by Daniel Silva
Jean-Michel helped her down the stairs, then across the tarmac and into the back of the waiting Mercedes. He closed the door and headed immediately back toward the jet. As the car lurched forward, Sarah looked at the man seated next to her. Her vision blurred by the veil, she saw him only in the abstract. Enormous hands. A round face. A tight mouth surrounded by a bristly goatee. Another version of bin Talal, she thought. A well-groomed gorilla.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m unimportant. I’m no one.”
“Where are we going?”
He drove his fist into her ear and told her not to speak again.
THIRTY SECONDS LATER the Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates sped past a snow-covered figure peering forlornly beneath the open hood of a stalled car. The man seemed to pay the Mercedes no heed as it swept by, though he did look up briefly as it headed up the ramp to the motorway. He forced himself to count slowly to five. Then he slammed the hood and climbed behind the wheel. When he turned the key, the engine started instantly. He slipped the car into gear and pulled onto the road.
SHE DID NOT know how long they drove—an hour, perhaps longer—but she knew the purpose of their journey. The stops, the starts, the sudden double-backs and nauseating accelerations: Eli Lavon had referred to such maneuvers as countersurveillance. Uzi Navot had called it wiping your backside.
She stared out the heavily tinted window of the car. She had spent several years in Switzerland as a young girl and knew the city reasonably well. These were not the Zurich streets she remembered of her youth. These were the gritty, dark streets of the northern districts and the Industrie-Quartier. Ugly warehouses, blackened brick factories, smoking rail yards. There were no pedestrians on the pavements and no passengers in the streetcars. It seemed she was alone in the world with only the Unimportant One for company. She asked him once more where they were going. He responded with an elbow to Sarah’s abdomen that made her cry out for her mother.
He took a long look over his shoulder, then he forced Sarah to the floor and murmured something in Arabic to the driver. She was lost now in darkness. She pushed the pain to one corner of her mind and tried to concentrate on the movement of the car. A right turn. A left. The thump-thump of rail tracks. An abrupt stop that made the tires scream. The Unimportant One pulled her back onto the seat and opened the door. When she seized hold of the armrest and refused to let go, he engaged in a brief tug of war before losing patience and giving her a knifelike blow to the kidney that sent charges of pain to every corner of her body.
She screamed in agony and released the armrest. The Unimportant One dragged her from the car and let her fall to the ground. It was cold cement. It seemed they were in a parking garage or the loading dock of a warehouse. She lay there writhing in agony, gazing up at her tormentor through the black gauze of the veil. The Saudi woman’s view of the world. A voice told her to rise. She tried but could not.
The driver got out of the car and, together with the Unimportant One, lifted her to her feet. She stood there suspended for a moment, her arms spread wide, her body draped in the abaya, and waited for another hammer blow to her abdomen. Instead she was deposited into the backseat of a second car. The man seated there was familiar to her. She had seen him first in a manor house in Surrey that did not exist, and a second time at a villa in Saint Bart’s that did. “Good evening, Sarah,” said Ahmed bin Shafiq. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
32.
Zurich
IS YOUR NAME REALLY Sarah, or should I call you something else?”
She tried to answer him but was gasping for breath.
“My—name—is—Sarah.”
“Then Sarah it will be.”
“Why—are—you—doing—this—to—me?”
“Come, come, Sarah.”
“Please—let—me—go!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
She was doubled forward now, with her head between her knees. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upright, then lifted the veil and examined the damage to her face. From his expression it was unclear whether he thought they had been too hard on her or too lenient. She gazed back at him. Leather trench coat, cashmere scarf, small round spectacles with tortoiseshell rims: the very picture of a successful Zurich moneyman. His dark eyes radiated a calculating intelligence. His expression was identical to the one he had worn the moment of their first meeting.
“Who are you working for?” he asked benevolently.
“I work”—she coughed violently—“for Zizi.”
“Breathe, Sarah. Take long slow breaths.”
“Don’t—hit—me—anymore.”
“I won’t,” he said. “But you have to tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“I want to know who you’re working for.”
“I told you—I work for Zizi.”
His face betrayed mild disappointment. “Please, Sarah. Don’t make this difficult. Just answer my questions. Tell me the truth, and this entire disagreeable episode will be over.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Unfortunately, this is true,” he said, as though agreeing with her assessment of the weather. “But if you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be spared the knife, and your death will be as painless as possible. If you persist in these lies, your last hours on earth will be a living hell.”
His cruelty is limitless, she thought. He speaks of my beheading but doesn’t have the decency to look away.
“I’m not lying,” she said.
“You’ll talk, Sarah. Everyone talks. There’s no use trying to resist. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s—”
“I want to know who you’re working for, Sarah.”
“I work for Zizi.”
“I want to know who sent you.”
“Zizi came for me. He sent me jewels and flowers. He sent me airline tickets and bought me clothing.”
“I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline.”
“I don’t—”
“I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean.”
