personnel and matériel that went largely unnoticed by the island’s docile population. Sarah was witness to only one element of the preparations, for she was seated on her private deck, wrapped in a white terry robe, as Sun Dancer got under way and receded silently into the gathering darkness. The gusty winds of the afternoon had died away, and there was only a gentle warm breeze chasing around the yachts anchored at the mouth of the harbor. Sarah closed her eyes. She had a headache from the sun, and her mouth tasted of nickel from too much rosé. She latched on to her discomfort. It gave her something to dwell upon besides what lay ahead. She glanced at her wristwatch, the Harry Winston wristwatch that had been given to her by the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. It read 7:20. She was almost home.

She looked toward Alexandra’s stern and saw that the Sikorsky was darkened and motionless. They were going ashore by launch tonight, departure scheduled for 7:45, arrangements having been made by Hassan, ever-efficient chief of Zizi’s travel department. And please don’t be late, Miss Sarah, Hassan had told her. Zizi had advised her to wear something special. Le Tetou is my favorite restaurant on the island, he had said. It promises to be a memorable evening.

The breeze rose and from somewhere in the harbor came the clanging of a buoy. She gave another glance at her watch and saw it was 7:25. She allowed herself to picture a reunion. Perhaps they would have a family meal, like the meals they had shared together in the manor house in Surrey that did not exist. Or perhaps the circumstances would be such that food was not appropriate. Whatever the mood, she craved their embrace. She loved them. She loved all of them. She loved them because everyone else hated them. She loved them because they were an island of sanity surrounded by a sea of zealots and because she feared that the tide of history might one day sweep them away and she wanted to be a part of them, if only for a moment. She loved their hidden pain and their capacity for joy, their lust for life and their contempt for those who murdered innocents. To each of their lives was attached a purpose, and to Sarah each seemed a small miracle. She thought of Dina-scarred, beautiful Dina, the last of six children, one child for each million murdered. Her father, she had told Sarah, had been the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust. After coming to Israel he had chosen the name Sarid, which in Hebrew means remnant, and he had named his last child Dina, which means avenged. I’m Dina Sarid, she had said. I’m the avenged remnant.

And tonight, thought Sarah, we stand together.

Seven-thirty and still she did not move from her chair on the deck. Her procrastination had purpose. She wanted to give herself only a few minutes to dress-less time to send an inadvertent signal that she had no intention of coming back. Bring nothing with you, Rimona’s message had said. Leave your room in a mess.

And so she remained on the deck another five minutes before rising and entering her cabin. She let the robe slide from her shoulders and fall to the floor, then quickly pulled on underpants and a bra. Her clothing, a loose-fitting saffron-colored pantsuit that Nadia had bought for her the previous afternoon in Gustavia, was laid out on the unmade bed. She pulled it on quickly and went to the vanity in the bathroom. She slipped on the gold bangle but left the rest of the jewelry Zizi had given her on the counter. When deciding how to wear her hair, she hesitated for the first time. Up or down? Down, she decided. The first step back toward her old life. A life that Gabriel had warned would never be the same.

She went back into the room and took one last look around. Leave your room in a mess. Mission accomplished. Bring nothing with you. No handbag or wallet, no credit cards or money, but then who needs credit cards and money when one is attached to the entourage of Zizi al-Bakari? She went out into the corridor and closed the door, making certain it was unlocked. Then she headed to the stern, where the launches were waiting. Rafiq handed her aboard to Jean-Michel, and she squeezed between the Abduls in the aft seating compartment. Zizi was opposite her, next to Nadia. As the boat started toward shore, they were eyeing her intently in the darkness.

“You should have worn your pearls, Sarah. They would have gone nicely with your pantsuit. But I’m pleased to see your hair is down again. It looks much nicer that way. I never liked you with your hair up.” He looked at Nadia. “Don’t you think she looks better with her hair down?”

But before Nadia could answer, Hassan pressed an open cell phone into Zizi’s palm and murmured something in Arabic that sounded frightfully urgent. Sarah looked toward the inner harbor, where four black Toyota Land Cruisers waited at the edge of the quay. A small cluster of onlookers had gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse of the celebrity who could command such an impressive motorcade on so small an island. The dark-haired girl seated beneath the shelter of a gazebo fifty yards away couldn’t be bothered by the spectacle of celebrity. The avenged remnant was gazing off into space, her mind obviously wrestling with more weighty matters.

THE BEACH at Saline, one of the few on the island to have no hotels or villas, was dark except for the phosphorous glow of the breakers in the bright moonlight. Mordecai brought the first Zodiac ashore at 8:05. Oded came two minutes later, piloting his own Zodiac and towing a third by a nylon line. At 8:10 they signaled Gabriel. Team Saline was in place. The escape hatch was now open.

AS USUAL the beach at Saint-Jean had been slow to empty that evening, and there were still a few steadfast souls sitting in the sand in the gathering darkness. At the end of the airport runway, near a weather-beaten sign that warned of low-flying aircraft, a small party was under way. They were four in number, three men and a dark-haired girl who had arrived by motor scooter from Gustavia a few moments earlier. One of them had brought some Heineken beer; another a small portable CD player, which was now playing a bit of Bob Marley. The three men were laying about in various states of relaxation. Two of them, a tough-looking man with pockmarked skin and a gentle soul with quick brown eyes and flyaway hair, were chain-smoking for their nerves. The girl was dancing to the music, her white blouse glowing softly in the moonlight.

Though it was not evident in their demeanor, they had taken great care in choosing the location for their party. From their position they could monitor traffic on the road from Gustavia, along with the large private dinner party now beginning about a hundred yards down the beach at Le Tetou restaurant. At 8:30, one of the men, the tough one with a pockmarked face, appeared to receive a call on his mobile phone. It was not an ordinary phone but a two-way radio capable of sending and receiving secure transmissions. A moment after hanging up, he and the other two men got to their feet and made their way noisily back to the road, where they climbed into a Suzuki Vitara.

The girl dressed in white remained behind on the beach, listening to Bob Marley as she watched a private turboprop plane descending low over the waters of the bay toward the runway. She looked at the weather-beaten sign: BEWARE OF LOW-FLYING AIRCRAFT. The girl was dissident by nature and paid it no heed. She turned up the volume of the music and danced as the plane roared over her head.

THE BEACH at Marigot Bay is small and rocky and rarely used except by locals as a place to store their boats. There is a small turnout just off the coast road with room for two or three cars and a flight of rickety wood stairs leading down to the beach. On that night the turnout was occupied by a pair of Piaggio motorbikes. Their owners were on the darkened beach, perched on the belly of an overturned rowboat. Both had nylon rucksacks at their feet and both rucksacks contained two silenced handguns. The younger man carried.45-caliber Barak SP-21s. The older man preferred smaller weapons and had always been partial to Italian guns. The weapons in his bag were 9mm Berettas.

Unlike their compatriots at Saint-Jean, the two men were not drinking or listening to music or engaging in false gaiety of any kind. Both were silent and both were taking slow and steady breaths to calm their racing hearts. The older man was watching the traffic along the road, the younger man was contemplating the gentle surf. Both, however, were picturing the scene that would take place in a few minutes in the villa at the end of the point. At 8:30 the older one raised his radio to his lips and uttered two words: “Go, Dina.”

IT WAS MONIQUE, Jean-Michel’s wife, who spotted the girl first.

Drinks had just been served; Zizi had just finished ordering everyone to enjoy the meal, because it was to be their last on Saint-Bart’s. Sarah was seated at the opposite end of the table, next to Herr Wehrli. The Swiss banker was discussing his admiration for the work of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner when Sarah, from the corner of her eye, noticed the swift turn of Monique’s angular head and the supple movement of her dark hair.

“There’s that girl,” Monique said to no one in particular. “The one with the terrible scar on her leg. Remember her, Sarah? We saw her on the beach at Saline yesterday. Thank God she’s wearing pants tonight.”

Sarah politely disengaged herself from the Swiss banker and followed Monique’s gaze. The girl was walking along the water’s edge, dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans rolled up to her calves. As she approached the restaurant one of the bodyguards came forward and tried to block her path. Sarah, though she could not hear their conversation, could see the girl exerting her right to walk along a public stretch of beach, regardless of the high-security private party taking place at Le Tetou. Office Doctrine, she thought. Don’t try to appear inconspicuous. Make a spectacle of yourself.

The bodyguard finally relented, and the girl limped slowly past and vanished into the darkness. Sarah allowed another moment to elapse, then leaned across the table in front of Monique and spoke quietly into Jean-Michel’s ear.

“I think I’m about to be sick.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Too much wine at lunch. I nearly threw up in the launch.”

“You want to go to the restroom?”

“Can you take me, Jean-Michel?”

Jean-Michel nodded and stood up.

“Wait,” Monique said. “I’ll come with you.”

Jean-Michel shook his head, but Monique stood abruptly and helped Sarah to her feet. “The poor girl’s sick,” she hissed at him in French. “She needs a woman to look after her.”

AT THAT same moment a Suzuki Vitara pulled into the parking lot of Le Tetou. Yossi was behind the wheel; Yaakov and Lavon were seated in back. Yaakov chambered the first round in his 9mm Beretta, then peered down the passage and waited for Sarah to appear.

SARAH GLANCED over her shoulder as they left the beach and saw Zizi and Nadia staring at her. She turned and looked straight ahead. Jean-Michel was on her left, Monique on her right. Each held an arm. They led her quickly through the interior portion of the restaurant and past the boutique. The passageway was in heavy shadow. Jean-Michel opened the door of the ladies’ room and switched on the light, then looked quickly around and gestured for Sarah to enter. The door slammed shut. Too hard, she thought. She locked it securely and looked in the mirror. The face staring back at her was no longer hers. It might have been painted by Max Beckmann or Edvard Munch. Or perhaps Gabriel’s grandfather, Viktor Frankel. A portrait of a terrified woman. Through the closed door she heard the voice of Monique asking if she was all right. Sarah made no reply. She braced herself on the sink, then closed her eyes and waited.

“SHIT,” murmured Yaakov. “Why did she have to bring the fucking kickboxer?”

“Can you take him?” asked Lavon.

“I think so, but if things start to go badly out there make sure you shoot him in the head.”

“I’ve never shot anyone in my life.”

“It’s easy,” Yaakov said. “Put your finger on the trigger and pull.”

IT WAS PRECISELY 8:32 P.M. when Gabriel mounted the wooden stairs on the beach at Marigot Bay. He wore a motorcycle helmet with a dark visor and, beneath the helmet, a lip microphone and miniature earpiece. The black nylon rucksack containing the Berettas was secured to his back by the shoulder straps. Mikhail, one step behind him, was identically attired. They climbed aboard the motorbikes and fired the engines simultaneously. Gabriel nodded his head once, and together they accelerated into the empty road.

They plunged down a steep hill, Gabriel leading the way, Mikhail a few yards behind. The road was narrow and bordered on both sides by a stone wall. Ahead of them, at the top of another hill, was the turnoff for Pointe Milou. Parked along the edge of the stone wall was a motorcycle, and sitting astride the saddle, wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting shirt, was Rimona, her face concealed by a helmet and visor.

She flashed her headlamp twice, the signal that the road was clear. Gabriel and Mikhail took the corner at speed, leaning hard through the turn, and sped out onto the point. The sea opened before them, luminous in the moonlight. To their left rose the slope of a barren hillside; on their right stood a row of small cottages. A black dog emerged from the last cottage and barked savagely as they swept past.

At the next intersection was a kiosk of postboxes and a small unoccupied bus shelter. An approaching car rounded the corner too fast and strayed into Gabriel’s side of the road. He slowed and waited for it to pass, then opened the throttle again.

It was then he heard the voice of Rimona in his ear.

“We have a problem,” she said calmly.

Gabriel, as he made the turn, glanced over his shoulder and saw what it was. They were being followed by a battered blue Range Rover with Gendarmerie markings.

IN THE parking lot of Le Tetou, Yaakov was reaching for the door latch when he heard Rimona in his earpiece. He looked at Lavon and asked, “What the fuck is going on?”

It was Gabriel who told him.

THERE WERE two gendarmes in the Rover, one behind the wheel and a second, more senior-looking man in the passenger seat with a radio handset pressed to his lips. Gabriel resisted the temptation to turn around for a second look and kept his eyes straight ahead.

Just beyond the bus shelter, the road forked. Bin Shafiq’s villa lay to the right. Gabriel and Mikhail went left. A few seconds later they slowed and looked behind them.

The gendarmes had gone the other way.

Gabriel braked to a halt and debated what to do next. Were the gendarmes on a routine patrol, or were they responding to a call of some sort? Was it merely bad luck or something more? He was certain of only one thing. Ahmed bin Shafiq was within his grasp, and Gabriel wanted him dead.

