The Messenger

  “So do I.” He looked over his shoulder at Herr Wehrli, the banker. “Do you think you can find eighty-five million somewhere in the accounts, Manfred?”

  “I think it’s quite possible, Zizi.”

  “Then we have a deal, Mr. Isherwood.” He looked at Sarah and said, “I’ll take her.”

  AT 4:53 the neviot team sent word to Gabriel that the proceedings had moved to the lower offices and that Isherwood was now in discussions with Herr Wehrli and Abdul & Abdul over matters of payment and transfer of custody. Said discussions lasted slightly more than an hour, and at 6:05 came the flash that Mr. Baker and his party were traipsing across the darkened yard toward the motorcade parked in Duke Street. Eli Lavon handled the pursuit. For a few minutes it seemed the mansion in Mayfair was their destination, but by 6:15 it was clear that Mr. Baker and party were headed back to Heathrow and destinations unknown. Gabriel ordered Lavon to break off the chase. He didn’t care where Mr. Baker was going now. He knew they would all meet again soon.

  The video recording arrived at 7:45. It had been shot by the security camera mounted in the far corner of the exhibition room above the Claude landscape. Gabriel, as he watched it, felt as though he were seated in a box high above the stage.

  “…This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here tonight….”

  “…Then, we have a deal, Mr. Isherwood. I’ll take her….”

  Gabriel stopped the recording and looked at Dina.

  “You’ve sold him one girl,” she said. “Now you just have to sell him the other.”

  Gabriel opened the audio file of Isherwood’s meeting with Andrew Malone and clicked Play.

  “It’s not Zizi’s money. It’s my money. And what Zizi doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “And if he finds out? He’ll drop you in the Empty Quarter and let the vultures pick over your bones.”

  21.

  London

  THE DENUNCIATION of Andrew Malone arrived at the headquarters of AAB Holdings in Geneva at 10:22 A.M. the following Thursday. It was addressed to “Mr. Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, Esq.” and hand-delivered by a motorcycle courier wearing the uniform of a local Geneva messenger service. The sender’s name was a Miss Rebecca Goodheart, Earl’s Court, London, but inspection by an AAB security underling determined that Miss Goodheart was merely a pseudonym for an anonymous snitch. After finding no evidence of radiological, biological, or explosive material, the underling forwarded the parcel to the office of Wazir bin Talal. There it remained until late Friday afternoon, when bin Talal returned to Geneva after a one-day trip to Riyadh.

  He had other more pressing matters to attend to, and so it was nearly eight o’clock before he got around to opening the envelope. He immediately regretted the delay, for the allegations were quite serious in nature. On no fewer than nine occasions, according to Miss Goodheart, Andrew Malone had taken cash payments in violation of his personal services contract with Abdul Aziz al-Bakari. The allegations were supported by a packet of corroborating evidence, including bank deposit receipts, faxes, and personal e-mails taken from Malone’s home computer. Bin Talal immediately placed a call to his superior’s lakeside Geneva mansion and by nine that evening he was placing the documents on the desk of an irate Zizi al-Bakari.

  That same evening, at eleven London time, bin Talal placed a call to Malone’s Knightsbridge residence and ordered him to come to Geneva on the first available flight. When Malone protested that he had a prior commitment—and that it was a weekend, for heaven’s sake—bin Talal made it clear that the summons was mandatory and failure to appear would be regarded as a grave offense. The call was recorded by a neviot team and forwarded immediately to Gabriel at the Surrey safe house, along with the rather shaky call Malone placed to British Airways ten minutes later, reserving a seat on the 8:30 A.M. flight to Geneva.

  Eli Lavon booked a seat on the flight as well. Upon arrival in Geneva the two men were met by a pair of incongruous cars, Malone by a black S-Class Mercedes driven by one of Zizi’s chauffeurs, and Lavon by a mud-spattered Opel piloted by a courier from Geneva Station. Lavon ordered the bodel to give the Mercedes wide berth. As a result they arrived at Zizi’s mansion several minutes after Malone. They found a secluded parking space farther down the street but did not have to wait long, because twenty minutes later Malone emerged from the house, looking more ashen than usual.