“What man?”
“I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party.”
“How would I know her name?”
“I want to know why you were watching me at my party. And why you suddenly decided to pin your hair up. And why you were wearing your hair up when you went jogging with Jean-Michel.”
She was weeping uncontrollably now. “This is madness!”
“I want to know the names of the three men who followed me on motorcycles later that day. I want to know the names of the two men who came to my villa to kill me. And the name of the man who watched my plane take off.”
“I’m telling you the truth! My name is Sarah Bancroft. I worked at an art gallery in London. I sold Zizi a painting, and he asked me to come to work for him.”
“The van Gogh?”
“Yes!”
“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table?”
“Yes, you bastard.”
“And where did you obtain this painting? Was it acquired on your behalf by your intelligence service?”
“I don’t work for an intelligence service. I work for Zizi.”
“You’re working for the Americans?”
“No.”
“For the Jews?”
“No!”
He exhaled heavily, then removed his spectacles and spent a long moment contemplatively polishing them on his cashmere scarf. “You should know that shortly after your departure from Saint Maarten, four men arrived at the airport and boarded a private plane. We recognized them. We assume they are headed here to Zurich. They’re Jews, aren’t they, Sarah?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Trust me, Sarah. They’re Jews. On
e can always tell.”
He examined his spectacles and polished some more. “You should also know that colleagues of these Jews clumsily attempted to follow you tonight after you landed at the airport. Our driver easily dispensed with them. You see, we’re professionals, too. They’re gone now, Sarah. And you’re all alone.”
He put on his spectacles again.
“Do you think the so-called professionals for whom you’re working would be willing to sacrifice their lives for you? They’d be vomiting their secrets all over the floor to me by now. But you’re better than them, aren’t you, Sarah? Zizi saw that, too. That’s why he made the mistake of hiring you.”
“It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the one making a mistake.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m leaving you now in the hands of my friend Muhammad. He worked for me in Group 205. Is this name familiar to you, Sarah? Group 205? Surely your handlers must have mentioned it to you during your preparation.”
“I’ve never heard it before.”
“Muhammad is a professional. He’s also a very skilled interrogator. You and Muhammad are going to take a journey together. A night journey. Do you know this term, Sarah? The Night Journey.”
Greeted only by the sound of her weeping, he answered his own question.
“It was during the Night Journey that God revealed Quran to the Prophet. Tonight you’re going to make a revelation of your own. Tonight you’re going to tell my friend Muhammad who you’re working for and everything they know about my network. If you tell him quickly, you will be granted a degree of mercy. If you continue with these lies, Muhammad will carve the flesh from your bones and cut off your head. Do you understand me?”
Her stomach convulsed with nausea. Bin Shafiq appeared to be taking pleasure from her fear.
“Do you realize you’ve been looking at my arm? Did they tell you about my scar? My damaged hand?” Another weary smile. “You’ve been betrayed, Sarah—betrayed by your handlers.”
He opened the door and climbed out, then ducked down and looked at her one more time.
“By the way, you very nearly succeeded. If your friends had managed to kill me on that island, a major operation of ours would have been disrupted.”
“I thought you worked for Zizi in Montreal.”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” He wound his scarf tightly around his throat. “Muhammad won’t find your little lies so amusing, Sarah. Something tells me you’re going to have a long and painful night together.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she asked: “What operation?”
“Operation? Me? I’m only an investment banker.”
She asked him again. “What’s the operation? Where are you going to strike?”
“Speak my real name, and I tell you.”
“Your name is Alain al-Nasser.”
“No, Sarah. Not my cover name. My real name. Say it. Confess your sins, Sarah, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
She began to shake uncontrollably. She tried to form the words but could not summon the courage.
“Say it!” he shouted at her. “Say my name, you bitch.”
She lifted her head and looked him directly in the eyes.
“Your—name—is—Ahmed—bin—Shafiq!”
His head snapped back, as if he were avoiding a blow. Then he smiled at her in admiration.
“You’re a very brave woman.”
“And you’re a murderous coward.”
“I should kill you myself.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do.”
He hesitated a moment, then treated her to an arrogant smile. “Suffice it to say we have some unfinished business at the Vatican. The crimes of Christianity and the Western world against Muslims will soon be avenged once and for all. But you won’t be alive to see this glorious act. You’ll be dead by then. Tell Muhammad what you know, Sarah. Make your last hours on earth easy ones.”
And with that he turned and walked away. The Unimportant One wrenched her from the back of the car while holding an ether-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. She scratched at him. She flailed. She landed several futile kicks to his cast-iron shins. Then the drug took hold, and she felt herself spiraling toward the ground. Someone caught her. Someone placed her in the trunk of a car. A face appeared briefly and looked down at her, inquisitive and oddly earnest. The face of Muhammad. Then the hatch closed, and she was enveloped in darkness. When the car began to move, she passed out.
33.