He turned around, rode back to the fork, and looked toward the end of the point. The road was clear, and the gendarmes were nowhere in sight. He twisted the throttle and plunged forward through the darkness. When he arrived at the villa he found the security gate open and the Gendarmerie Range Rover parked in the drive. Ahmed bin Shafiq, the most dangerous terrorist in the world, was loading his suitcases into the back of his Subaru.

And the two French policemen were helping him!

Gabriel rode back to the spot where Mikhail was waiting and broke the news to the entire team simultaneously.

“Our friend is about to leave the island. And Zizi’s arranged a police escort.”

“Are we blown?” Mikhail asked.

“We have to assume that’s the case. Take Sarah and get over to Saline.”

“I’m afraid that’s no longer possible,” Lavon replied.

“What’s not possible?”

“We can’t get Sarah,” he said. “We’re losing her.”

A FIST crashed against the door three times. A tense voice shouted at her to come out. Sarah turned the latch and opened the door. Jean-Michel was standing outside in the passage, along with four of Zizi’s bodyguards. They seized her arms and pulled her back to the beach.

THE WHITE CABRIOLET came through the security gate and turned onto the road, followed by the police Rover. Fifteen seconds later the little convoy sped past Gabriel and Mikhail. The top of the convertible was still down. Bin Shafiq had both hands on the wheel, and his eyes were straight ahead.

Gabriel looked at Mikhail and spoke to the entire team simultaneously over the radio. “Evacuate to Saline now. Everyone. Leave me a boat, but get off the island.”

Then he set off after bin Shafiq and the gendarmes.

“YOU’RE HURTING ME.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Sarah, but we have to hurry.”

“For what? The main course?”

“There’s been a bomb threat. We’re leaving the island.”

“A bomb threat? Against who? Against what?”

“Please don’t say another word, Miss Sarah. Just walk quickly.”

“I will, but let go of my arms. You’re hurting me!”

GABRIEL STAYED two hundred yards behind the Range Rover and rode with his headlamp doused. They sped through the village of Lorient, then Saint-Jean. As they raced along the edge of the bay he saw the sign for Le Tetou. He throttled down and peered into the parking lot, just as Zizi and the rest of his entourage were climbing into the Land Cruisers under the gaze of two more gendarmes. Sarah was sandwiched between Rafiq and Jean-Michel. There was nothing Gabriel could do now. Reluctantly he accelerated and set off after bin Shafiq.

The airport was now directly ahead of them. Without warning the two vehicles swerved into the service road and headed through an open security gate onto the tarmac. A turboprop was waiting at the end on the tarmac, engines running. Gabriel stopped on the shoulder of the road and watched as bin Shafiq, the woman, and the two gendarmes emerged from their vehicles.

The Saudi terrorist and the woman immediately boarded the plane, while the gendarmes loaded the bags into the storage compartment in the belly. Fifteen seconds after the cabin door closed, the plane lurched forward and swept down the runway. As it rose over the Baie de Saint-Jean, Zizi’s motorcade came roaring past in a black blur and started up the hill toward Gustavia.

IT WAS 8:40 when Mordecai and Oded spotted Mikhail and Rimona clambering down the dunes toward Saline beach. Two minutes later four more figures appeared. By 8:43 everyone was aboard the boats but Lavon.

“You heard him, Eli,” Yaakov shouted. “He wants everyone off the island.”

“I know,” Lavon said, “but I’m not leaving without him.”

Yaakov could see there was no point in arguing. A moment later the Zodiacs were bounding through the surf toward Sun Dancer. Lavon watched them melt into the darkness; then he turned and began pacing the water’s edge.

THE MOTORCADE snaked its way at high speed down the hill into Gustavia. Gabriel, following after them, could see Alexandra ablaze with light at the edge of the harbor. Two minutes later the Land Cruisers turned into the parking lot of the marina. Zizi’s bodyguards handled the disembarkation and loading process with the speed and precision of professionally trained men. Rescue was not an option. Gabriel saw Sarah only once-a flash of saffron wedged between two large dark figures-and a moment later they were seaborne once more, bound for the sanctuary of Alexandra. He had no choice but to turn and head to Saline, where Lavon was waiting for him. Gabriel sat morosely in the prow as they headed into the bay.

“Do you remember what I told you this afternoon, Gabriel?”

“I remember, Eli.”

“If you can only get one target tonight, make sure it’s Sarah. That’s what I told you.”

“I know, Eli.”

“Who made the mistake? Was it us? Or was it Sarah?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, it doesn’t. He’s going to kill her unless we can somehow get her back.”

“He won’t do it here. Not after involving the French police.”

“He’ll find a way. No one betrays Zizi and gets away with it. Zizi’s rules.”

“He’ll have to move her,” Gabriel said. “And, of course, he’ll want to know who she’s working for.”

“Which means we might have a very small window, depending on the methods Zizi is willing to use to get answers.”

Gabriel was silent. Lavon could read his thoughts.

We’ll get her, Gabriel was thinking. Let’s just hope there’s something left of her when we do.

28.

WORD OF THE DISASTER in Saint-Barthélemy arrived in the Operations Room at King Saul Boulevard within ten minutes of Gabriel’s return to Sun Dancer. Amos Sharrett, the director-general, was upstairs in his office at the time and was informed of the developments by the duty officer. Despite the lateness of the hour, he immediately woke the prime minister and told him the news. Five minutes later there was a second secure call from Sun Dancer, this one to Langley, Virginia. It went not to the Ops Center but to the private line of Adrian Carter’s seventh-floor office. Carter took the news calmly, as he did most things, and toyed with a stray paper clip as Gabriel made his request. “We have a plane in Miami at the moment,” Carter said. “It can be on the ground in Saint Maarten by dawn.”

Carter hung up the phone and gazed toward the bank of television monitors on the opposite side of the room. The president was in Europe on his fence-mending tour. He had spent the day meeting with the new German chancellor while outside the police had waged running street battles across Berlin with anti-American demonstrators. More of the same was expected at the president’s final two stops: Paris and Rome. The French were bracing for a wave of Muslim rioting, and the Carabinieri were anticipating demonstrations on a scale not seen in the Italian capital in a generation-hardly the scenes of transatlantic harmony the White House imagemakers had been hoping for.

Carter switched off the television and locked his papers in his wall safe, then took his overcoat from the hook on the back of his door and slipped out. The secretaries had gone for the night, and the vestibule was in shadow except for a trapezoid of light that shone from a half-open door on the opposite side. The door led to the office of Shepard Cantwell, the deputy director of intelligence, Carter’s counterpart on the analytical side of the Agency. From inside the room came the clattering of a computer keyboard. Cantwell was still there. According to the Agency wits, Cantwell never left. He simply locked himself into his wall safe some time around midnight and let himself out again at dawn, so he could be at his desk when the director arrived.

“That you, Adrian?” Cantwell inquired in his lazy Back Bay drawl. When Carter poked his head into Cantwell’s lair, the DDI stopped typing and looked up over a batch of files. He was prim as a prior and twice as crafty. “Christ, Adrian, you look like death warmed over. What’s bothering you?”

When Carter mumbled something vague about the chaos surrounding the president’s goodwill trip to Europe, Cantwell launched into a dissertation about the false dangers of anti-Americanism. Cantwell was analysis. He couldn’t help it.

“It’s always fascinated me, Adrian, this ludicrous need of ours to be powerful and loved at the same time. The American president reached halfway around the world and toppled the ruler of Mesopotamia in an afternoon. Not even Caesar could manage that. And now he wants to be adored by those who oppose him. The sooner we stop worrying about being liked, the better off we’ll be.”

“You’ve been reading Machiavelli again, Shep?”

“Never stopped.” He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and splayed his elbows, treating Carter to an unwanted view of his armpits. “There’s a nasty rumor going round the village, Adrian.”

“Really?” Carter gave his wristwatch a glance that Cantwell seemed not to notice.

“According to the rumor you’re involved in some sort of special operation against a well-to-do friend of the al-Saud. And your partners in this endeavor-again, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, Adrian -are the Israelites.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” Carter said. “How far has it traveled?”

“Beyond Langley,” replied Cantwell, which was another way of saying it had reached some of the brother agencies that had been steadily encroaching on CIA turf ever since the dreaded reorganization of the American intelligence community.

“How far beyond?”

“Far enough so that some people in town are starting to get nervous. You know how the game is played, Adrian. There’s a pipeline between Riyadh and Washington, and it flows green with cash. This town is awash with Saudi money. It pours into the think tanks and the law firms. Hell, the lobbyists dine out on the stuff. The Saudis have even managed to devise a system for bribing us while we’re still in office. Everyone knows that if they look out for the al-Saud while they’re working for Club Fed, the al-Saud will look out for them when they return to the private sector. Maybe it will be in the form of a lucrative consulting contract or some legal work. Maybe a chair at some insipid institute that spouts the Saudi party line. And so when rumors start flying around town that some cowboy at Langley is going after one of the most generous benefactors of this unholy system, people get nervous.”

“Are you one of them, Shepard?”

“Me?” Cantwell shook his head. “I’m heading back to Boston the minute my parole comes through. But there are other people in the building planning to hang around town and cash in.”

“And what if the generous benefactors of this unholy system are also filling the coffers of the people who fly airplanes into our buildings? What if these friends of ours are up to their necks in terror? What if they’re willing to make any deal with the devil necessary to ensure their survival, even if it leads to dead Americans?”

“You shake their hands and smile,” said Cantwell. “And you think of the terrorism as an inconvenient surcharge on your next tank of gas. You still driving that old Volvo of yours?”

Cantwell knew exactly what Carter drove. Their assigned spaces were next to each other in the west parking lot. “I can’t afford a new car,” Carter said. “Not with three kids in college.”

“Maybe you should sign up for the Saudi retirement plan. I see a lucrative consulting contract in your future.”

“Not my style, Shep.”

“So what about those rumors? Any truth to them?”

“None at all.”

“Glad to hear it,” Cantwell said. “I’ll be sure to set everyone straight. Night, Adrian.”

“Night, Shep.”

Carter went downstairs. The executive parking lot was nearly empty of other cars. He climbed into his Volvo and headed toward Northwest Washington, following the route he and Gabriel had taken eight weeks earlier. As he passed Zizi al-Bakari’s estate, he slowed and peered through the bars of the gate, toward the hideous faux-chateau mansion perched on the cliff overlooking the river. Don’t touch her, Carter thought savagely. Harm one hair on her head, and I’ll kill you myself. As he headed over Chain Bridge, he glanced down at his dash. A warning light was glowing red. How appropriate, he thought. His gas tank was nearly empty.

AT THAT same moment, Sun Dancer was rounding Grande Pointe and returning to the anchorage off Gustavia. Gabriel stood alone in the prow, field glasses pressed to his eyes, gazing at the afterdeck of Alexandra, where the ship’s crew were serving a hastily prepared dinner for thirty. Gabriel saw them as figures in a painting. The Boating Party, he thought. Or was it The Last Supper?

There was Zizi, seated regally at the head of the table, as though the events of the evening had been a welcome diversion from the monotony of an otherwise ordinary journey. At his left hand sat his beautiful daughter, Nadia. At his right hand, stabbing at his food without appetite, was his trusted second in command, Daoud Hamza. Farther down the table were the lawyers, Abdul amp; Abdul, and Herr Wehrli, minder of Zizi’s money. There was Mansur, maker of travel arrangements, and Hassan, chief of communications, secure and otherwise. There was Jean-Michel, tender of Zizi’s fitness and supplementary security man, and his sullen wife, Monique. There was Rahimah Hamza and her lover, Hamid, the beautiful Egyptian film star. There was a quartet of anxious-looking bodyguards and several attractive women with guiltless faces. And then, seated at the far end of the table, as far from Zizi as possible, there was a beautiful woman in saffron silk. She provided the balance to the composition. She was innocence to Zizi’s evil. And Gabriel could see that she was frightened to death. Gabriel knew he was witnessing a performance. But for whose benefit was it being staged? His or Sarah’s?

At midnight the figures in his painting stood and bade each other goodnight. Sarah disappeared through a passageway and was lost to him once more. Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and Wazir bin Talal entered Zizi’s office. Gabriel saw it as a new painting: Meeting of Three Evil Men, artist unknown.

Five minutes later Hassan rushed into the office and handed Zizi a mobile telephone. Who was calling? Was it one of Zizi’s brokers asking for instructions on what position to take at the opening of trading in London? Or was it Ahmed bin Shafiq, murderer of innocents, telling Zizi what to do with Gabriel’s girl?