  He proceeded directly back to the airport and booked a seat on the earliest flight back to London, which was at five o’clock. Lavon did the same. At Heathrow the two men went their separate ways, Lavon to Surrey and Malone to Knightsbridge, where he informed his wife that unless he could come up with four million pounds in extremely short order, Zizi al-Bakari was going to personally throw him off an extremely high bridge.

  That was Saturday night. By the following Wednesday it was clear to Gabriel and the rest of his team that Zizi was in the market for a new exclusive art consultant. It was also clear he had his eye on someone in particular, because Sarah Bancroft, assistant director of Isherwood Fine Arts of Mason’s Yard, St. James’s, was under surveillance.

  SHE BEGAN to think of them as friends. They rode with her in the Tube. They strolled in Mason’s Yard and loitered in Duke Street. They followed her to lunch and there was always one waiting in Green’s each evening when she stopped at the bar for a quick one with Oliver and the boys. They went with her to an auction at Sotheby’s and watched her pick over the dreary contents of a saleroom in Hull. They even made a long trip with her down to Devon, where she sweet-talked a dusty minor aristocrat into parting with a lovely Venetian Madonna and Child that Isherwood had coveted for years. “Zizi’s coming for you,” Gabriel told her in a brief telephone call on the Monday afternoon. “It’s only a matter of time. And don’t be alarmed if your things seem a bit out of place when you go home tonight. Sharuki broke into your flat and searched it this morning.”

  The next day the first gift arrived, a Harry Winston diamond watch. Attached to the gift-wrapped box was a handwritten note: Thank you for finding Marguerite. Eternally grateful, Zizi. The earrings from Bulgari came the following day. The double strand of Mikimoto pearls the day after that. The gold mesh bangle from Tiffany on Thursday evening, just as she was preparing to leave work. She stuck it on her right wrist and walked over to Green’s, where Oliver made a clumsy pass at her. “In another lifetime,” she said, kissing his cheek, “but not tonight. Be a love, Oliver, and walk me to the Tube.”

  Evenings were the hardest on her. There were no more trips to the Surrey safe house. As far as Sarah was concerned the Surrey safe house did not exist. She found she missed them all terribly. They were a family, a loud, quarrelsome, cacophonous, loving family—the sort of family Sarah had never had. All that remained of them now was the occasional cryptic phone call from Gabriel and the light in the flat on the opposite side of the street. Yossi’s light, but soon even Yossi would be lost to her. At night, when she was alone and afraid, she sometimes wished she had told them to find someone else. And sometimes she would think of poor Julian and wonder how on earth he was going to get along without her.

  THE FINAL PACKAGE arrived at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was hand-delivered by a messenger dressed in a suit and tie. Inside was a handwritten note and a single airline ticket. Sarah opened the ticket jacket and looked at the destination. Ten seconds later the telephone on her desk rang.

  “Isherwood Fine Arts. This is Sarah.”

  “Good afternoon, Sarah.”

  It was Zizi.

  “Hello, Mr. al-Bakari. How are you, sir?”

  “I’ll know in a moment. Did you receive the invitation and the airline tickets?”

  “I did, sir. And the earrings. And the watch. And the pearls. And the bangle.”

  “The bangle is my favorite.”

  “Mine, too, sir, but the gifts were completely unnecessary. As is this invitation. I’m afraid I can’t accept.”

  “You insult me, Sarah.”
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  “It’s not my intention, sir. As much as I would love to spend a few days in the sun, I’m afraid I can’t go jetting off at a moment’s notice.”

  “It’s not a moment’s notice. If you look carefully at the tickets, you see that you have three days until your departure.”

  “I can’t go jetting off three days from now either. I have business to attend to here at the gallery.”

