The Messenger

by Daniel Silva

  Carter hung up the phone and gazed toward the bank of television monitors on the opposite side of the room. The president was in Europe on his fence-mending tour. He had spent the day meeting with the new German chancellor while outside the police had waged running street battles across Berlin with anti-American demonstrators. More of the same was expected at the president’s final two stops: Paris and Rome. The French were bracing for a wave of Muslim rioting, and the Carabinieri were anticipating demonstrations on a scale not seen in the Italian capital in a generation—hardly the scenes of transatlantic harmony the White House imagemakers had been hoping for.

  Carter switched off the television and locked his papers in his wall safe, then took his overcoat from the hook on the back of his door and slipped out. The secretaries had gone for the night, and the vestibule was in shadow except for a trapezoid of light that shone from a half-open door on the opposite side. The door led to the office of Shepard Cantwell, the deputy director of intelligence, Carter’s counterpart on the analytical side of the Agency. From inside the room came the clattering of a computer keyboard. Cantwell was still there. According to the Agency wits, Cantwell never left. He simply locked himself into his wall safe some time around midnight and let himself out again at dawn, so he could be at his desk when the director arrived.

  “That you, Adrian?” Cantwell inquired in his lazy Back Bay drawl. When Carter poked his head into Cantwell’s lair, the DDI stopped typing and looked up over a batch of files. He was prim as a prior and twice as crafty. “Christ, Adrian, you look like death warmed over. What’s bothering you?”

  When Carter mumbled something vague about the chaos surrounding the president’s goodwill trip to Europe, Cantwell launched into a dissertation about the false dangers of anti-Americanism. Cantwell was analysis. He couldn’t help it.

  “It’s always fascinated me, Adrian, this ludicrous need of ours to be powerful and loved at the same time. The American president reached halfway around the world and toppled the ruler of Mesopotamia in an afternoon. Not even Caesar could manage that. And now he wants to be adored by those who oppose him. The sooner we stop worrying about being liked, the better off we’ll be.”

  “You’ve been reading Machiavelli again, Shep?”

  “Never stopped.” He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and splayed his elbows, treating Carter to an unwanted view of his armpits. “There’s a nasty rumor going round the village, Adrian.”

  “Really?” Carter gave his wristwatch a glance that Cantwell seemed not to notice.

  “According to the rumor you’re involved in some sort of special operation against a well-to-do friend of the al-Saud. And your partners in this endeavor—again, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, Adrian—are the Israelites.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” Carter said. “How far has it traveled?”

  “Beyond Langley,” replied Cantwell, which was another way of saying it had reached some of the brother agencies that had been steadily encroaching on CIA turf ever since the dreaded reorganization of the American intelligence community.

  “How far beyond?”

  “Far enough so that some people in town are starting to get nervous. You know how the game is played, Adrian. There’s a pipeline between Riyadh and Washington, and it flows green with cash. This town is awash with Saudi money. It pours into the think tanks and the law firms. Hell, the lobbyists dine out on the stuff. The Saudis have even managed to devise a system for bribing us while we’re still in office. Everyone knows that if they look out for the al-Saud while they’re working for Club Fed, the al-Saud will look out for them when they return to the private sector. Maybe it will be in the form of a lucrative consulting contract or some legal work. Maybe a chair at some insipid institute that spouts the Saudi party line. And so when rumors start flying around town that some cowboy at Langley is going after one of the most generous benefactors of this unholy system, people get nervous.”

  “Are you one of them, Shepard?”

  “Me?” Cantwell shook his head. “I’m heading back to Boston the minute my parole comes through. But there are other people in the building planning to hang around town and cash in.”

  “And what if the generous benefactors of this unholy system are also filling the coffers of the people who fly airplanes into our buildings? What if these friends of ours are up to their necks in terror? What if they’re willing to make any deal with the devil necessary to ensure their survival, even if it leads to dead Americans?”

  “You shake their hands and smile,” said Cantwell. “And you think of the terrorism as an inconvenient surcharge on your next tank of gas. You still driving that old Volvo of yours?”