Zizi accepted the phone and with a wave of his hand banished Hassan from the office. Wazir bin Talal, chief of security, walked over to the windows and drew the blinds.

SHE LOCKED the door and switched on every light in the room. She turned on the satellite television system and changed the channel to CNN. German police battling protesters in the streets. More proof, said a breathless reporter, of America ’s failure in Iraq.

She went out onto the deck and sat down. The yacht she had watched leaving the harbor that afternoon had now returned. Was it Gabriel’s yacht? Was bin Shafiq alive or dead? Was Gabriel alive or dead? She knew only that something had gone wrong. These things happen from time to time, Zizi had said. It’s why we take matters of security so seriously.

She gazed at the yacht, looking for signs of movement on the deck, but it was too far off to see anything. We’re here with you, Sarah. All of us. The wind rose. She wrapped her arms around her legs and drew her knees to her chin.

I hope you’re all still there, she thought. And please get me off this boat before they kill me.

AT SOME POINT, she did not remember when, the cold had driven her inside to her bed. She woke to a gray dawn and the patter of a gentle rain on her sundeck. The television was still on; the president had arrived in Paris, and the place de la Concorde was a sea of protesters. She picked up the telephone and ordered coffee. It was delivered five minutes later. Everything was the same except for the handwritten note, which was folded in half and leaning against her basket of brioche. The note was from Zizi. I have a job for you, Sarah. Pack your bags and be ready to leave by nine. We’ll talk before you leave. She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it to the door of the sundeck. It was then she noticed that Alexandra was under way and that they had left Saint Bart’s. She looked again at Zizi’s note. It didn’t say where she was going.

29.

SARAH PRESENTED HERSELF ON the aft deck promptly at nine o’clock. It was raining heavily now; the clouds were low and dark, and a strong wind was playing havoc with the sea. Zizi was wearing a pale marine raincoat and dark sunglasses despite the gray weather. Bin Talal stood next to him, dressed in a tropical-weight blazer to conceal his sidearm.

“Never a dull moment,” Sarah said as amiably as possible. “First a bomb threat, then a note with my breakfast telling me to pack my bags.” She looked toward the helipad and saw Zizi’s pilot climbing behind the controls of the Sikorsky. “Where am I going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Zizi said, taking her by the arm.

“You’re coming with me?”

“Only as far as Saint Maarten.” He pulled her toward the stairs that led to the helipad. “There’s a private jet for you there.”

“Where’s the private jet going?”

“It’s taking you to see a painting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Where’s it going, Zizi?”

He stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at her, his eyes concealed behind the dark glass.

“Is something bothering you, Sarah? You seem tense.”

“I just don’t like getting on airplanes when I don’t know where they’re going.”

Zizi smiled and started to tell her, but his words were drowned out by the engine of the Sikorsky.

GABRIEL WAS STANDING in the prow of Sun Dancer when the helicopter lifted off. He watched for a moment, then rushed up to the bridge, where a navy lieutenant was at the helm.

“They’re moving her to Saint Maarten. How far are we from shore?”

“About five miles.”

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“Given the weather, I’d say thirty minutes. Maybe a bit less.”

“And the Zodiacs?”

“You don’t want to try it in a Zodiac-not in these conditions.”

“Get us close-as quickly as possible.”

The lieutenant nodded, and started making preparations to change heading. Gabriel went to the command center and dialed Carter.

“She’s headed toward the airport on Saint Maarten as we speak.”

“Is she alone?”

“Zizi and his chief of security are with her.”

“How long before you can get there?”

“Forty-five minutes to shore. Another fifteen to the airport.”

“I’ll put the crew on standby. The plane will be ready when you arrive.”

“Now we just need to know where Zizi’s sending her.”

“Thanks to al-Qaeda, we’re now tapped into every traffic control tower in the hemisphere. When Zizi’s pilot files a flight plan, we’ll know where she’s going.”

“How long will it take?”

“Usually it takes us only a few minutes.”

“I don’t suppose I need to remind you that sooner is better.”

“Just get to shore,” Carter said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“IT’S A MANET,” Zizi said as they swept toward the coastline, just beneath the deck of low dark clouds. “I’ve had my eye on it for several years now. The owner has been reluctant to part with it, but last night he telephoned my office in Geneva and said he was interested in making a deal.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Inspect the painting and make certain it’s in reasonable condition. Then review the provenance carefully. As I’m sure you’re aware, thousands of French Impressionist paintings entered Switzerland during the war under illicit circumstances. The last thing I need is some Jewish family beating down my door demanding their painting back.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear in the center of her chest. She turned away and looked out the window.

“And if the provenance is in order?”

“Work out a suitable price. I’m willing to go to thirty million, but for God’s sake, don’t tell him that.” He handed her a business card with a handwritten number on the back. “Once you’ve got a final number, call me before you accept.”

“What time do I see him?”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. One of my drivers will meet you at the airport tonight and take you to your hotel. You can get a good night’s sleep before you see the painting.”

“Do I get to know the owner’s name?”

“Hermann Klarsfeld. He’s one of the richest men in Switzerland, which is saying something. I’ve warned him about how beautiful you are. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“Lovely,” she said, still looking out the window at the approaching coastline.

“Herr Klarsfeld is an octogenarian, Sarah. You needn’t worry about any inappropriate behavior.”

Zizi looked at bin Talal. The security chief reached under his seat and produced a new Gucci bag. “Your things, Miss Sarah,” he said, his tone apologetic. Sarah accepted the bag and opened it. Inside were the electronic items taken from her the afternoon of her arrival: the mobile phone and the PDA; the iPod and the hair dryer; even the travel alarm clock. Nothing remained of her aboard Alexandra, no evidence she’d ever been there.

The helicopter started to lose altitude. Sarah looked out the window again and saw that they were descending toward the airport. At the end of the airfield were a handful of private jets. One was being fueled for takeoff. Zizi was once more extolling the wealth of Herr Klarsfeld, but Sarah heard none of it. She was now thinking only of escape. There is no Herr Klarsfeld, she told herself. And there is no Manet. She was being put on an airplane to oblivion. She remembered Zizi’s benediction the afternoon she accepted his job offer. As you can see I’m very generous to the people who work for me, but I get very angry when they betray me. She had betrayed him. She had betrayed him for Gabriel. And now she would pay with her life. Zizi’s rules.

She looked down at the airfield, wondering if Zizi had somehow left a crack through which she might escape. Surely there would be a customs officer to check her passport. Maybe an airport official or a policeman or two. She rehearsed the lines she would say to them. My name is Sarah Bancroft. I am an American citizen, and these men are trying to transport me to Switzerland against my will. Then she looked at Zizi and his chief of security. You’ve taken that scenario into account, haven’t you? You’ve paid off the customs officials and bribed the local police. Zizi didn’t countenance delays, especially not for a hysterical infidel woman.

The Sikorsky’s skids bumped down on the tarmac. Bin Talal opened the cabin door and climbed out, then reached back inside and offered Sarah his hand. She took it and climbed down the staircase, into a vortex of swirling wind. Fifty yards from the helicopter stood a waiting Falcon 2000, engines screaming in preparation for takeoff. She looked around: no customs officials, no policeman. Zizi had closed her only window. She looked back into the cabin of the Sikorsky and saw him for the last time. He gave her a genial wave, then looked at his gold Rolex, like an attending physician marking the time of death.

Bin Talal seized her bags, reminded her to duck her head, then took her by the arm and led her toward the Falcon. On the staircase she tried to pull away from him, but he squeezed her upper arm in a painful viselike grip and conveyed her up the steps. She screamed for help, but the sound was drowned out by the whining of the jet engines and the thumping of the Sikorsky’s rotor blade.

She staged one more rebellion at the top of the staircase, which bin Talal suppressed with a single shove between her shoulder blades. She stumbled inside, into a small cabin luxuriously appointed in polished wood and soft tan leather. It reminded her of a coffin. At least her journey to oblivion was going to be comfortable. She gathered herself for one more revolt and flew at the Saudi in a rage. Now, shielded from view by the outside world, there was no discretion in his response. He gave her a single open-handed blow that landed hard on her right cheekbone and sent her whirling to the cabin floor. The Saudis knew how to treat mutinous women.

She heard ringing in her ears and for a moment was blinded by exploding stars. When her vision cleared she saw Jean-Michel standing over her, drying his hands on a linen towel. The Frenchman sat on her legs and waited until bin Talal had pinned her arms to the floor before producing the hypodermic needle. She felt a single stab, then molten metal flowing into her veins. The skin of Jean-Michel’s face slid from his skull, and Sarah slipped beneath the surface of cold black water.

30.

THE ZODIAC ENTERED THE waters of Great Bay one hour later. The four men on board were dressed in sport jackets and trousers, and each carried a small overnight bag for the benefit of local authorities. After docking at Bobby’s Marina, the men climbed into a waiting taxi and proceeded to the airport at considerable speed. There, after clearing passport control, all on false travel documents, they boarded a waiting Gulfstream V private jet. The crew had already filed a flight plan and requested a takeoff slot. One hour later, at 11:37 A.M. local time, the plane departed. Its destination was Kloten Airport. Zurich, Switzerland.

AS THE GULFSTREAM rose over the waters of Simpson Bay, Adrian Carter made three telephone calls: one to the director of the CIA, the second to the arm of the Agency that specialized in clandestine travel, and a third to an Agency physician who specialized in treating wounded agents under less than optimum conditions. He then opened his wall safe and removed one of three billfolds. Inside was a false passport, along with corresponding identification, credit cards, a bit of cash, and photographs of a family that did not exist. Ten minutes later he was walking across the west parking lot toward his Volvo sedan. The headquarters man was a field man once more. And the field man was going to Zug.

IN DOWNTOWN MUNICH, Uzi Navot was enjoying a late lunch with a paid informant from the German BND when he received an urgent call from Tel Aviv. It came not from the Operations Desk but directly from Amos Sharrett. Their conversation was brief and one-sided. Navot listened in silence, grunting occasionally to convey to Amos that he understood what he was to do, then rang off.

Navot was unwilling to let the German security man know the Office was in the midst of a full-blown crisis, so he remained at the restaurant for another thirty minutes, picking his thumbnail to shreds beneath the table while the German had strudel and coffee. At 3:15 he was behind the wheel of his E-Class Mercedes, and by 3:30 he was speeding westward along the E54 motorway.

Think of it as an audition, Amos had said. Pull this off cleanly and Special Ops is yours. But as Uzi Navot raced toward Zurich through the fading afternoon light, personal promotion was the last thing on his mind. It was Sarah he wanted-and he wanted her in one piece.

BUT SARAH, lost in a fog of narcotics, was unaware of the events swirling around her. Indeed she had no conception of even the state of her own body. She did not know she was reclining in an aft-facing chair of an eastbound Falcon 2000, operated by Meridian Executive Air Services of Caracas, wholly owned by AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between. She did not know that her hands were cuffed and her ankles shackled. Or that a crimson welt had arisen on her right cheek, compliments of Wazir bin Talal. Or that seated opposite her, separated by a small polished table, Jean-Michel was leafing through a bit of Dutch pornography and sipping a single-malt scotch he’d picked up duty-free at the Saint Maarten airport.

Sarah was aware only of her dreams. She had a vague sense the images playing out for her were not real, yet she was powerless to seize control of them. She heard a telephone ring and when she picked up the receiver she heard the voice of Ben, but instead of hurtling toward the South Tower of the World Trade Center he had landed safely in Los Angeles and was bound for his meeting. She entered a stately town house in Georgetown and was greeted not by Adrian Carter but by Zizi al-Bakari. Next she was in a shabby English country house, occupied not by Gabriel and his team but by a cell of Saudi terrorists plotting their next strike. More images followed, one upon the next. A beautiful yacht slicing through a sea of blood. A gallery in London hung with portraits of the dead. And finally an art restorer with ashen temples and emerald eyes, standing before a portrait of a woman handcuffed to a dressing table. The restorer was Gabriel, and the woman in the portrait was Sarah. The image burst into flames, and when the flames receded, she saw only the face of Jean-Michel.

“Where are we going?”

“First we’re going to find out who you’re working for,” he said. “And then we’re going to kill you.”

Sarah closed her eyes in pain as a needle plunged into her thigh.

Molten metal. Black water…

31.

THE HOTEL FLYAWAY AT 19 Marktgasse is a house of convenience rather than luxury. Its façade is flat and drab, its lobby plain and antiseptic. Indeed its only notable attribute is its proximity to Kloten Airport, which is only five minutes away. On that snowy February evening the hotel was the site of a secret gathering, of which management and the local police still know nothing. Two men came from Brussels, another from Rome, and a fourth from London. All four were specialists in physical surveillance. All four checked in under assumed names and with false passports. A fifth man arrived from Paris. He checked in under his own name, which was Moshe. He was not a surveillance specialist but a low-level field courier known as a bodel. His car, an Audi A8, was parked outside in the street. In the trunk was a suitcase filled with guns, radios, night-vision goggles, and balaclava helmets.