  “I’m sure Julian can spare you for a few days. You just made him a great deal of money.”

  “This is true.”

  “So how about it, Sarah? Will you come?”

  “I’m afraid the answer is no, sir.”

  “You should know one thing about me, Sarah, and that is I never take no for an answer.”

  “I just don’t think it would be appropriate, sir.”

  “Appropriate? I think you’ve misinterpreted my motives.”

  “What are your motives, sir?”

  “I’d like you to come to work for me.”

  “As what, sir?”

  “I never discuss such matters over the phone, Sarah. Will you come?”

  She allowed ten seconds to elapse before she gave him her answer.

  “Brilliant,” he said. “One of my men will accompany you. He’ll collect you at your flat at eight A.M. Monday morning.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of traveling alone, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “I’m sure you are, but it will be easier if one of my security men comes with you. I’ll see you Monday evening.”

  And then he rang off. As Sarah replaced the receiver, she realized he hadn’t asked for her address.

  GABRIEL WAS breaking down his studio at the Surrey safe house when Lavon came pounding up the stairs, holding a printout of the message that had just arrived from the neviot team in Mason’s Yard. “Zizi’s made his move,” he said, handing the printout to Gabriel. “He wants to see her right away.”

  Gabriel read the message, then looked up at Lavon. “Shit,” he murmured. “We’re going to need a boat.”

  THEY HAD a champagne supper to celebrate, complete with a place setting for Sarah, the one member of the team who could not join them. The next morning Lavon drove Gabriel to Heathrow Airport, and by four-thirty that afternoon he was enjoying the view of the sunset from a CIA safe flat on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Adrian Carter was wearing chinos, a cotton pullover, and penny loafers with no socks. He handed Gabriel a glass of lemonade and a photograph of a very large boat.

  “She’s called Sun Dancer,” Carter said. “She’s a seventy-four-foot ocean-going luxury motor yacht. I’m sure you and your team will find her more than comfortable.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “We seized it a few years ago from a Panamanian drug runner named Carlos Castillo. Mr. Castillo now resides in a federal prison in Oklahoma, and we’ve been using his boat to do the Lord’s work down here in the Caribbean.”

  “How many times has it been used?”

  “Five or six times by the DEA, and we’ve used it twice.”

  Gabriel handed the photograph back to Carter. “It’s dirty,” he said. “Can’t you get me something with a clean provenance?”

  “We’ve changed her name and registry several times. There’s no way Zizi or any of his security goons can trace it back to us.”

  Gabriel sighed. “Where is it now?”

  “A marina on Fisher Island,” Carter said, pointing to the south. “It’s being provisioned right now. We have a CIA crew leaving Langley tonight.”

  “Nice try,” Gabriel said, “but I’ll use my own crew.”

  “You?”

  “We have a navy, Adrian. A very good one, in fact. I have a crew on standby in Haifa. And tell your boys to take out the listening devices. Otherwise, we’ll do it for them, and Sun Dancer won’t look very good when we give it back to you.”

  “It’s already been taken care of,” Carter said. “How are you planning to get your team over here?”

  “I was hoping a friend of mine from American intelligence would extend a helping hand.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Airlift and landing rights.”

  “How quickly can your crew get from Haifa to London?”

  “They can leave first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll send one of our planes to London tonight. It will collect your team and bring them back here. We’ll set it down at Homestead and dispense with passports and customs. You can put out to sea on Sunday night and rendezvous with Zizi Monday afternoon.”

  “Sounds like we have ourselves a deal,” Gabriel said. “All we need now is Ahmed bin Shafiq.”

  “He’ll come,” Carter said with certainty. “The only question is will your girl be there when he does?”

  “She’s our girl, Adrian. Sarah belongs to all of us.”

  PART THREE

  The Night Journey

  22.

  Harbor Island, Bahamas

  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 & 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 A
lexandra’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.”