Messenger

  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.

  Pointe Mangin, Saint-Barthélemy

  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?”

&nb
sp; “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.”

  Gustavia Harbor, Saint-Barthélemy

  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.