The last man to arrive was known to the girls at the check-in counter, for he was a frequent traveler through Kloten Airport and had spent more nights at the Hotel Flyaway than he cared to remember. “Good evening, Mr. Bridges,” one of the girls said to him as he strode into the lobby. Five minutes later he was upstairs in his room. Within two minutes the rest had joined him. “A plane is about to land at Kloten,” he told them. “There’s going to be a girl on board. And we’re going to make sure she doesn’t die tonight.”

SARAH WOKE a second time. She opened her eyes just long enough to take a mental snapshot of her surroundings, then closed them before Jean-Michel could stab her in the leg again with another loaded syringe. They were descending now and being buffeted by heavy turbulence. Her head had fallen sideways, and with each lurch of the aircraft her throbbing temple banged against the cabin wall. Her fingers were numb from the pressure of the handcuffs, and the soles of her feet felt as though they were being jabbed by a thousand needles. Jean-Michel was still reclining in the seat across from her. His eyes were closed, and his fingers interlaced over his genitals.

She opened her eyes a second time. Her vision was hazy and unclear, as if she were enveloped in a black fog. She lifted her hands to her face and felt fabric. A hood, she thought. Then she looked down at her own body and saw it was enveloped in a black veil. Jean-Michel had shrouded her in an abaya. She wept softly. Jean-Michel opened one eye and gazed at her malevolently.

“What’s the problem, Sarah?”

“You’re taking me to Saudi Arabia, aren’t you?”

“We’re going to Switzerland, just like Zizi told you.”

“Why the abaya?”

“It will make your entry into the country go more smoothly. When the Swiss customs men see a Saudi woman in a veil, they tend to be highly respectful.” He gave her another grotesque smile. “I think it’s a shame covering a girl like you in black, but I did enjoy putting it on you.”

“You’re a pig, Jean-Michel.”

Sarah never saw the blow coming-a well-aimed backhand that landed precisely on her swollen right cheek. By the time her vision cleared Jean-Michel was once more reclining in his seat. The plane heaved in a sudden burst of turbulence. Sarah felt bile rising into her throat.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Just like at Le Tetou?”

Think quickly, Sarah.

“I was sick at Le Tetou, you idiot.”

“You made a very quick recovery. In fact, you looked fine to me after we returned to Alexandra.”

“Those drugs you’re shooting into me are making me nauseated. Take me into the bathroom.”

“You want to check for messages?”

Fast, Sarah. Fast.

“What are you talking about? Take me to the toilet so I can throw up.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“At least lift the abaya for me.”

He looked at her disbelievingly, then leaned across the divide and lifted the veil, exposing her face to the cool air of the cabin. To Sarah it seemed appallingly like a bridegroom lifting the veil of his new wife. A wave of anger broke within her, and she lashed out at his face with her cuffed hands. Jean-Michel easily swatted away her blow, then landed one of his own against the left side of her head. It knocked her from the leather seat and sent her to the floor. Without rising he kicked her in the abdomen, knocking the breath from her lungs. As she fought to regain it, the contents of her stomach emptied onto the carpet.

“Fucking bitch,” the Frenchman said savagely. “I should make you clean that up.”

He grabbed hold of the chain linking her wrists and pulled her back into her seat, then rose and went into the toilet. Sarah heard the sound of water splashing into the basin. When Jean-Michel emerged he was holding a damp linen towel, which he used to punitively scrub the vomit from her lips. Then, from a small leather case, he produced another syringe and a vial of clear liquid. He loaded the syringe without much care for the dosage, then seized hold of her arm. Sarah tried to pull away, but he hit her twice in the mouth. As the drug entered her bloodstream, she remained conscious but felt as though a great weight was pressing down on her body. Her eyelids closed, but she remained trapped in the present.

“I’m still awake,” she said. “Your drugs aren’t working anymore.”

“They’re working just fine.”

“Then why am I still conscious?”

“It’s easier to get answers that way.”

“Answers to what?”

“Better fasten your seat belt,” he said mockingly. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

Sarah, the model prisoner, tried to do as she was told, but her arms lay limply in her lap, unable to obey her commands.

SHE LEANED her face against the cold glass of the window and looked out. The darkness was absolute. A few moments later they entered the clouds, and the plane pitched in wave after wave of turbulence. Jean-Michel poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it in a single swallow.

They emerged from the clouds into a snowstorm. Sarah looked down and studied the pattern of the ground lights. There was a mass of brilliant illumination wrapped around the northern end of a large body of water and strands of lesser light laying along the shoreline like jewels. She tried to remember where Zizi had said she’d be going. Zurich , she thought. Yes, that was it. Zurich…Herr Klarsfeld…The Manet for which Zizi would pay thirty million and not a million more…

The plane passed north of central Zurich and banked toward the airport. Sarah prayed for a crash landing. It was obscenely smooth, though-so smooth she was unaware of the moment of touchdown. They taxied for several minutes. Jean-Michel was gazing calmly out the window, while Sarah was sliding further into oblivion. The fuselage seemed as long as an Alpine tunnel, and when she tried to speak, words would not form in her mouth.

“The drug I just gave you is shorter in duration,” Jean-Michel said, his tone maddeningly reassuring. “You’ll be able to talk soon. At least I hope so-for your sake.”

The plane began to slow. Jean-Michel lowered the black veil over her face, then unlocked the handcuffs and the shackles. When they finally came to a stop he opened the rear cabin door and poked his head out to make certain things were in order. Then he seized Sarah beneath the arms and pulled her upright. Blood returned painfully to her feet, and her knees buckled. Jean-Michel caught her before she could fall. “One foot in front of the other,” he said. “Just walk, Sarah. You remember how to walk.”

She did, but barely. The door was just ten feet away, but to Sarah it seemed a mile at least. A few paces into her journey she stepped on the hem of the abaya and pitched forward, but once again Jean-Michel prevented her from falling. When finally she reached the door she was met by a blast of freezing air. It was snowing heavily and bitterly cold, the night made darker by the black fabric of the veil. Once again there were no customs officers or security men in evidence, only a black Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates. Its rear door hung ajar, and through the opening Sarah could see a man in a gray overcoat and fedora. Even with the drugs clouding her thoughts, she could comprehend what was happening. AAB Holdings and the Saudi consulate in Zurich had requested VIP diplomatic treatment for a passenger arriving from Saint Maarten. It was just like the departure: no customs, no security, no avenue of escape.

Jean-Michel helped her down the stairs, then across the tarmac and into the back of the waiting Mercedes. He closed the door and headed immediately back toward the jet. As the car lurched forward, Sarah looked at the man seated next to her. Her vision blurred by the veil, she saw him only in the abstract. Enormous hands. A round face. A tight mouth surrounded by a bristly goatee. Another version of bin Talal, she thought. A well-groomed gorilla.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m unimportant. I’m no one.”

“Where are we going?”

He drove his fist into her ear and told her not to speak again.

THIRTY SECONDS LATER the Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates sped past a snow-covered figure peering forlornly beneath the open hood of a stalled car. The man seemed to pay the Mercedes no heed as it swept by, though he did look up briefly as it headed up the ramp to the motorway. He forced himself to count slowly to five. Then he slammed the hood and climbed behind the wheel. When he turned the key, the engine started instantly. He slipped the car into gear and pulled onto the road.

SHE DID NOT know how long they drove-an hour, perhaps longer-but she knew the purpose of their journey. The stops, the starts, the sudden double-backs and nauseating accelerations: Eli Lavon had referred to such maneuvers as countersurveillance. Uzi Navot had called it wiping your backside.

She stared out the heavily tinted window of the car. She had spent several years in Switzerland as a young girl and knew the city reasonably well. These were not the Zurich streets she remembered of her youth. These were the gritty, dark streets of the northern districts and the Industrie-Quartier. Ugly warehouses, blackened brick factories, smoking rail yards. There were no pedestrians on the pavements and no passengers in the streetcars. It seemed she was alone in the world with only the Unimportant One for company. She asked him once more where they were going. He responded with an elbow to Sarah’s abdomen that made her cry out for her mother.

He took a long look over his shoulder, then he forced Sarah to the floor and murmured something in Arabic to the driver. She was lost now in darkness. She pushed the pain to one corner of her mind and tried to concentrate on the movement of the car. A right turn. A left. The thump-thump of rail tracks. An abrupt stop that made the tires scream. The Unimportant One pulled her back onto the seat and opened the door. When she seized hold of the armrest and refused to let go, he engaged in a brief tug of war before losing patience and giving her a knifelike blow to the kidney that sent charges of pain to every corner of her body.

She screamed in agony and released the armrest. The Unimportant One dragged her from the car and let her fall to the ground. It was cold cement. It seemed they were in a parking garage or the loading dock of a warehouse. She lay there writhing in agony, gazing up at her tormentor through the black gauze of the veil. The Saudi woman’s view of the world. A voice told her to rise. She tried but could not.

The driver got out of the car and, together with the Unimportant One, lifted her to her feet. She stood there suspended for a moment, her arms spread wide, her body draped in the abaya, and waited for another hammer blow to her abdomen. Instead she was deposited into the backseat of a second car. The man seated there was familiar to her. She had seen him first in a manor house in Surrey that did not exist, and a second time at a villa in Saint Bart’s that did. “Good evening, Sarah,” said Ahmed bin Shafiq. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

32.

IS YOUR NAME REALLY Sarah, or should I call you something else?”

She tried to answer him but was gasping for breath.

“My-name-is-Sarah.”

“Then Sarah it will be.”

“Why-are-you-doing-this-to-me?”

“Come, come, Sarah.”

“Please-let-me-go!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

She was doubled forward now, with her head between her knees. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upright, then lifted the veil and examined the damage to her face. From his expression it was unclear whether he thought they had been too hard on her or too lenient. She gazed back at him. Leather trench coat, cashmere scarf, small round spectacles with tortoiseshell rims: the very picture of a successful Zurich moneyman. His dark eyes radiated a calculating intelligence. His expression was identical to the one he had worn the moment of their first meeting.

“Who are you working for?” he asked benevolently.

“I work”-she coughed violently-“for Zizi.”

“Breathe, Sarah. Take long slow breaths.”

“Don’t-hit-me-anymore.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But you have to tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I want to know who you’re working for.”

“I told you-I work for Zizi.”

His face betrayed mild disappointment. “Please, Sarah. Don’t make this difficult. Just answer my questions. Tell me the truth, and this entire disagreeable episode will be over.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Unfortunately, this is true,” he said, as though agreeing with her assessment of the weather. “But if you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be spared the knife, and your death will be as painless as possible. If you persist in these lies, your last hours on earth will be a living hell.”

His cruelty is limitless, she thought. He speaks of my beheading but doesn’t have the decency to look away.

“I’m not lying,” she said.

“You’ll talk, Sarah. Everyone talks. There’s no use trying to resist. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s-”

“I want to know who you’re working for, Sarah.”

“I work for Zizi.”

“I want to know who sent you.”

“Zizi came for me. He sent me jewels and flowers. He sent me airline tickets and bought me clothing.”

“I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline.”

“I don’t-”

“I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean.”

“What man?”

“I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party.”

“How would I know her name?”

“I want to know why you were watching me at my party. And why you suddenly decided to pin your hair up. And why you were wearing your hair up when you went jogging with Jean-Michel.”

She was weeping uncontrollably now. “This is madness!”

“I want to know the names of the three men who followed me on motorcycles later that day. I want to know the names of the two men who came to my villa to kill me. And the name of the man who watched my plane take off.”

“I’m telling you the truth! My name is Sarah Bancroft. I worked at an art gallery in London. I sold Zizi a painting, and he asked me to come to work for him.”

“The van Gogh?”

“Yes!”

“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table?”

“Yes, you bastard.”

“And where did you obtain this painting? Was it acquired on your behalf by your intelligence service?”

“I don’t work for an intelligence service. I work for Zizi.”

“You’re working for the Americans?”

“No.”

“For the Jews?”

“No!”

He exhaled heavily, then removed his spectacles and spent a long moment contemplatively polishing them on his cashmere scarf. “You should know that shortly after your departure from Saint Maarten, four men arrived at the airport and boarded a private plane. We recognized them. We assume they are headed here to Zurich. They’re Jews, aren’t they, Sarah?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Trust me, Sarah. They’re Jews. One can always tell.”

