Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  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 & 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.”

  “Exactl
y,” 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.

  Gustavia, Saint-Barthélemy

  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 reluctan
tly 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?”