  Cantwell knew exactly what Carter drove. Their assigned spaces were next to each other in the west parking lot. “I can’t afford a new car,” Carter said. “Not with three kids in college.”

  “Maybe you should sign up for the Saudi retirement plan. I see a lucrative consulting contract in your future.”

  “Not my style, Shep.”

  “So what about those rumors? Any truth to them?”

  “None at all.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Cantwell said. “I’ll be sure to set everyone straight. Night, Adrian.”

  “Night, Shep.”

  Carter went downstairs. The executive parking lot was nearly empty of other cars. He climbed into his Volvo and headed toward Northwest Washington, following the route he and Gabriel had taken eight weeks earlier. As he passed Zizi al-Bakari’s estate, he slowed and peered through the bars of the gate, toward the hideous faux-chateau mansion perched on the cliff overlooking the river. Don’t touch her, Carter thought savagely. Harm one hair on her head, and I’ll kill you myself. As he headed over Chain Bridge, he glanced down at his dash. A warning light was glowing red. How appropriate, he thought. His gas tank was nearly empty.

  AT THAT same moment, Sun Dancer was rounding Grande Pointe and returning to the anchorage off Gustavia. Gabriel stood alone in the prow, field glasses pressed to his eyes, gazing at the afterdeck of Alexandra, where the ship’s crew were serving a hastily prepared dinner for thirty. Gabriel saw them as figures in a painting. The Boating Party, he thought. Or was it The Last Supper?

  There was Zizi, seated regally at the head of the table, as though the events of the evening had been a welcome diversion from the monotony of an otherwise ordinary journey. At his left hand sat his beautiful daughter, Nadia. At his right hand, stabbing at his food without appetite, was his trusted second in command, Daoud Hamza. Farther down the table were the lawyers, Abdul & Abdul, and Herr Wehrli, minder of Zizi’s money. There was Mansur, maker of travel arrangements, and Hassan, chief of communications, secure and otherwise. There was Jean-Michel, tender of Zizi’s fitness and supplementary security man, and his sullen wife, Monique. There was Rahimah Hamza and her lover, Hamid, the beautiful Egyptian film star. There was a quartet of anxious-looking bodyguards and several attractive women with guiltless faces. And then, seated at the far end of the table, as far from Zizi as possible, there was a beautiful woman in saffron silk. She provided the balance to the composition. She was innocence to Zizi’s evil. And Gabriel could see that she was frightened to death. Gabriel knew he was witnessing a performance. But for whose benefit was it being staged? His or Sarah’s?

  At midnight the figures in his painting stood and bade each other goodnight. Sarah disappeared through a passageway and was lost to him once more. Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and Wazir bin Talal entered Zizi’s office. Gabriel saw it as a new painting: Meeting of Three Evil Men, artist unknown.

  Five minutes later Hassan rushed into the office and handed Zizi a mobile telephone. Who was calling? Was it one of Zizi’s brokers asking for instructions on what position to take at the opening of trading in London? Or was it Ahmed bin Shafiq, murderer of innocents, telling Zizi what to do with Gabriel’s girl?

  Zizi accepted the phone and with a wave of his hand banished Hassan from the office. Wazir bin Talal, chief of secur
ity, walked over to the windows and drew the blinds.

  SHE LOCKED the door and switched on every light in the room. She turned on the satellite television system and changed the channel to CNN. German police battling protesters in the streets. More proof, said a breathless reporter, of America’s failure in Iraq.

  She went out onto the deck and sat down. The yacht she had watched leaving the harbor that afternoon had now returned. Was it Gabriel’s yacht? Was bin Shafiq alive or dead? Was Gabriel alive or dead? She knew only that something had gone wrong. These things happen from time to time, Zizi had said. It’s why we take matters of security so seriously.

  She gazed at the yacht, looking for signs of movement on the deck, but it was too far off to see anything. We’re here with you, Sarah. All of us. The wind rose. She wrapped her arms around her legs and drew her knees to her chin.