He examined his spectacles and polished some more. “You should also know that colleagues of these Jews clumsily attempted to follow you tonight after you landed at the airport. Our driver easily dispensed with them. You see, we’re professionals, too. They’re gone now, Sarah. And you’re all alone.”

He put on his spectacles again.

“Do you think the so-called professionals for whom you’re working would be willing to sacrifice their lives for you? They’d be vomiting their secrets all over the floor to me by now. But you’re better than them, aren’t you, Sarah? Zizi saw that, too. That’s why he made the mistake of hiring you.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the one making a mistake.”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m leaving you now in the hands of my friend Muhammad. He worked for me in Group 205. Is this name familiar to you, Sarah? Group 205? Surely your handlers must have mentioned it to you during your preparation.”

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“Muhammad is a professional. He’s also a very skilled interrogator. You and Muhammad are going to take a journey together. A night journey. Do you know this term, Sarah? The Night Journey.”

Greeted only by the sound of her weeping, he answered his own question.

“It was during the Night Journey that God revealed Quran to the Prophet. Tonight you’re going to make a revelation of your own. Tonight you’re going to tell my friend Muhammad who you’re working for and everything they know about my network. If you tell him quickly, you will be granted a degree of mercy. If you continue with these lies, Muhammad will carve the flesh from your bones and cut off your head. Do you understand me?”

Her stomach convulsed with nausea. Bin Shafiq appeared to be taking pleasure from her fear.

“Do you realize you’ve been looking at my arm? Did they tell you about my scar? My damaged hand?” Another weary smile. “You’ve been betrayed, Sarah-betrayed by your handlers.”

He opened the door and climbed out, then ducked down and looked at her one more time.

“By the way, you very nearly succeeded. If your friends had managed to kill me on that island, a major operation of ours would have been disrupted.”

“I thought you worked for Zizi in Montreal.”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” He wound his scarf tightly around his throat. “Muhammad won’t find your little lies so amusing, Sarah. Something tells me you’re going to have a long and painful night together.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she asked: “What operation?”

“Operation? Me? I’m only an investment banker.”

She asked him again. “What’s the operation? Where are you going to strike?”

“Speak my real name, and I tell you.”

“Your name is Alain al-Nasser.”

“No, Sarah. Not my cover name. My real name. Say it. Confess your sins, Sarah, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

She began to shake uncontrollably. She tried to form the words but could not summon the courage.

“Say it!” he shouted at her. “Say my name, you bitch.”

She lifted her head and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Your-name-is-Ahmed-bin-Shafiq!”

His head snapped back, as if he were avoiding a blow. Then he smiled at her in admiration.

“You’re a very brave woman.”

“And you’re a murderous coward.”

“I should kill you myself.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do.”

He hesitated a moment, then treated her to an arrogant smile. “Suffice it to say we have some unfinished business at the Vatican. The crimes of Christianity and the Western world against Muslims will soon be avenged once and for all. But you won’t be alive to see this glorious act. You’ll be dead by then. Tell Muhammad what you know, Sarah. Make your last hours on earth easy ones.”

And with that he turned and walked away. The Unimportant One wrenched her from the back of the car while holding an ether-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. She scratched at him. She flailed. She landed several futile kicks to his cast-iron shins. Then the drug took hold, and she felt herself spiraling toward the ground. Someone caught her. Someone placed her in the trunk of a car. A face appeared briefly and looked down at her, inquisitive and oddly earnest. The face of Muhammad. Then the hatch closed, and she was enveloped in darkness. When the car began to move, she passed out.

33.

GUSTAV SCHMIDT, chief of counterterrorism for the Swiss federal security service, was an unlikely American ally in the war against

Islamic extremism. In a country where elected politicians, the press, and most of the population were solidly opposed to the United States and its war on terror, Schmidt had quietly forged personal bonds with his counterparts in Washington, especially Adrian Carter. When Carter needed permission to operate on Swiss soil, Schmidt invariably granted it. When Carter wanted to make an al-Qaeda operative vanish from the Federation, Schmidt usually gave him the green light. And when Carter needed a place to put down a plane, Schmidt regularly granted him landing rights. The private airstrip at Zug, a wealthy industrial city in the heart of the country, was Carter’s favorite in Switzerland. Schmidt’s, too.

It was shortly after midnight when the Gulfstream V executive jet sunk out of the clouds and touched down on the snow-dusted runway. Five minutes later, Schmidt was seated across from Carter in the modestly appointed cabin. “We have a situation,” Carter said. “To be perfectly honest with you, we don’t have a complete picture.” He gestured toward his traveling companion. “This is Tom. He’s a doctor. We think we’ll need his services before the night is over. Relax, Gustav. Have a drink. We may be here awhile.”

Carter then looked out the window at the swirling snow and said nothing more. He didn’t have to. Schmidt now knew the situation. One of Carter’s agents was in trouble, and Carter wasn’t at all sure he was going to get the agent back alive. Schmidt opened the brandy and drank alone. At times like these he was glad he had been born Swiss.

A SIMILAR VIGIL was under way at that same moment at the general aviation terminal at Kloten Airport. The man doing the waiting was not a senior Swiss policeman but Moshe, the bodel from Paris. At 12:45 A.M., four men emerged from the terminal into the snowstorm. Moshe tapped the horn of his Audi A8, and the four men turned in unison and headed his way. Yaakov, Mikhail, and Eli Lavon climbed in the back. Gabriel sat up front.

“Where is she?”

“Heading south.”

“Drive,” said Gabriel.

SARAH WOKE to paralyzing cold, her ears ringing with the hiss of tires over wet asphalt. Where am I now? she thought, and then she remembered. She was in the trunk of a Mercedes, an unwilling passenger on Muhammad’s night journey to oblivion. Slowly, bit by bit, she gathered up the fragments of this day without end and placed them in proper sequence. She saw Zizi in his helicopter, glancing at his wristwatch as he sent her to her death. And Jean-Michel, her traveling companion, catching a few minutes of sleep along the way. And finally, she saw the monster, Ahmed bin Shafiq, warning her that his bloodbath at the Vatican was not yet complete. She heard his voice now; the drumbeat cadence of his questions.

I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline…

He is Yaakov, she thought. And he is five times the man you are.

I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party…

She is Dina, she thought. The avenged remnant.

I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean…

He is Gabriel, she thought. And one day very soon he’s going to kill you.

They’re gone now, and you’re all alone…

No, I’m not, she thought. They’re here with me. All of them.

And in her mind she saw them coming for her through the snowfall. Would they arrive before Muhammad bestowed upon her a painless death? Would they come in time to learn the secret that Ahmed bin Shafiq had so arrogantly spit in her face? Sarah knew she could help them. She had information Muhammad wanted-and it was hers to give at whatever pace, and in whatever detail, she desired. Go slowly, she thought. Take all the time in the world.

She closed her eyes and once again started to lose consciousness. This time it was sleep. She remembered the last thing Gabriel had said to her the night before her departure from London. Sleep, Sarah, he had said. You have a long journey ahead of you.

WHEN SHE woke next the car was pitching violently. Gone was the hiss of tires moving over wet asphalt. Now it seemed they were plowing through deep snow over a rough track. This was confirmed for her a moment later when the tires lost traction and one of the occupants was forced to climb out and push. When the car stopped again, Sarah heard voices in Arabic and Swiss German, then the deep groan of frozen metal hinges. They drove on for a moment longer, then stopped a third time-the final time, she assumed, because the car’s engine immediately went silent.

The trunk flew open. Two unfamiliar faces peered down at her; four hands seized her and lifted her out. They stood her upright and let go of her, but her knees buckled and she collapsed into the snow. This proved to be a source of great amusement to them, and they stood around laughing for several moments before once again lifting her to her feet.

She looked around. They were in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded by towering fir and pine. There was an A-shaped chalet with a steeply pitched roof and a separate outbuilding of some sort, next to which were parked two four-wheel-drive jeeps. It was snowing heavily. To Sarah, still veiled, it seemed the sky was raining ash.

Muhammad appeared and grunted something in Arabic to the two men holding her upright. They took a step toward the chalet, expecting Sarah to walk with them, but her legs were rigid with cold and would not function. She tried to tell them she was freezing to death but could not speak. There was one benefit to the cold: she had long forgotten the pain of the blows she had taken in her face and abdomen.

They took her by the arms and waist and dragged her. Her legs trailed behind, and her feet carved twin trenches in the snow. Soon they were ablaze with the cold. She tried to remember what shoes she had put on that morning. Flat-soled sandals, she remembered suddenly-the ones Nadia had bought for her in Gustavia to go with the outfit she’d worn to Le Tetou.

They went to the back of the chalet. Here the trees were closer, no more than thirty yards from the structure, and a single frozen sentry was standing watch, smoking a cigarette and stamping his boots against the cold. The outer wall of the house was overhung by the eaves of the roof and stacked with firewood. They dragged her through a doorway, then down a flight of cement stairs. Still unable to walk, Sarah’s frozen feet banged on each step. She began to cry in pain, a shivering tremulous wail to which her tormentors paid no heed.

They came to another door, which was tightly closed and secured by a padlock. A guard opened the lock, then the door, then threw a light switch. Muhammad entered the room first. The guards brought Sarah next.

A SMALL square chamber, no more than ten feet on either side. Porcelain-white walls. Photographs. Arab men at Abu Ghraib. Arab men in cages at Guantánamo Bay. A hooded Muslim terrorist holding the severed head of an American hostage. In the center of the room a metal table bolted to the floor. In the center of the table an iron loop. Attached to the loop a pair of handcuffs. Sarah screamed and flailed against them. It was useless, of course. One pinned her arms to the table while the second secured the handcuffs to her wrists. A chair was thrust into the back of her legs. Two hands forced her into it. Muhammad tore the veil from her face and slapped her twice.

“ARE YOU ready to talk?”

“Yes.”

“No more lies?”

She shook her head.

“Say it, Sarah. No more lies.”

“No-more-lies.”

“You’re going to tell me everything you know?”

“Every-thing.”

“You’re cold?”

“Freezing.”

“Would you like something warm to drink?”

She nodded.

“Tea? You drink tea, Sarah.”

Another nod.

“How do you take your tea, Sarah?”

“You can’t-be serious.”

“How do you take your tea?”

“With cyanide.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “You should be so lucky. We’ll have tea, then we’ll talk.”

THEY ALL THREE exited the room. Muhammad closed the door and put the padlock back into place. Sarah lowered her head to the table and closed her eyes. In her mind an image formed-the image of a clock counting down the minutes to her execution. Muhammad was bringing her tea. Sarah opened the glass cover of her imaginary clock and moved the hands back five minutes.

34.

THEY BROUGHT THE TEA Arab-style in a small glass. Sarah’s hands remained cuffed. To drink she had to lower her head toward the table and slurp noisily while Muhammad gazed at her in revulsion. His own tea remained untouched. It stood between his open notebook and a loaded pistol.

“You can’t make me vanish and expect no one to notice,” she said.

He looked up and blinked several times rapidly. Sarah, free of the abaya, examined him in the harsh light of the interrogation chamber. He was bald to the crown of his angular head, and his remaining hair and beard were cropped to precisely the same length. His dark eyes were partially concealed behind a pair of academic spectacles, which flashed with reflected light each time he looked up from his notepad. His expression was open and strangely earnest for an interrogator, and his face, when he was not screaming or threatening to strike her, was vaguely pleasant. At times he seemed to Sarah like an eager young journalist posing questions to a politician standing at a podium.

“Everyone in London knows I went to the Caribbean with Zizi,” she said. “I spent almost two weeks on Alexandra. I was seen with him at restaurants on Saint Bart’s. I went to the beach with Nadia. There’s a record of my departure from Saint Maarten and a record of my arrival in Zurich. You can’t just make me disappear in Switzerland. You’ll never get away with it.”

“But that’s not the way it happened,” Muhammad said. “You see, shortly after your arrival tonight, you checked into your room at the Dolder Grand Hotel. The clerk examined your passport, as is customary here in Switzerland, and forwarded the information to the Swiss police, as is also customary. In a few hours you will awaken and, after taking coffee in your room, you will go to the hotel gym for your morning workout. Then you will shower and dress for your appointment. A car will collect you at 9:45 and take you to Herr Klarsfeld’s residence on the Zurichberg. There you will be seen by several members of Herr Klarsfeld’s household staff. After viewing the Manet painting, you will place a call to Mr. al-Bakari in the Caribbean, at which point you will inform him that you cannot reach accord on a sale price. You will return to the Dolder Grand Hotel and check out of your room, then proceed to Kloten Airport, where you will board a commercial flight back to London. You will spend two days relaxing at your apartment in Chelsea, during which time you will make several telephone calls on your phone and make several charges on your credit cards. And then, unfortunately, you will vanish inexplicably.”