Zug, Switzerland
GUSTAV SCHMIDT, chief of counterterrorism for the Swiss federal security service, was an unlikely American ally in the war against
Islamic extremism. In a country where elected politicians, the press, and most of the population were solidly opposed to the United States and its war on terror, Schmidt had quietly forged personal bonds with his counterparts in Washington, especially Adrian Carter. When Carter needed permission to operate on Swiss soil, Schmidt invariably granted it. When Carter wanted to make an al-Qaeda operative vanish from the Federation, Schmidt usually gave him the green light. And when Carter needed a place to put down a plane, Schmidt regularly granted him landing rights. The private airstrip at Zug, a wealthy industrial city in the heart of the country, was Carter’s favorite in Switzerland. Schmidt’s, too.
It was shortly after midnight when the Gulfstream V executive jet sunk out of the clouds and touched down on the snow-dusted runway. Five minutes later, Schmidt was seated across from Carter in the modestly appointed cabin. “We have a situation,” Carter said. “To be perfectly honest with you, we don’t have a complete picture.” He gestured toward his traveling companion. “This is Tom. He’s a doctor. We think we’ll need his services before the night is over. Relax, Gustav. Have a drink. We may be here awhile.”
Carter then looked out the window at the swirling snow and said nothing more. He didn’t have to. Schmidt now knew the situation. One of Carter’s agents was in trouble, and Carter wasn’t at all sure he was going to get the agent back alive. Schmidt opened the brandy and drank alone. At times like these he was glad he had been born Swiss.
A SIMILAR VIGIL was under way at that same moment at the general aviation terminal at Kloten Airport. The man doing the waiting was not a senior Swiss policeman but Moshe, the bodel from Paris. At 12:45 A.M., four men emerged from the terminal into the snowstorm. Moshe tapped the horn of his Audi A8, and the four men turned in unison and headed his way. Yaakov, Mikhail, and Eli Lavon climbed in the back. Gabriel sat up front.
“Where is she?”
“Heading south.”
“Drive,” said Gabriel.
SARAH WOKE to paralyzing cold, her ears ringing with the hiss of tires over wet asphalt. Where am I now? she thought, and then she remembered. She was in the trunk of a Mercedes, an unwilling passenger on Muhammad’s night journey to oblivion. Slowly, bit by bit, she gathered up the fragments of this day without end and placed them in proper sequence. She saw Zizi in his helicopter, glancing at his wristwatch as he sent her to her death. And Jean-Michel, her traveling companion, catching a few minutes of sleep along the way. And finally, she saw the monster, Ahmed bin Shafiq, warning her that his bloodbath at the Vatican was not yet complete. She heard his voice now; the drumbeat cadence of his questions.
I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline…
He is Yaakov, she thought. And he is five times the man you are.
I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party…
She is Dina, she thought. The avenged remnant.
I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean…
He is Gabriel, she thought. And one day very soon he’s going to kill you.
They’re gone now, and you’re all alone…
No, I’m not, she thought. They’re here with me. All of them.
And in her mind she saw them coming for her through the snowfall. Would they arrive
before Muhammad bestowed upon her a painless death? Would they come in time to learn the secret that Ahmed bin Shafiq had so arrogantly spit in her face? Sarah knew she could help them. She had information Muhammad wanted—and it was hers to give at whatever pace, and in whatever detail, she desired. Go slowly, she thought. Take all the time in the world.
She closed her eyes and once again started to lose consciousness. This time it was sleep. She remembered the last thing Gabriel had said to her the night before her departure from London. Sleep, Sarah, he had said. You have a long journey ahead of you.
WHEN SHE woke next the car was pitching violently. Gone was the hiss of tires moving over wet asphalt. Now it seemed they were plowing through deep snow over a rough track. This was confirmed for her a moment later when the tires lost traction and one of the occupants was forced to climb out and push. When the car stopped again, Sarah heard voices in Arabic and Swiss German, then the deep groan of frozen metal hinges. They drove on for a moment longer, then stopped a third time—the final time, she assumed, because the car’s engine immediately went silent.
The trunk flew open. Two unfamiliar faces peered down at her; four hands seized her and lifted her out. They stood her upright and let go of her, but her knees buckled and she collapsed into the snow. This proved to be a source of great amusement to them, and they stood around laughing for several moments before once again lifting her to her feet.
She looked around. They were in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded by towering fir and pine. There was an A-shaped chalet with a steeply pitched roof and a separate outbuilding of some sort, next to which were parked two four-wheel-drive jeeps. It was snowing heavily. To Sarah, still veiled, it seemed the sky was raining ash.
Muhammad appeared and grunted something in Arabic to the two men holding her upright. They took a step toward the chalet, expecting Sarah to walk with them, but her legs were rigid with cold and would not function. She tried to tell them she was freezing to death but could not speak. There was one benefit to the cold: she had long forgotten the pain of the blows she had taken in her face and abdomen.