  I hope you’re all still there, she thought. And please get me off this boat before they kill me.

  AT SOME POINT, she did not remember when, the cold had driven her inside to her bed. She woke to a gray dawn and the patter of a gentle rain on her sundeck. The television was still on; the president had arrived in Paris, and the place de la Concorde was a sea of protesters. She picked up the telephone and ordered coffee. It was delivered five minutes later. Everything was the same except for the handwritten note, which was folded in half and leaning against her basket of brioche. The note was from Zizi. I have a job for you, Sarah. Pack your bags and be ready to leave by nine. We’ll talk before you leave. She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it to the door of the sundeck. It was then she noticed that Alexandra was under way and that they had left Saint Bart’s. She looked again at Zizi’s note. It didn’t say where she was going.

  29.

  Off Saint Maarten

  SARAH PRESENTED HERSELF ON the aft deck promptly at nine o’clock. It was raining heavily now; the clouds were low and dark, and a strong wind was playing havoc with the sea. Zizi was wearing a pale marine raincoat and dark sunglasses despite the gray weather. Bin Talal stood next to him, dressed in a tropical-weight blazer to conceal his sidearm.

  “Never a dull moment,” Sarah said as amiably as possible. “First a bomb threat, then a note with my breakfast telling me to pack my bags.” She looked toward the helipad and saw Zizi’s pilot climbing behind the controls of the Sikorsky. “Where am I going?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” Zizi said, taking her by the arm.

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “Only as far as Saint Maarten.” He pulled her toward the stairs that led to the helipad. “There’s a private jet for you there.”

  “Where’s the private jet going?”

  “It’s taking you to see a painting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  “Where’s it going, Zizi?”

  He stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at her, his eyes concealed behind the dark glass.

  “Is something bothering you, Sarah? You seem tense.”

  “I just don’t like getting on airplanes when I don’t know where they’re going.”

  Zizi smiled and started to tell her, but his words were drowned out by the engine of the Sikorsky.

  GABRIEL WAS STANDING in the prow of Sun Dancer when the helicopter lifted off. He watched for a moment, then rushed up to the bridge, where a navy lieutenant was at the helm.

  “They’re moving her to Saint Maarten. How far are we from shore?”

  “About five miles.”

  “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “Given the weather, I’d say thirty minutes. Maybe a bit less.”

  “And the Zodiacs?”

  “You don’t want to try it in a Zodiac—not in these conditions.”

  “Get us close—as quickly as possible.”

  The lieutenant nodded, and started making preparations to change heading. Gabriel went to the command center and dialed Carter.

  “She’s headed toward the airport on Saint Maarten as we speak.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “Zizi and his chief of security are with her.”

  “How long before you can get there?”

  “Forty-five minutes to shore. Another fifteen to the airport.”

  “I’ll put the crew on standby. The plane will be ready when you arrive.”

  “Now we just need to know where Zizi’s sending her.”

  “Thanks to al-Qaeda, we’re now tapped into every traffic control tower in the hemisphere. When Zizi’s pilot files a flight plan, we’ll know where she’s going.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Usually it takes us only a few minutes.”

  “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that sooner is better.”

  “Just get to shore,” Carter said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “IT’S A MANET,” Zizi said as they swept toward the coastline, just beneath the deck of low dark clouds. “I’ve had my eye on it for several years now. The owner has been reluctant to part with it, but last night he telephoned my office in Geneva and said he was interested in making a deal.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Inspect the painting and make certain it’s in reasonable condition. Then review the provenance carefully. As I’m sure you’re aware, thousands of French Impressionist paintings entered Switzerland during the war under illicit circumstances. The last thing I need is some Jewish family beating down my door demanding their painting back.”

  Sarah felt a stab of fear in the center of her chest. She turned away and looked out the window.

  “And if the provenance is in order?”

  “Work out a suitable price. I’m willing to go to thirty million, but for God’s sake, don’t tell him that.” He handed her a business card with a handwritten number on the back. “Once you’ve got a final number, call me before you accept.”