“Who is she?”

“Suffice it to say she bears a vague resemblance to you, enough so she can travel on your passport and slip in and out of your apartment without attracting suspicion from the neighbors. We have helpers here in Europe, Sarah, helpers with white faces.”

“The police will still come after Zizi.”

“No one comes after Zizi al-Bakari. The police will have questions, of course, and they will be answered in due time by Mr. al-Bakari’s lawyers. The matter will be handled quietly and with tremendous discretion. It is one of the great advantages of being a Saudi. We truly are above the law. But back to the matter at hand.”

He looked down and tapped the tip of his pen impatiently against the blank page of his notebook.

“You will answer my questions now, Sarah?”

She nodded.

“Say yes, Sarah. I want you to get in the habit of speaking.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll answer your questions.”

“Is your name Sarah Bancroft?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Are the place of birth and date of birth correct on your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Was your father really an executive for Citibank?”

“Yes.”

“Are your parents now truly divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attend Dartmouth University and later pursue graduate studies at the Courtauld Institute in London?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the Sarah Bancroft who wrote a well-received dissertation on German Expressionism while earning a Ph.D. from Harvard?”

“I am.”

“Were you also working for the Central Intelligence Agency at this time?”

“No.”

“When did you join the CIA?”

“I never joined the CIA.”

“You’re lying, Sarah.”

“I’m not lying.”

“When did you join the CIA?”

“I’m not CIA.”

“Who do you work for, then?”

She was silent.

“Answer the question, Sarah. Who are you working for?”

“You know who I’m working for.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I am working for the intelligence service of the State of Israel.”

He removed his eyeglasses and stared at her for a moment.

“Are you telling me the truth, Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying again.”

“I know.”

“Would you care for some more tea?”

She nodded.

“Answer me, Sarah. Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, I would like some more tea.”

Muhammad leaned back in his chair and slapped his palm on the door of the chamber. It opened immediately and outside Sarah saw two men standing watch. “More tea,” Muhammad said to them in English, then turned to a fresh page in his notebook and looked up at her with his eager, open face. Sarah lifted her hand to her imaginary clock and added ten more minutes.

THOUGH SARAH did not know it, the setting of her interrogation was the largely Roman Catholic canton of Uri, in the region of the country the Swiss fondly refer to as Inner Switzerland. The chalet was located in a narrow gorge cut by a tributary of the Reuss River. There was only one road in the gorge and a single slumbering village at the top. Uzi Navot inspected it quickly, then turned around and headed back down the gorge. The Swiss, he knew from experience, were some of the most vigilant people on the planet.

The Saudis had tried to evade him in Zurich, but Navot had been prepared. He had always believed that when tailing a professional who is expecting surveillance, it is best to let him think that he is indeed being followed-and more important, that his countermeasures are working. Navot had sacrificed three of his watchers in northern Zurich in service to that cause. It was Navot himself who had watched the Mercedes with diplomatic plates turn into the warehouse in the Industrie-Quartier, and it was Navot who had followed it out of Zurich twenty minutes later.

His team had regrouped along the shores of the Zürichsee and joined him in the pursuit southward toward Uri. The foul weather had granted them an additional layer of protection, as it did now for Navot, as he climbed out of his car and stole quietly through the dense trees toward the chalet, a gun in his outstretched hands. Thirty minutes later, after conducting a cursory survey of the property and the security, he was back behind the wheel, heading down the gorge to the Reuss River valley. There he parked in a turnout by the riverbank and waited for Gabriel to arrive from Zurich.

“WHO IS YOUR control officer?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time. What is the name of your control officer?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know his name. At least not his real name.”

“By what name do you know him?”

Don’t give him Gabriel, she thought. She blurted the first that came into her mind.

“He called himself Ben.”

“Ben?”

“Yes, Ben.”

“You’re sure? Ben?”

“It’s not his real name. It’s just what he called himself.”

“How do you know it’s not his real name?”

She embraced the precision of his inquiry, for it allowed her to add more minutes to her imaginary clock.

“Because he told me it wasn’t his real name.”

“And you believed him?”

“I suppose I had no reason not to.”

“When did you meet this man?”

“It was December.”

“Where?”

“In Washington.”

“What time of day was it?”

“In the evening.”

“He came to your house. Your place of work.”

“It was after work. I was on the way home.”

“Tell me how it happened, Sarah. Tell me everything.”

And she did, morsel by morsel, drop by drop.

“WHERE WAS this house they brought you?”

“In Georgetown.”

“Which street in Georgetown?”

“It was dark. I don’t remember.”

“Which street in Georgetown, Sarah?”

“It was N Street, I think.”

“You think, or you know?”

“It was N Street.”

“The address?”

“There was no address on it.”

“Which block?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Was it east of Wisconsin Avenue or west, Sarah?”

“You know Georgetown?”

“East or West?”

“West. Definitely West.”

“Which block, Sarah?”

“Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth, I think.”

“You think?”

“Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth.”

“Which side of the street?”

“What do you mean?”

“Which side of the street, Sarah? North or south?”

“South. Definitely south.”

IT WAS 2:45 A.M. when Navot spotted the Audi coming up the road at a rate of speed incompatible with the inclement conditions. As it sped past in a blur of blowing snow and road spray, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the four tense-looking men inside. He picked up his phone and dialed. “You just drove by me,” he said calmly, then he looked up into the mirror and watched as the Audi nearly crashed turning around. Easy, Gabriel, he thought. Easy.

“WHO WAS the first to interview you? The CIA man or the Jew?”

“The American.”

“What sorts of things did they ask you?”

“We talked in general terms about the war on terrorism.”

“For example?”

“He asked me what I thought should be done with terrorists. Should they be brought to America for trial or killed in the field by men in black?”

“Men in black?”

“That’s what he called them.”

“Meaning special forces? CIA assassins? Navy SEALs?”

“I suppose.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

And so she told him, one small spoonful at a time.

THEY STOOD in a circle along the riverbank while Navot quickly told Gabriel everything he knew.

“Are there more guards on the grounds or just the two at the front gate?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many inside the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see where they took her?”

“No.”

“Has there been any other traffic on the road?”

“It’s a very quiet road.”

“It’s not enough information, Uzi.”

“I did the best I could.”

“I know.”

“As I see it you have only two options, Gabriel. Option number one: carry out another reconnaissance operation. It will take time. It’s not without risk. If they see us coming, the first thing they’ll do is kill Sarah.”

“Option two?”

“Go straight in. I vote for option two. Only God knows what Sarah’s going through in there.”

Gabriel looked down at the snow and deliberated a moment. “We go in now,” he said. “You, Mikhail, Yaakov, and me.”

“Hostage rescue isn’t my thing, Gabriel. I’m an agent-runner.”

“It’s definitely not Eli’s thing, and I want at least four men. Moshe and Eli will stay with the cars. When I send the signal, they’ll come up the road and get us.”

“WHEN DID the Jew come?”

“I can’t remember the precise time.”

“Approximate?”

“I can’t remember. It was about a half hour after I arrived, so that would make it around seven, I suppose.”

“And he called himself Ben?”

“Not right away.”

“He used another name at first?”

“No. He had no name at first.”

“Describe him for me, please.”

“He’s on the small side.”

“Was he thin or fat?”

“Thin.”

“Very thin.”

“He was fit.”

“Hair?”

“Yes.”

“Color?”

“Dark.”

“Long or short.”

“Short.”

“Was any part of his hair gray?”

“No.”

Muhammad calmly laid his pen on his notebook. “You’re lying to me, Sarah. If you lie to me again, our conversation will end and we will go about this by other means. Do you understand me?”

She nodded. “Answer me, Sarah.”

“Yes, I understand you.”

“Good.”

“Now give me a precise description of this Jew who called himself Ben.”

35.

LET’S RETURN TO THE appearance of his hair. You say it was short,

Sarah? Like mine?”

“A little longer.”

“And dark?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s gray in places, isn’t it? At the temples, to be precise.”

“Yes, his temples are gray.”

“And now the eyes. They’re green, aren’t they. Abnormally so.”

“His eyes are very green.”

“He has a special talent, this man?”

“Many.”

“He has the ability to restore paintings?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re absolutely certain you never heard a name?”

“I told you. He called himself Ben.”

“Yes, I know, but did he ever refer to himself by any other name?”

“No, never.”

“You’re sure, Sarah?”

“Positive. He called himself Ben.”

“It’s not his real name, Sarah. His name is Gabriel Allon. And he is a murderer of Palestinians. Now please tell me what happened after he arrived at the house in Georgetown.”

THERE WAS a sign at the entrance of the track leading to the chalet. It read PRIVATE. The security gate was three hundred yards into the trees. Gabriel and Navot moved on one side of the track, Mikhail and Yaakov on the other. The snow had been deep along the edge of road coming up the gorge, but in the trees there was much less. Seen through the night-vision goggles, it glowed ghostly luminous green while the trunks of the pine and fir were dark and distinct. Gabriel crept forward, careful to avoid fallen limbs that might have cracked beneath the weight of his step. It was deathly silent in the forest. He was aware of his own heart banging against his rib cage and the sound of Navot’s footfalls behind him. He held his Beretta in both hands. He wore no gloves.

Fifteen minutes after entering the trees, he glimpsed the house for the first time. There were lights burning in the ground-floor windows, and a single window was illuminated on the second story. The guards were sheltering in the warmth of one of the jeeps. The engine was running and the headlights were doused. The gate was open.

“Do you have a clean shot, Mikhail?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is best from your angle?”

“The driver.”

“It’s nearly fifty yards, Mikhail. Can you get him cleanly?”

“I can get him.”

“A head shot, Mikhail. We need to do it quietly.”

“I have the shot.”

“Line it up and wait for my signal. We shoot together. And God help us if we miss.”

“SO ALLON asked you to help him?”

“Yes.”

“And you agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Instantly?”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re evil. And I hate you.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“You wanted the truth.”

“What happened next?”

“I quit my job at the Phillips Collection and moved to London.”

GABRIEL TOOK careful aim at the man in the passenger seat.

“Are you ready, Mikhail?”

“Ready.”

“Two shots, on my mark, in five, four, three, two…”

Gabriel squeezed the trigger twice. Four holes appeared almost simultaneously in the windshield of the jeep. He sprinted up the track through the knee-deep snow, Navot at his heels, and approached the jeep cautiously with the Beretta in his outstretched hands. Mikhail had managed two fatal head shots on the driver, but Gabriel’s man had been hit in the cheek and upper chest and was still semiconscious.

Gabriel shot him twice through the passenger-side window, then stood motionless for an instant, scanning the terrain for any sign their presence had been detected. It was Navot who noticed the guard coming out of the trees at the left side of the house and Mikhail who dropped him with a single head shot that sprayed blood and brain tissue across the virgin snow. Gabriel turned and headed across the clearing toward the chalet, with the other three men at his back.

“TELL ME ABOUT this man Julian Isherwood.”

“Julian is a dear sweet man.”

“He is a Jew?”

“Never came up.”

“Julian Isherwood is a longtime agent of Israeli intelligence?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“So after leaving the Phillips Collection you went immediately to work as Julian Isherwood’s assistant director?”

“That’s correct.”

“But you were a complete amateur. When were you trained?”

“At night.”

“Where?”

“At a country house south of London.”

“Where was this country house?”

“ Surrey, I think. I never caught the name of the village.”

“It was a permanent Israeli safe house?”

“A rental. Very temporary.”

“There were other people there besides Allon?”

“Yes.”

“They used other people to help train you?”

“Yes.”

“Give me some of their names.”

“The people who came from Tel Aviv never gave me their names.”

“And what about the other members of Allon’s London team?”

“What about them?”

“Give me their names.”

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“Give me their names, Sarah.”

“Please, don’t.”

He hit her hard enough to knock her from her chair. She hung there a moment, the handcuffs carving into her wrists, while he screamed at her for names.

“Tell me their names, Sarah. All of them.”

“There was a man named Yaakov.”

“Who else?”

“Yossi.”

“Give me another name, Sarah.”

“Eli.”

“Another.”

“Dina.”

“Another.”

“Rimona.”

“And these were the same people who followed you in Saint Bart’s?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the man who first approached you on the beach at Saline?”

“Yaakov.”

“Who was the woman who left the message in the bathroom for you at the restaurant in Saline?”

“Rimona.”

“Who was girl with the limp who came to Le Tetou restaurant right before you went to the restroom?”

“Dina.”

“They’re all Jews, these people.”

“Would that come as a surprise to you?”

“And what about you, Sarah? Are you a Jew?”

“No, I’m not a Jew.”

“Then why did you help them?”

“Because I hate you.”

