“He didn’t trust you?”
“Darling,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “It doesn’t do to trust a double.”
Chapel knew the advice was directed at him, not Gadbois.
He took her in, this new Sarah, his fairy-tale princess dressed for the ball. She wore a black satin gown that hugged her bosom and fell to the knee. Her hair was arranged in a chignon, and pinned high. At the French Embassy, one of her unnamed associates offered a plastic composite stiletto as an accessory to hold the elegant bun in place, something that wouldn’t set off the metal detectors. Sarah had turned him down with a cryptic smile. She didn’t need a weapon, the smile had said. She was capable of handling things herself. Midnight eyeliner and mascara amplified the depth of her eyes. To catch her gaze was to lose your breath.
Looking at her, he felt a stab of desperation. She was in another league altogether. Essentially another man’s woman.
Slipping the invitation out of his pocket, he took Sarah’s hand and they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and joined the partygoers on their promenade past the cordon of Secret Service agents, up the driveway to the brightly lit portico, where they both nodded to the Marine guards bracketing the front door.
“The Honorable Mr. Dominique Villefort and Mrs. Villefort,” said a blond woman in a white gown who accepted their invitation. Villefort was the second secretary at the French Embassy. A name, but not a face. “We’re so pleased you could attend.”
“It is our pleasure,” answered Sarah, a Gallic demiglaze sweetening her words.
A Secret Service agent approached and asked Sarah if she had a handbag. Sarah said she did not, and the agent directed them to an elevator that would carry them to the Blue Room where, he informed them, the cocktail hour was drawing to a conclusion. Upstairs, the crowd was a hundred strong, and by the sound of the raised, convivial voices, in rare spirits. Chapel recognized the secretary of state, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, and the attorney general. It was an A-list affair. The Marine Band played Sinatra and they were very good.
“She’ll be alone,” Sarah said. “She has to have the device on her body.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Something small. Eight inches long, four inches wide. It might not be visible. Let’s split up. If you sense something suspicious, you’re probably right.”
Sarah disappeared into the crowd, leaving Chapel on his own. A bar was set up on a table in the far corner. Liveried waiters circulated, taking orders. He was struck by how familiar it all was. Hardly different from a “do” at the Four Seasons. His eye wandered from face to face, appraising but not lingering. Was he supposed to rule out every white-haired woman over fifty? Every African-American? Every Asian? It was a dinner for the Saudi King. Every other person in the room fit at least half the profile, that is, a woman of Middle Eastern extraction.
A waiter spotted his empty hands and asked what he would like. “Water,” answered Chapel, but thinking of what Sarah called “cover,” he changed his order to a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Right about now, a rebel’s courage would do him right.
The band stopped playing. A hush spread over the crowd. Double doors that he had not previously noticed swung open. A stout, silver-haired man threw out his chest and bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and His Royal Highness, the King of Saudi Arabia.”
The two men entered in deep discussion. The First Lady followed with one of the King’s older wives. Behind them trailed the King’s retinue, ten men clad, like the King, in traditional Saudi garb-dishdashas, khaffiyehs, and the male’s requisite mustache and goatee.
Everyone’s here, thought Chapel nervously. Now’s the time. If you’re going to do it, do it while your blood’s running hot, before your doubts get the better of you.
His own palms were moist and he felt flushed, jittery. He searched for Sarah and couldn’t find her. Discreetly, he pushed his way to the edge of the crowd. The guests had formed a crescent and the President and the King were working their ways to opposite ends of the line, doing their mandatory “meet and greet.”
By now, Chapel had developed a routine for examining each person. He would start at the shoes and move north to the head. There wasn’t an American cobbler represented in the room. It was Blahniks, Ferragamos, and Chanels all around. The woman rubbing his elbow was red-haired and Irish. Next to her stood the commandant of the Marine Corps. Count those two out. A chubby Arabian woman gazed adoringly at the President, her smile stretched to cracking, but dripping with such obvious goodwill that Chapel dismissed her, too. Next to her stood a svelte, severe brunette in a fluted black ball gown, and if the diamonds were real, a million-dollar belt. Definite donor material there, thought Chapel.
The King was approaching him, shaking hands with all the guests, looking decidedly bored. Chapel looked at the slim woman again. She was standing stiffly, her eyes locked on the King. Chapel gave her the once-over. She wore low black pumps with white toe caps. Hardly enough heel for the gown. A dot of blood graced the piping at her heel. Chapel stepped closer. It was then that he got a better look at her eyes, the unflinching stare directed at the King. It was Taleel’s gaze, the otherworldly view of a soul already departed. She was trembling. He noticed that her hands were fiddling with the belt buckle, her fingers pressing at either end.
Something small, Sarah had said. Eight inches long, four inches wide.
By then, he was moving, imagining how he would grab her-if he should throw her to the floor, or pinion her arms behind her back. It was her turn to greet the King. She took a step forward, her hands locked on the belt. But even as Chapel shoved the Marine commandant aside, there came the crash of a porcelain vase splintering on the wooden floor. As one, the guests craned their heads behind them to look. Chapel reached for the woman, rising on his tiptoes. He diverted his gaze for a second-less, even. He felt rather than saw her. A rustle of black silk, a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He heard a second crack, this one crisper, muted but distinct, like the snapping of a brittle twig. And Sarah was cradling the woman in her arms as the King ignored the two and passed down the line, as if causing women to faint was an everyday occurrence.
Everything happened very quickly then, so it was only later, when Adam Chapel was alone and his world had changed forever, that he was able to play it back and set the events in their proper order. A flurry of Secret Service agents appeared, as they so often do, as if out of thin air. Chapel tried to help, but Sarah warned him off with her eyes. The woman was dead. No head could loll at such an unnatural angle. A trickle of blood rolled from her mouth, but one of the agents dabbed it off before it could drip onto the carpet.
And then they were gone. Sarah still supporting the woman, being led with the help of five or six agents through the double doors.
The President guided the King into the dining room. The crowd followed. In a minute, the Blue Room was empty. Chapel kept expecting something else to happen, but he didn’t know what. Everyone acted as if nothing had occurred, and he realized that, of course, nothing had. No mention of the event would reach the papers. No bomb had been stolen from the Israeli arsenal. Hijira was simply one more ill-planned, ill-funded assembly of crackpots who wanted the world to conform to their demands or else! Gabriel was still out there, but as a threat, he was neutralized. The intelligence authorities knew his name, had by now dug up several photographs of him. His son was cooperating fully to assemble a complete picture of his activities. The Saudi monarchy was as stable, or unstable, as ever.