  “What time do I see him?”

  “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. One of my drivers will meet you at the airport tonight and take you to your hotel. You can get a good night’s sleep before you see the painting.”

  “Do I get to know the owner’s name?”

  “Hermann Klarsfeld. He’s one of the richest men in Switzerland, which is saying something. I’ve warned him about how beautiful you are. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Lovely,” she said, still looking out the window at the approaching coastline.

  “Herr Klarsfeld is an octogenarian, Sarah. You needn’t worry about any inappropriate behavior.”

  Zizi looked at bin Talal. The security chief reached under his seat and produced a new Gucci bag. “Your things, Miss Sarah,” he said, his tone apologetic. Sarah accepted the bag and opened it. Inside were the electronic items taken from her the afternoon of her arrival: the mobile phone and the PDA; the iPod and the hair dryer; even the travel alarm clock. Nothing remained of her aboard Alexandra, no evidence she’d ever been there.

  The helicopter started to lose altitude. Sarah looked out the window again and saw that they were descending toward the airport. At the end of the airfield were a handful of private jets. One was being fueled for takeoff. Zizi was once more extolling the wealth of Herr Klarsfeld, but Sarah heard none of it. She was now thinking only of escape. There is no Herr Klarsfeld, she told herself. And there is no Manet. She was being put on an airplane to oblivion. She remembered Zizi’s benediction the afternoon she accepted his job offer. As you can see I’m very generous to the people who work for me, but I get very angry when they betray me. She had betrayed him. She had betrayed him for Gabriel. And now she would pay with her life. Zizi’s rules.

  She looked down at the airfield, wondering if Zizi had somehow left a crack through which she might escape. Surely there would be a customs officer to check her passport. Maybe an airport official or a policeman or two. She rehearsed the lines she would say to them. My name is Sarah Bancroft. I am an American citizen, and these men are trying to transport me to Switzerland against my will. The
n she looked at Zizi and his chief of security. You’ve taken that scenario into account, haven’t you? You’ve paid off the customs officials and bribed the local police. Zizi didn’t countenance delays, especially not for a hysterical infidel woman.

  The Sikorsky’s skids bumped down on the tarmac. Bin Talal opened the cabin door and climbed out, then reached back inside and offered Sarah his hand. She took it and climbed down the staircase, into a vortex of swirling wind. Fifty yards from the helicopter stood a waiting Falcon 2000, engines screaming in preparation for takeoff. She looked around: no customs officials, no policeman. Zizi had closed her only window. She looked back into the cabin of the Sikorsky and saw him for the last time. He gave her a genial wave, then looked at his gold Rolex, like an attending physician marking the time of death.

  Bin Talal seized her bags, reminded her to duck her head, then took her by the arm and led her toward the Falcon. On the staircase she tried to pull away from him, but he squeezed her upper arm in a painful viselike grip and conveyed her up the steps. She screamed for help, but the sound was drowned out by the whining of the jet engines and the thumping of the Sikorsky’s rotor blade.

  She staged one more rebellion at the top of the staircase, which bin Talal suppressed with a single shove between her shoulder blades. She stumbled inside, into a small cabin luxuriously appointed in polished wood and soft tan leather. It reminded her of a coffin. At least her journey to oblivion was going to be comfortable. She gathered herself for one more revolt and flew at the Saudi in a rage. Now, shielded from view by the outside world, there was no discretion in his response. He gave her a single open-handed blow that landed hard on her right cheekbone and sent her whirling to the cabin floor. The Saudis knew how to treat mutinous women.

  She heard ringing in her ears and for a moment was blinded by exploding stars. When her vision cleared she saw Jean-Michel standing over her, drying his hands on a linen towel. The Frenchman sat on her legs and waited until bin Talal had pinned her arms to the floor before producing the hypodermic needle. She felt a single stab, then molten metal flowing into her veins. The skin of Jean-Michel’s face slid from his skull, and Sarah slipped beneath the surface of cold black water.