“Yes, and look what it’s gotten you.”

THEY ENCOUNTERED one more guard before reaching the chalet. He came from their right, around the corner of the house, and foolishly stepped into the open with his weapon still at his side. Gabriel and Mikhail fired together. The shots were muffled by the silencers, but the guard emitted a single piercing scream as the volley of rounds tore into his chest. Two faces, like figures in a shooting gallery, appeared suddenly in the illuminated windows of the house-one in a ground-floor window directly in front of Gabriel, a second on the upper floor at the peak of the roof. Gabriel took out the man in the first-floor window while Mikhail saw to the one on the second.

They had now lost any remaining element of surprise. Gabriel and Mikhail both reloaded as they sprinted the final thirty yards toward the front door. Yaakov had much experience entering terrorist hideouts in the West Bank and Gaza and led the way. He didn’t bother trying the latch. Instead he sprayed a volley of rounds through the center of the door to take out anyone standing on the other side, then shot away the lock and the surrounding wood of the doorjamb. Navot, the largest of the four men, hurled his thick body against the door, and it collapsed inward like a falling domino.

The other three stepped quickly into the small entrance hall. Gabriel covered the space to the left, Yaakov the center, and Mikhail the right. Gabriel, still wearing the night-vision goggles, saw the man he shot though the window lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Yaakov and Mikhail each fired immediately, and Gabriel heard the screams of two more dying men. They moved forward into the chalet, found the steps to the cellar, and headed down. We’ll start there, Gabriel had said. Torturers always like to do their work belowground.

SHE WAS DESCRIBING for him the day of the sale, when there came from the floor above the sound of a disturbance. He silenced her with a brutal slap across her face, then stood up and, with the gun in his hand, moved quickly to the door. A few seconds later she heard shouts and screams and heavy footfalls on the steps. Muhammad turned and leveled the gun at her face. Sarah, still handcuffed to the table, reflexively lowered her head between her arms as he squeezed the trigger twice. In the tiny chamber the gun sounded like artillery. The rounds scorched the air above her head and embedded themselves in the wall at her back.

He screamed at her in rage for having the indecency of choosing life over death and moved a step closer to fire again. Then the door came crashing inward as though it had been blown away by the concussion of a bomb blast. It slammed against Muhammad’s back and knocked him to the ground. The gun was still in his hand. He rose onto one knee and leveled it at her once more as two men came flashing through the doorway, their faces hidden by balaclavas and night-vision goggles. They shot Muhammad. They kept shooting him until they had no more rounds to fire.

THEY CUT AWAY the handcuffs and the shackles and spirited her past the tattered bodies of the dead. Outside she climbed childlike into Gabriel’s arms. He bore her across the snowy clearing and down the track to the road, where Lavon and Moshe were waiting with the cars. The silence of the forest was shattered by her wailing.

“I had to tell them things.”

“I know.”

“They hit me. They told me they were going to kill me.”

“I know, Sarah. I saw the room.”

“They know about you, Gabriel. I tried to-”

“It’s all right, Sarah. It’s our fault. We let you down.”

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m so sorry.”

“Please, Sarah. Don’t.”

“I saw him again.”

“Who?”

“Bin Shafiq.”

“Where was he?”

“In Zurich. He’s not finished, Gabriel.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s going to hit the Vatican again.”

36.

TWO OF NAVOT’S WATCHERS managed to make it south over the Italian border before the weather closed the mountain passes. The other two went east into Austria. Navot himself joined with Moshe and went to Paris to throw a security net around Hannah Weinberg. Gabriel took Sarah to the private airstrip outside Zug. They sat like lovers as he drove, Gabriel with his arm around her shoulder, Sarah with her wet face pressed against the side of his neck. It was 4:30 when the plane rose into the clouds and disappeared. Carter and Gabriel were not on it.

“All right, Gabriel, I’m listening.”

“Sarah saw bin Shafiq in Zurich. He told her he was going to hit the Vatican again.”

Carter swore softly beneath his breath.

“Your president is in Rome today, is he not?”

“He is indeed.”

“What time is he due at the Vatican?”

“High noon.”

Gabriel looked at his wristwatch.

“There’s a shuttle between Zurich and Rome that leaves on the hour. If we hurry, we can be on the seven-o’clock plane.”

“Drive,” said Carter.

Gabriel started the car and headed for Zurich. Carter called CIA Headquarters and asked to be connected to the chief of the U.S. Secret Service.

THE FIRST thirty minutes of the drive Carter spent on the telephone. When the lights of Zurich appeared out of the mist at the northern end of the lake, he hung up the phone and looked at Gabriel.

“Sarah will be on the ground at Ramstein Air Base in less than an hour. She’ll be taken to an American military hospital there for a complete examination.”

“What does your doctor say?”

“Her condition is as you might expect. Abrasions and contusions to her face. A slight concussion. Damage to her left eye. Deep abdominal bruises. Two cracked ribs. Two broken toes. I wonder why they did that.”

“They dragged her down the stairs to the cellar.”

“Oh, and the hypothermia. I suppose she got that from riding in the trunk. All in all, things could be a lot worse.”

“Make sure you have someone with her,” Gabriel said. “The last thing we need now is Sarah inadvertently spilling our secrets to the doctors at Ramstein.”

“Fear not, Gabriel. She’s in good hands.”

“She says she talked.”

“Of course she talked. Hell, I would have talked.”

“You should have seen the room.”

“Frankly, I’m glad I didn’t. That sort of stuff isn’t my cup of tea. I sometimes find myself longing for the good old days of the cold war, when torture and blood weren’t part of my business.” Carter looked at Gabriel. “I suppose it’s always been part of yours, hasn’t it?”

Gabriel ignored him. “She told them everything to buy time. The question is, did Muhammad manage to report any of what she told them to his superiors before we arrived?”

“You got his notebook?”

Gabriel tapped the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

“We’ll debrief Sarah when she’s recovered.”

“She might not remember everything she told them. She was filled with drugs.”

They drove in silence for a moment. Despite the early hour, there was morning commuter traffic on the road. Industrious Swiss moneymen, thought Gabriel. He wondered how many of them worked for companies linked however tenuously to AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.

“Do you think they’re going to let me on this plane, Adrian?”

“Gustav assures me we’ll have no problems with our departure.”

“Maybe not you, but I have a colorful history here in Zurich.”

“You have a colorful history everywhere. Don’t worry, Gabriel. They’ll let you on the plane.”

“You’re sure your friend Gustav will keep it quiet?”

“Keep what quiet?” Carter managed a weary smile. “We have a cleanup team en route to Uri as we speak. Gustav will keep the property secured until they arrive. And then…” He shrugged. “It will be as if nothing ever happened.”

“What are you going to do with the bodies?”

“We have more than secret detention facilities in eastern Europe. They’ll get a proper burial, which is more than they deserve. And maybe some day, when this war without end is actually over, we’ll be able to tell one of their relatives where they can claim the bones.” Carter smoothed his mustache. “You have one, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“A secret cemetery? Somewhere out in the Jordan Valley?”

Gabriel took a long look into his rearview mirror but said nothing.

“How many bodies, Gabriel? Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“How many then? The team needs to know where to look.”

Gabriel told him. Two in the four-wheel-drive. Two in the clearing in front of the chalet. One in the first-floor window. One in the second-floor window. Two in the center hall. Two at the bottom of the stairs. And Muhammad.

“Eleven men,” Carter said. “We’ll run their names. We’ll find out who they were and what they were planning. But I think it’s safe to assume right now that you took down a major cell tonight, along with a very senior man in bin Shafiq’s operation.”

“We didn’t get the one we wanted.”

“Something tells me you’ll find him.”

“At least two of them were Europeans, and Uzi heard one of them speaking in a Swiss-German accent.”

“I’m afraid they’ll be buried with the jihadists. I suppose it’s how they would have wanted it.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Can’t you drive any faster?”

“I’m going eighty, Adrian. How much did you tell the Secret Service?”

“I told them we have alarmingly credible evidence that the forces of global jihad are planning to attack the president at the Vatican this afternoon. Heavy emphasis was placed on the words ‘alarmingly credible evidence.’ Secret Service got the message loud and clear, and I hope to have a moment or two with the president later this morning. He’s staying at the ambassador’s residence.”

“He might want to consider canceling.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Carter said. “The Vatican is now the most visible symbol in the world of the dangers of Islamic terrorism. This president isn’t going to pass up a chance to reinforce his message on that stage.”

“He’s going to get an earful from Lucchesi.”

“He’s ready for it,” Carter said. “As for security, Secret Service is already making arrangements with the Italians to change the president’s travel plans. Coincidentally, they were thinking about it before they received my call. Rome is a mess. They’re expecting two million people in the streets today.”

“How are they going to get him into the Vatican?”

“The motorcade of visiting heads of state usually enters the Holy See through St. Anne’s Gate, then heads up the Via Belvedere to the San Damaso Courtyard. He’s met there by the commandant of the Swiss Guard and escorted into the Apostolic Palace. The bodyguards of the visiting heads of state have to stay down in the courtyard. Vatican protocol. The head of state goes up alone, protected only by the Guard. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Secret Service always stashes a couple of men in the official party-nice Catholic boys who want to meet the Holy Father.”

“So what sort of changes are you making?”

“The president is going to chopper to the Vatican and land on the Pope’s helipad.”

“It’s in the far western corner, right against the wall. If someone is waiting down on the Viale Vaticano with another missile…”

“Secret Service says the area can be secured.”

“How many nice Catholic boys are you going to stash in the president’s official delegation?”

“More than usual.” Carter looked at his watch again. “We should probably enter the airport a few minutes apart. Langley booked us in separate seats.”

“You’re ashamed of me, Adrian?”

“Never prouder, actually. You and your boys showed a lot of guts going into the chalet.”

“We didn’t have a choice, Adrian. We never have a choice.”

Carter closed his eyes for a moment. “You know, it’s possible bin Shafiq was just shooting off his mouth, or bluffing for some reason.”

“Why would he bluff, Adrian? He was going to kill her.”

37.

IT’S A GOOD THING your friend the monsignor asked us to give you a lift,” the Carabinieri captain said. “Otherwise you would have never made it from Fiumicino to the Vatican.”

Gabriel looked out the window of the helicopter. Rome lay beneath him. The Villa Borghese had been taken over as a staging area by the demonstrators and was now a sea of humanity. The first marchers were spilling from the bottom of the park into the Via Veneto.

“Can you keep them away from the Vatican?”

“We’re going to try.” The captain pointed out the window. “You see those barricades down there? Our plan is to herd them up the hill into the Janiculum Park. But we’re expecting two million protesters. If things get out of control…” He gave an Italianate shrug. “I’m glad I don’t do riot duty anymore. It could turn into a war zone down there.”

The helicopter turned and banked toward the city-state. The dome of the Basilica, partially concealed behind the enormous tarpaulins of the work crews, shone in the bright sunlight, while the Pope’s plea for peace fluttered from the façade in the gentle morning breeze. They swept low over the Viale Vaticano, staying over Italian airspace for as long as possible, then slipped over the wall and set down on the papal helipad. Donati, dressed in a black cassock and magenta sash, was waiting there, a plainclothes Swiss Guard at this side. The tall priest’s expression was grim as they shook hands briefly and set out across the Vatican Gardens toward the Apostolic Palace.

“How serious is it this time, Gabriel?”

“Very.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“The messenger,” said Gabriel. “The messenger.”

GABRIEL WAITED until they were upstairs in Donati’s third-floor office before telling him any more. Donati understood he was being given only part of the story. He was too concerned about the safety of his master to protest.

“I want you by his side until the president leaves the Vatican.”

This time Gabriel did not argue.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Donati said. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“I’m afraid there’s no time for sleep now,” Donati said, “but we have to do something about your appearance. I don’t suppose you brought a suit with you?”

“I wish I could explain to you just how ridiculous that question sounds.”

“You’re going to need some proper clothes. The papal protection detail of the Swiss Guard wear suits and ties. I’m sure the commandant can get you reasonably attired.”

“There’s something I need more than a blue suit, Luigi.”

“What’s that?”

Gabriel told him.

“The Swiss Guard can get you one of those, too.”

Donati picked up the phone and dialed.

THE SAME Swiss Guard who had been at Donati’s side on the helipad was waiting for Gabriel in the San Damaso Courtyard ten minutes later. He was equal to Gabriel in height, with square shoulders that filled out his suit jacket and the dense muscular neck of a rugby player. His blond hair was cropped nearly to the scalp of his bullet-shaped head, so that the wire leading into his earpiece was clearly visible.

“Have we met?” Gabriel asked the Guard in German as they set out down the Via Belvedere.

“No, sir.”

“You look familiar to me.”

