“How do you like to wear your hair, Sarah?”
“Down, mostly.”
“You have very nice cheekbones. A very graceful neck. You should think about wearing your hair up from time to time. Like Marguerite.”
But not tonight. When she was satisfied with her appearance she went into the bedroom and opened the closet door. Lying on one of the shelves was a gift-wrapped box. She removed the paper and lifted the lid. Inside was an ivory-colored crushed-silk pantsuit and silk camisole. It fit her perfectly, just like everything else. She added the Harry Winston watch, the Bulgari earrings, the Mikimoto pearls, and the Tiffany bracelet. At five minutes to nine she left the room and made her way to the afterdeck. Try to forget we even exist. Be Sarah Bancroft, and nothing can go wrong.
ZIZI GREETED her lavishly.
“Sarah! So lovely to see you again. Everyone, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is everyone. There are too many names for you to remember at once, unless you’re one of those people who’s extremely good with names. I suggest we do it slowly. Please sit down, Sarah. You’ve had a very long day. You must be famished.”
He settled her near the end of the long table and went to his own place at the opposite end. An Abdul was seated to her right and Herr Wehrli the banker to her left. Across from her was Mansur, the chief of the travel department, and Herr Wehrli’s skittish wife, who seemed to find the entire spectacle appalling. Next to Frau Wehrli sat Jean-Michel, the personal trainer. His long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he was gazing at Sarah with unabashed interest, much to the distress of his wife, Monique. Farther along the table sat Rahimah and her beautiful boyfriend, Hamid, who was an Egyptian film star of some sort. Nadia sat proprietarily next to her father. Several times during the long meal, Sarah cast her eyes in Zizi’s direction only to find Nadia glaring back at her. Nadia, she suspected, was going to be as much of a problem as bin Talal.
Zizi, after reliably establishing that Sarah did not speak Arabic, decreed that the languages of the night were French and English. Their conversation was frighteningly banal. They talked of clothing and films, restaurants that Zizi liked to commandeer and a hotel in Nice that he was thinking about buying. The war, terrorism, the plight of the Palestinians, the American president-none of these seemed to exist. Indeed, nothing seemed to exist beyond the rails of Alexandra or the boundaries of Zizi’s empire. Zizi, sensing that Sarah was being left out, asked her once again to explain how she had found the van Gogh. When she refused to rise to his baiting, he smiled wolfishly and said, “One day I’ll get it out of you.” And Sarah, for the first time, felt a sickening rush of complete terror.
During the dessert course he rose from his place and pulled a chair alongside hers. He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, and the tops of his pudgy cheeks were colored red from the sun.
“I trust you found the food to your liking.”
“It was delicious. You must have been cooking all afternoon.”
“Not me,” he said modestly. “My chefs.”
“You have more than one?”
“Three, actually. We have a crew and staff of forty. They work exclusively for me, regardless of whether Alexandra is at sea or waiting in port. You’ll get to know them during our trip. If you need something, don’t hesitate to ask. I take it your accommodations are satisfactory?”
“More than satisfactory, Mr. al-Bakari.”
“Zizi,” he reminded her. He toyed with a strand of ebony prayer beads. “Mr. bin Talal told me you were upset by some of our rules and security procedures.”
“Perhaps taken by surprise would be a better description. I wish you would have told me in advance. I would have packed lighter.”
“Mr. bin Talal can be somewhat fanatical in his devotion to my security. I apologize for his behavior. That said, Sarah, when one enters the world of AAB Holdings, one has to adhere to certain rules-for the safety of everyone.” He flicked his wrist, and wrapped his prayer beads around the first two fingers of his right hand. “Did you have a chance to think about my offer?”
“I still don’t know what it is.”
“But you are interested. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Let’s just say I’m intrigued, and I’m willing to discuss the matter further.”
“You are a shrewd businesswoman, Sarah. I admire that. Enjoy the sun and the sea. We’ll talk in a few days when you’ve had a chance to relax.”
“A few days? I have to get back to London.”
“Julian Isherwood got along without you for many years, Sarah. Something tells me he’ll survive while you take a much deserved vacation with us.”
And with that he went back to his own end of the table and sat down next to Nadia. “Welcome to the family,” said Herr Wehrli. “He likes you very much. When you negotiate your salary, be unreasonable. He’ll pay whatever you want.”
DINNER THAT EVENING aboard Sun Dancer had been far less extravagant and the conversation far more animated. They did not avoid topics such as war and terrorism. Indeed they embraced them wholeheartedly and argued about them long past midnight. At the end of the evening there was another quarrel, this one about whose night it was to do the dishes. Dina and Rimona claimed exemption on the grounds that they had performed the task the last night in Surrey. Gabriel, in one of his few command decisions of the day, inflicted the task on the new boys: Oded and Mordecai, two experienced all-purpose fieldhands, and Mikhail, a gunman on loan to the Office from the Sayeret Matkal. He was a Russian-born Jew with bloodless skin and eyes the color of glacial ice. “A younger version of you,” Yaakov had said. “Good with a gun, but no conscience. He practically took down the command structure of Hamas by himself.”
Their accommodations lacked the grandeur of Alexandra’s, and no one was granted the privilege of private quarters. Gabriel and Lavon, veterans of manhunts past, bunked together in the prow. Lavon was used to Gabriel’s erratic operational sleeping habits and was not surprised the following morning when he woke before dawn to find Gabriel’s bed unoccupied. He climbed out of his bunk and went up to the deck. Gabriel was standing at the prow, coffee in hand, his gaze fixed on the smudge of light on the distant horizon. Lavon went back to his bunk and slept two more hours. When he returned to the deck, Gabriel was standing in the exact same spot, staring out at the empty sea.
23.
HER DAYS QUICKLY ACQUIRED SHAPE.
She would rise early each morning and linger in a drowsy half-sleep in the enormous bed, listening to Alexandra slowly stirring to life around her. Then, usually around seven-thirty, she would ring the steward and order her morning coffee and brioche, which would come on a tray, always with a fresh flower, five minutes later. If there was no rain she would take her breakfast in the shade of her starboard-facing private sundeck. Alexandra was on a southeasterly heading, steaming without haste toward an unnamed destination, and usually Sarah could just make out the low, flat islands of the Bahamian chain in the distance. Zizi’s suite was one level above her. Some mornings she could hear him on the telephone, closing the day’s first deals.
After breakfast she would place two calls to London on the shipboard system. First she would dial her apartment in Chelsea and, invariably, would find two or three ersatz voice messages left by the Office. Then she would call the gallery and speak to Chiara. Her soft, Italian-accented English was like a lifeline. Sarah would pose questions about pending deals; Chiara would then read Sarah’s telephone messages. Contained in the seemingly benign patter was vital information: Sarah telling Chiara that she was safe and that there was no sign of Ahmed bin Shafiq; Chiara telling Sarah that Gabriel and the others were close by and that she was not alone. Hanging up on Chiara was the hardest part of Sarah’s day.