She turned and examined her appearance in the reflection of the elevator door. She was vaguely out of focus, which she found fitting. She was still Sarah Bancroft, just a different version. A reworking of the same painting. She smoothed the front of her Chanel suit-not for Zizi, she told herself, but for Gabriel-and from below she heard the voice of the monster for the first time. “Good afternoon, Mr. Isherwood,” said the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. “I’m Abdul Aziz al-Bakari. Andrew tells me you have a picture for me.”
THE FIRST ELEVATOR dispensed only security men. Rafiq plunged into the room and groped her unabashedly with his eyes, while Sharuki peered beneath the divan for hidden weapons and Jean-Michel, the kickboxer, roamed the perimeter on the balls of his feet like a lethal ballet dancer. The next elevator brought Malone and Isherwood, who were wedged happily between Nadia and Rahimah. Zizi came on the third, with only the trusted bin Talal for company. His dark handmade suit hung gracefully over what was an otherwise paunchy physique. His beard was carefully trimmed, as was his deeply receded head of graying hair. His eyes were alert and active. They settled immediately on the one person in the room whose name he did not know.
Don’t attempt to introduce yourself, Sarah. Don’t look him directly in the eye. If there’s a move to be made, let it be Zizi who makes it.
She looked down at her shoes. The elevator doors opened again, this time disgorging Abdul amp; Abdul, Servants of the Great Wise One, and Herr Wehrli the Swiss moneyman. Sarah watched them enter, then cast a glance at Zizi, who was still staring at her.
“Forgive me, Mr. al-Bakari,” Isherwood said. “My manners are atrocious today. This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here this afternoon.”
Don’t try to shake his hand. If he offers his, take it briefly and let go.
She stood very straight, with her hands behind her back and her eyes downward at a slight angle. Zizi’s eyes were roving over her. Finally he stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She took it and heard herself say: “The pleasure is mine, Mr. al-Bakari. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
He smiled and held on to her hand a moment more than was comfortable. Then he released it suddenly and made for the painting. Sarah turned and this time was treated to a view of his back, which was soft through the shoulders and wide in the hips. “I’d like to see the painting, please,” he said to no one in particular, but Sarah was once more listening only to the voice of Gabriel. Do the presentation on Zizi’s timetable, he had said. If you force him to sit through a story, you’ll only make him angry. Remember, Zizi is the star of the show, not Marguerite.
Sarah slipped past him, careful not to brush his shoulder, then reached up and slowly removed the baize covering. She remained in front of the canvas for a moment longer, gathering up the fabric and blocking Zizi’s view, before finally stepping to one side. “May I present Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table by Vincent van Gogh,” she said formally. “Oil on canvas, of course, painted in Auvers in July 1890.”
A collective gasp rose from Zizi’s entourage, followed by an excited murmur. Only Zizi remained silent. His dark eyes were casting about the surface of the painting, his expression inscrutable. After a moment he lifted his gaze from the canvas and looked at Isherwood.
“Where did you find it?”
“I wish I could take credit for it, Mr. al-Bakari, but it was Sarah who discovered Marguerite.”
Zizi’s gaze moved to Sarah. “You?” he asked with admiration.
“Yes, Mr. al-Bakari.”
“Then I’ll ask you the same question I asked of Mr. Isherwood. Where did you find her?”
“As Julian explained to Mr. Malone, the owner wishes to remain anonymous.”
“I’m not asking for the identity of the owner, Miss Bancroft. I’d just like to know how you discovered it.”
You’ll have to give him something, Sarah. He’s entitled to it. But do it reluctantly and be discreet. A man like Zizi appreciates discretion.
“It was the result of several years of investigation on my part, Mr. al-Bakari.”
“How interesting. Tell me more, please, Miss Bancroft.”
“I’m afraid I can’t without violating my agreement with the owners, Mr. al-Bakari.”
“Owner,” said Zizi, correcting her. “According to Andrew, the painting is the property of a French woman.”
“Yes, that’s correct, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific.”
“But I’m just curious about how you found it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I love a good detective story.”
“I would love to indulge you, Mr. al-Bakari, but I’m afraid I can’t. All I can tell you is that it took me two years of searching in Paris and Auvers to find the painting and another year to convince the owner to give it up.”
“Perhaps someday, when sufficient time has elapsed, you’ll be gracious enough to share more of this fascinating story with me.”
“Perhaps, sir,” she said. “As for the authentication, we have determined the work is unquestionably Vincent’s and, of course, we are prepared to stand behind that authentication.”
“I’d be happy to examine the reports of your authenticators, Miss Bancroft, but quite frankly I don’t need to see them. You see, it’s quite obvious to me that this painting is truly the work of van Gogh.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come here,” he said paternally. “Let me show you something.”
Sarah took a step closer to the canvas. Zizi pointed to the upper right corner.
“Do you see that slight mark on the surface? If I’m not mistaken, that’s Vincent’s thumbprint. You see, Vincent was notoriously cavalier in the way he handled his work. When he finished this one, he probably picked it up by the corner and carried it through the streets of Auvers to his room above Café Ravoux. At any given time there were dozens of paintings in his room there. He used to lean them against the wall, one atop the next. He was working so quickly that the previous paintings were never quite dry when he laid the new ones on top. If you look carefully at this one, you can see the crosshatched impression of canvas on the surface of the paint.”
His hand was still resting on her shoulder. “Very impressive, Mr. al-Bakari. But I’m not surprised, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”
“I learned a long time ago that a man in my position cannot rely on the promises of others. He must be constantly on guard against deceptive schemes and clever forgeries. I’m quite confident no one could ever slip a forgery past me, in business or in art.”
“One would be foolish even to try, Mr. al-Bakari.”
Zizi looked at Isherwood. “You have quite a knack for finding undiscovered work. Didn’t I read something the other day about a Rubens of yours?”
“You did, sir.”
“And now a van Gogh.” Zizi’s gaze moved back to the painting. “Andrew tells me you have a price in mind.”
“We do, Mr. al-Bakari. We think it’s quite reasonable.”
“So do I.” He looked over his shoulder at Herr Wehrli, the banker. “Do you think you can find eighty-five million somewhere in the accounts, Manfred?”
“I think it’s quite possible, Zizi.”
“Then we have a deal, Mr. Isherwood.” He looked at Sarah and said, “I’ll take her.”
AT 4:53 the neviot team sent word to Gabriel that the proceedings had moved to the lower offices and that Isherwood was now in discussions with Herr Wehrli and Abdul amp; Abdul over matters of payment and transfer of custody. Said discussions lasted slightly more than an hour, and at 6:05 came the flash that Mr. Baker and his party were traipsing across the darkened yard toward the motorcade parked in Duke Street. Eli Lavon handled the pursuit. For a few minutes it seemed the mansion in Mayfair was their destination, but by 6:15 it was clear that Mr. Baker and party were headed back to Heathrow and destinations unknown. Gabriel ordered Lavon to break off the chase. He didn’t care where Mr. Baker was going now. He knew they would all meet again soon.