Late on Sunday evening Malone phoned with the disappointing news that Zizi was taking a pass. Gabriel was not the least bit concerned, because that very afternoon the neviot team stationed in Archer Travel had seen a well-dressed Arab in his mid-thirties making an obvious reconnaissance run of Mason’s Yard. Lavon, after viewing the surveillance photographs, identified the man as Jafar Sharuki, a former Saudi national guardsman who served as one of Zizi’s advance security men. “He’s coming,” Lavon said. “Zizi always likes to play hard to get.”
The call they were all expecting came at precisely 10:22 the following morning. It was Andrew Malone, and even though they could not see him, they knew the cadaver was all smiles. Zizi was on his way to London, he said. Zizi would be at Isherwood’s gallery at 4:30. “Zizi has a few rules,” Malone said before ringing off. “No alcohol or cigarettes. And make sure those two girls of yours are properly dressed. Zizi likes pretty girls, but he likes them modestly attired. He’s a religious man, our Zizi. He’s easily offended.”
20.
MARGUERITE GACHET WAS THE first to arrive. She came in the back of an unmarked van, driven by a bodel from London Station, and was secreted into the premises of Isherwood Fine Arts through the secure loading bay. The delivery was monitored by two men from Wazir bin Talal’s security unit, who were seated in a parked car in Duke Street, and by Jafar Sharuki, the advance man, who was picking at a plate of fish and chips in the pub next door to Isherwood’s gallery. Confirmation of the painting’s safe transfer arrived at the Surrey safe house at 3:18 P.M. in the form of a secure e-mail from the neviot team. It was taken in by Dina, then read aloud to Gabriel, who was at that moment slowly pacing the threadbare carpet in the drawing room. He paused for a moment and tipped his head, as though listening to distant music, then resumed his restless journey.
He felt as helpless as a playwright on opening night. He had created the characters, given them their lines, and could see them now on a stage of his making. He could see Isherwood in his chalk-stripe suit and lucky red tie, craving a drink and nibbling on the nail of his left forefinger to relieve the tension. And Chiara seated behind her glossy new receptionist’s desk, with her hair drawn sensibly back and her long legs crossed primly at the ankle. And Sarah, in the black Chanel suit she’d bought at Harrods two weeks earlier, propped serenely on the divan in the upstairs exhibition room, with her eyes on Marguerite Gachet and her thoughts on the monster who would be coming up the lift in two hours’ time. If he could have rewritten anyone’s role, it would have been Sarah’s. It was too late for that now. The curtain was about to rise.
And so all the playwright could do now was pace the drawing room of his safe house and wait for the updates. At 3:04 Mr. Baker’s 747 was seen on low approach to Heathrow Airport, Mr. Baker being their code name for Zizi al-Bakari. At 3:32 came word that Mr. Baker and his entourage had cleared VIP customs. At 3:45 they were seen boarding their limousines, and at 3:52 those same limousines were seen trying to set a land-speed record on the A4. At 4:09 Mr. Baker’s artistic adviser, whom they code-named Marlowe, telephoned Isherwood from the motorcade to say they were running a few minutes behind schedule. That turned out not to be the case, however, because at 4:27 the same motorcade was spotted turning into Duke Street from Piccadilly.
There then followed the first stumble of the afternoon. Thankfully it was Zizi’s and not theirs. It came as the first limousine was attempting to negotiate the narrow passageway from Duke Street into Mason’s Yard. A moment into the exercise the driver determined that the cars were too large to fit through the breach. Sharuki, the advance man, had neglected to take a proper measurement. And so the final message that Gabriel received from the neviot team stated that Mr. Baker, chairman and CEO of Jihad Inc., was getting out of his car and walking to the gallery.
BUT SARAH was not waiting in the upstairs exhibition room. She was at that moment one floor below, in the office she shared with Julian, gazing out at the rather farcical scene taking place in the passageway. It was her first act of rebellion. Gabriel had wanted her to remain upstairs, hidden from view until the final moment, so that she could be unveiled along with Marguerite. She would obey his order eventually, but not until she saw Zizi once with her own eyes. She had studied his face in Yossi’s magazine clippings and had memorized the sound of his voice in the videos. But clippings and videos were no substitute for a glimpse of the real thing. And so she stood there, in blatant contravention of Gabriel’s instructions, and watched as Zizi and his entourage came filing through the passage into the darkened quadrangle.
Rafiq al-Kamal, chief of Zizi’s personal security detail, came first. He was bigger than he had appeared in the photographs, but moved with the agility of a man half his size. He had no overcoat, because an overcoat would interfere with his draw. He had no conscience either, Eli Lavon had told her. He made one quick survey of the yard, like a scout looking for signs of the enemy, then turned and with an old-fashioned hand signal beckoned the others forward.
Next came two very pretty girls with long black hair and long coats, looking peeved for having to walk the one hundred feet from the stranded cars to the gallery. The one on the right was Nadia al-Bakari, Zizi’s spoiled daughter. The one on the left was Rahimah Hamza, daughter of Daoud Hamza, the Stanford-educated Lebanese reputed to be the true financial genius behind AAB Holdings. Hamza himself was trailing a few paces behind the girls with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.
After Hamza came Herr Manfred Wehrli, the Swiss banker who handled Zizi’s money. Next to Wehrli was a child with no apparent owner, and behind the child two more beautiful women, one blond, the other with short hair the color of sandstone. When the child bolted suddenly across the yard in the wrong direction, he was snared in a pantherlike movement by Jean-Michel, the French kickboxer who now served as Zizi’s personal trainer and auxiliary bodyguard.
Abdul-Jalil and Abdul-Hakim, the American-trained lawyers, came next. Yossi had broken up one of the briefings by contemptuously pointing out that Zizi had chosen lawyers whose names meant Servant of the Great and Servant of the Wise One. After the lawyers came Mansur, chief of Zizi’s travel department, then Hassan, chief of communications, then Andrew Malone, Zizi’s soon-to-be-former exclusive art consultant. And finally, sandwiched between Wazir bin Talal and Jafar Sharuki, was Zizi himself.
Sarah turned away from the window. Under Chiara’s watchful gaze, she entered the tiny lift and pressed the button for the top floor. A moment later she was deposited into the upper exhibition room. In the center of the room, propped on a stately easel and veiled like a Muslim woman, was the van Gogh. From below she could hear Rafiq the bodyguard tramping heavily up the stairs.
You’re not to think of him as a terrorist, Gabriel had said. You’re not to wonder whether any of his money ended up in the pocket of Marwan al-Shehhi or any of the other terrorists who murdered Ben. You’re to think of him as an extraordinarily wealthy and important man. Don’t flirt with him. Don’t try to seduce him. Think of it as a job interview. You’re not going to bed with him. You’re going to work for him. And whatever you do, don’t try to give Zizi any advice. You’ll ruin the sale. Both of them.