Messenger

  “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 troub
le.”

  “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.”

  Gustavia, Saint-Barthélemy

  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?”