by Daniel Silva
“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?”
“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.”
27.
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.
She looked toward Alexandra’s stern and saw that the Sikorsky was darkened and motionless. They were going ashore by launch tonight, departure scheduled for 7:45, arrangements having been made by Hassan, ever-efficient chief of Zizi’s travel department. And please don’t be late, Miss Sarah, Hassan had told her. Zizi had advised her to wear something special. Le Tetou is my favorite restaurant on the island, he had said. It promises to be a memorable evening.
The breeze rose and from somewhere in the harbor came the clanging of a buoy. She gave another glance at her watch and saw it was 7:25. She allowed herself to picture a reunion. Perhaps they would have a family meal, like the meals they had shared together in the manor house in Surrey that did not exist. Or perhaps the circumstances would be such that food was not appropriate. Whatever the mood, she craved their embrace. She loved them. She loved all of them. She loved them because everyone else hated them. She loved them because they were an island of sanity surrounded by a sea of zealots and because she feared that the tide of history might one day sweep them away and she wanted to be a part of them, if only for a moment. She loved their hidden pain and their capacity for joy, their lust for life and their contempt for those who murdered innocents. To each of their lives was attached a purpose, and to Sarah each seemed a small miracle. She thought of Dina—scarred, beautiful Dina, the last of six children, one child for each million murdered. Her father, she had told Sarah, had been the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust. After coming to Israel he had chosen the name Sarid, which in Hebrew means remnant, and he had named his last child Dina, which means avenged. I’m Dina Sarid, she had said. I’m the avenged remnant.
And tonight, thought Sarah, we stand together.
Seven-thirty and still she did not move from her chair on the deck. Her procrastination had purpose. She wanted to give herself only a few minutes to dress—less time to send an inadvertent signal that she had no intention of coming back. Bring nothing with you, Rimona’s message had said. Leave your room in a mess.
And so she remained on the deck another five minutes before rising and entering her cabin. She let the robe slide from her shoulders and fall to the floor, then quickly pulled on underpants and a bra. Her clothing, a loose-fitting saffron-colored pantsuit that Nadia had bought for her the previous afternoon in Gustavia, was laid out on the unmade bed. She pulled it on quickly and went to the vanity in the bathroom. She slipped on the gold bangle but left the rest of the jewelry Zizi had given her on the counter. When deciding how to wear her hair, she hesitated for the first time. Up or down? Down, she decided. The first step back toward her old life. A life that Gabriel had warned would never be the same.
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 R
over, 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.