The Messenger

  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 involvi
ng 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.

  CIA Headquarters

  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.”