“I was one of the Guards who helped you get the Holy Father into the Apostolic Palace after the attack.”

“I thought so,” said Gabriel. “What’s your name?”

“Lance Corporal Erich Müller, sir.”

“Which canton are you from, Lance Corporal?”

“Nidwalden, sir. It’s a demi-canton next to-”

“I know where it is,” Gabriel said.

“You know Switzerland, sir.”

“Very well.”

Just before reaching St. Anne’s Gate, they turned right and entered the Swiss Guard barracks. In the reception area a duty officer sat primly behind a half-moon desk. Before him was a bank of closed-circuit television monitors. On the wall behind him hung a crucifix and a row of flags representing each of Switzerland ’s twenty-six cantons. As Gabriel and Müller walked past, the duty officer made a notation in his logbook. “The Swiss Quarter is tightly controlled,” Müller said. “There are three different entry points, but this is the main one.”

They left the reception area and turned right. A long dark corridor stretched before them, lined with tiny cell-like quarters for the halberdiers. At the end of the corridor was an archway, and beyond the archway an interior stone courtyard, where a drill sergeant was putting six novices through their paces with wooden rifles. They entered the building on the other side of the courtyard and descended a flight of stone steps to the indoor firing range. It was silent and unoccupied.

“This is where we do our weapons training. The walls are supposed to be soundproof, but sometimes the neighbors complain about the noise.”

“The neighbors?”

“The Holy Father doesn’t seem to mind, but the cardinal secretary of state is not enamored with the sound of gunfire. We don’t shoot on Sundays or Catholic holy days.” Müller went over to a metal cabinet and opened the padlock. “Our standard-issue sidearm is a 9mm SIG-Sauer with a fifteen-shot magazine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel as he opened the doors of the cabinet. “It’s a Swiss-made weapon. Very accurate…and very powerful. Would you like to try it out?”

Gabriel nodded. Müller removed a gun, an empty magazine, and a full box of ammunition and carried them over to the range. He started to load the gun, but Gabriel stopped him. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you see to the target.” The Swiss Guard clipped a target to the line and ran it out halfway over the range. “Farther,” Gabriel said. “All the way to the end, please.” Müller did as he was told. By the time the target had reached the distant wall of the range, Gabriel had loaded fifteen rounds into the magazine and inserted it into the butt of the pistol. “You’re quick,” Müller remarked. “You must have good hands.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

He offered Gabriel protection for his ears and eyes.

“No thanks.”

“Rules of the range, sir.”

Gabriel turned without warning and opened fire. He kept firing until the gun was empty. Müller reeled in the target while Gabriel ejected the empty magazine and picked up his brass.

“Jesus Christ.”

All fifteen shots were grouped in the center of the target’s face.

“Do you want to shoot again?” Müller asked.

“I’m fine.”

“How about a shoulder holster?”

“That’s what pants are for.”

“Let me get you an extra magazine.”

“Give me two, please. And an extra box of ammo.”

HE COLLECTED a parcel of clothing from the commandant’s office, then hurried back to the Apostolic Palace. Upstairs on the third floor, Donati showed him to a small guest apartment with a private bathroom and shower. “I stole that razor from the Holy Father,” Donati said. “The towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

The president wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. Gabriel took his time shaving, then spent several minutes standing beneath the showerhead. The clothing that had been scrounged up by the Swiss Guard fit him surprisingly well, and by eleven o’clock he was walking down the frescoed corridor toward the Pope’s private apartment, looking as well as could be expected.

He had made one additional request of Donati before going to the Swiss Guard barracks: a copy of the final report, prepared jointly by the Italian and Vatican security services, on the October attack. He read it over a cappuccino and cornetto in the Pope’s private dining room, then spent a few minutes flipping round the dial on the Pope’s television, looking for any word of eleven dead bodies found in a Swiss chalet. There was no mention on any of the international news channels. He supposed Carter’s team had completed its task.

Donati came for him at 11:45. They walked to the Belvedere Palace and found an empty office with a good view of the Gardens. A moment later the trees began to twist and writhe, then two enormous twin-rotor helicopters came into view and descended toward the helipad in the far corner of the city-state. Gabriel felt a bit of tension drain from his body as he saw the first helicopter slip safely below the treetops. Five minutes later they caught their first glimpse of the American president, striding confidently toward the palace, surrounded by several dozen heavily armed, nervous-looking Secret Service agents.

“The agents will have to wait down in the Garden,” Donati said. “The Americans don’t like it, but those are the rules of protocol. Do you know they actually try to slip Secret Service agents into the official delegation?”

“You don’t say.”

Donati looked at Gabriel. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “We should get back to the Apostolic Palace. I’d like to be there before the president arrives.”

Donati turned and led the way.

THEY REACHED the Sala Clementina, a soaring frescoed receiving room one floor below the Pope’s private apartments, five minutes before the president. The Holy Father had not yet arrived. There was a detachment of ceremonial Swiss Guard standing outside the wide entranceway and several more in plainclothes waiting inside. Two ornate chairs stood at one end of the long rectangular room; at the other was a pack of reporters, photographers, and cameramen. Their collective mood was more disagreeable than usual. The equipment searches and security checks conducted by the Swiss Guard and Secret Service had been far more invasive than usual, and three European camera crews were refused entry because of minor discrepancies concerning their credentials. The press would be allowed to record the first moments of the historic meeting and broadcast the images live to the world, then they would be shepherded out.

Donati went back into the corridor to wait for the Holy Father. Gabriel looked around a moment longer, then went to the front of the room and positioned himself a few feet from the chair reserved for the Pope. For the next two minutes his eyes roamed over the pack of journalists, looking for any signs of agitation or a face that seemed in any way out of place. Then he did the same to the delegation of Curial prelates standing to his left.

Shortly before noon the white-cassocked figure of the Holy Father entered the room, accompanied by Donati, his cardinal secretary of state, and four plainclothes Swiss Guards. Erich Müller, the Guard who had given Gabriel his weapon, was among them. His eyes settled briefly on Gabriel, whom he acknowledged with a quick nod. The Pope walked the length of the room and stopped in front of his ornate chair. Donati, tall and striking in his tailored black cassock and magenta sash, stood at his master’s side. He looked briefly at Gabriel, then lifted his gaze toward the entranceway as the president of the United States strode through.

Gabriel quickly scrutinized the president’s official delegation. Four Secret Service agents were among them, he reckoned, maybe two or three more. Then his gaze began to sweep the room like a searchlight: the reporters, the Curial prelates, the Swiss Guards, the president and the Holy Father. They were shaking hands now, smiling warmly at each other in the blinding white light of the flashing cameras.

The swiftness of it caught even Gabriel by surprise. Indeed were it not for Donati, he thought later, he might never have seen it coming. Donati’s eyes widened suddenly, then he made a sudden lateral movement toward the president. Gabriel turned and saw the gun. The weapon was a SIG-Sauer 9mm-and the hand holding it belonged to Lance Corporal Erich Müller.

Gabriel drew his own gun and started firing, but not before Müller managed to squeeze off two shots. He did not hear the screaming or notice the flashing of the camera lights. He just kept firing until the Swiss Guard lay dead on the marble floor. The Secret Service agents concealed within the American delegation seized the president and hustled him toward the door. Pietro Lucchesi, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, and successor to St. Peter, fell to his knees and began to pray over the fallen body of a tall priest in a black cassock.

38.

THERE ARE ROOMS ON the eleventh floor of the Gemelli Clinic that few people know. Spare and spartan, they are the rooms of a priest. In one there is a hospital bed. In another there are couches and chairs. The third contains a private chapel. In the hallway outside the entrance is a desk for the guards. Someone stands watch always, even when the rooms are empty.

Though the hospital bed is reserved for the leader of the world’s one billion Roman Catholics, on that evening it was occupied by the leader’s trusted private secretary. The street below his window was filled with thousands of faithful. At nine o’clock they had fallen silent to listen to the first bollettino from the Vatican Press Office. Monsignor Luigi Donati, it said, had undergone seven hours of surgery to repair the damage inflicted by two 9mm rounds. The monsignor’s condition was described as “extremely grave,” and the bollettino made clear that his survival was very much in doubt. It concluded by saying that the Holy Father was at his side and planned to remain there for the foreseeable future. It did not mention the fact that Gabriel was there, too.

They were seated together on a couch in the sitting room. On the other side of an open connecting door lay Donati, pale and unconscious. A team of doctors and nurses stood round him, their expressions grim. The Holy Father’s eyes were closed and he was working the beads of a rosary. A broad smear of blood stained the front of his white cassock. He had refused to change out of it. Gabriel, looking at him now, thought of Shamron and his torn leather jacket. He hoped the Holy Father didn’t blame himself for what had happened today.

Gabriel looked at the television. Video of the attack, one of the most dramatic moments ever broadcast live, was flickering on the screen. It had been playing nonstop. Gabriel had watched it at least a dozen times, and he watched again now. He saw Müller lunge from the knot of Swiss Guards, the gun in his outstretched hands. He saw himself, drawing his own gun from the inside of his jacket, and Donati, throwing his long body in front of the president of the United States as Müller opened fire. A fraction of a second, he thought. If he’d seen Müller a fraction of a second earlier, he might have been able to fire first. And Donati wouldn’t be lying near death on the eleventh floor of the Gemelli Clinic. Gabriel looked at the Pope. His eyes were no longer closed but were fixed on the screen of the television.

“How did he know to step in front of the president instead of me?”

“I suppose he understood that Müller could have killed you countless times if he’d wanted to. Müller was going for the president first, and Luigi understood that.”

“In the blink of an eye.”

“He’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, Holiness.” Gabriel looked at Donati. “He saved the president of the United States, and he probably isn’t even aware of it.”

“Luigi just stopped the bullets,” the Pope said, “but you’re the one who saved him. If it wasn’t for you, we would have never been on alert for something like this. How did you know, Gabriel? How did you know they were going to hit us again today?”

“We’ll have to talk about this at a later date. A much later date.”

“You’re in the middle of an operation, aren’t you?”

Gabriel was silent.

“Erich Müller, a member of my palace guard…” The Pope’s voice trailed off. “I still can’t believe it. How did they do it, Gabriel? How did they get an assassin into the Swiss Guard?”

“The details are sketchy, Holiness, but it appears Müller was recruited sometime after he left the Swiss army. He didn’t have a job waiting for him, so he spent about a year and half traveling around Europe and the Mediterranean. He spent several months in Hamburg, and several more in Amsterdam. He was known to be a frequent participant in anti-American, anti-Israel demonstrations. He may have actually converted to Islam. We believe he was recruited into the terrorist network by a man named Professor Ali Massoudi.”

“Massoudi? Really? Good God, Gabriel, but I think Professor Massoudi submitted some of his writings to my special commission on improving ties between Islam and the West. I think he may have actually visited the Vatican at some point.”

“Improving ties between Islam and the Church was not part of Professor Massoudi’s real agenda, Holiness.”

“Obviously,” said the Pope. “I suppose we now know who opened the Door of Death for the suicide bombers in October. It was Müller, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel nodded and looked at the television as the video of the attack began again.

“I wonder how many people have seen this image today,” the Pope said.

“Billions, Holiness.”

“Something tells me your days as a secret agent are over. Welcome back to the real world, Gabriel.”

“It’s not a world in which I’m comfortable.”

“What are your plans?”

“I have to return to Israel.”

“And then?”

“My future is somewhat uncertain.”

“As usual,” the Pope said. “Francesco Tiepolo tells me you and Chiara have reunited.”

“Yes, Holiness. She’s in Israel now.”

“What are your plans?”

“I have to marry her before she leaves me again.”

“Wise man. And then?”

“One step at a time, Holiness.”

“Will you allow me to give you one more piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“As of this moment, you are the most famous man in Italy. A national hero. Something tells me the country would welcome you back with open arms. And this time not as Mario Delvecchio.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“If I were you, I’d make it a bridge back to Venice.”

The Pope gazed silently for a moment through the open door. “I don’t know what I’ll do if God takes him from me. I can’t run the Roman Catholic Church without Luigi Donati.”

“I remember the day he came to Jerusalem to see me,” Gabriel said. “When we were walking through the Old City, I foolishly described him as a faithless man at the side of a man of great faith. But it took a great deal of faith to step in front of those bullets.”

“Luigi Donati is a man of extraordinary faith. He just doesn’t realize it sometimes. Now I have to have faith. I have to believe that God will see fit to let me have him a little longer-and that He will now see fit to end this madness.”

The next question the Pope asked was the same one he had posed to Gabriel at the end of the attack in October.

“Is it over?”

This time Gabriel gazed at the television and said nothing.

No, Holiness, he thought. Not quite.