By then it was usually ten o’clock, which meant that Zizi and Jean-Michel were finished working out and the gym was now free to other staff and guests. The rest of them were a sedentary lot; Sarah’s only company each morning was Herr Wehrli, who would torment himself on the elliptical machine for a few minutes before retiring to the sauna for a proper Swiss sweat. Sarah would run thirty minutes on the treadmill, then row for thirty more. She had been on the Dartmouth crew, and within a few days began to see definition in her shoulders and back that hadn’t been there since Ben’s death.
After her workout Sarah would join the other women on the foredeck for a bit of sun before lunch. Nadia and Rahimah remained distant, but the wives gradually warmed to her, especially Frau Wehrli and Jihan, the fair-haired young Jordanian wife of Hassan, Zizi’s communications specialist. Monique, Jean-Michel’s wife, spoke rarely to her. Twice Sarah peered over the top of her paperback novel and saw Monique glaring at her, as though she were plotting to shove Sarah over the rail when no one else was looking.
Lunch was always a slow, lengthy affair. Afterward the ship’s crew would bring Alexandra to a stop for what Zizi referred to as the afternoon jet-ski derby. For the first two days Sarah remained safely on the deck, watching while Zizi and his executives leaped and plunged through the swells. On the third day he convinced her to take part and personally gave her a lesson in how to operate her craft. She sped away from Alexandra’s stern, then killed the engine and gazed for a long time at the pinprick of white on the horizon behind them. She must have strayed too far, because a few moments later Jean-Michel came alongside her and gestured for her to return to the mother ship. “One hundred meters is the boundary,” he said. “Zizi’s rules.”
His day was rigorously scheduled. A light breakfast in his room. Phone calls. Exercise with Jean-Michel in the gym. A late-morning meeting with staff. Lunch. The jet-ski derby. Another meeting with staff that usually lasted until dinner. Then, after dinner, phone calls late into the night. On the second day the helicopter departed Alexandra at ten in the morning and returned an hour later with a delegation of six men. Sarah examined their faces as they filed into Zizi’s conference room and concluded that none of them was Ahmed bin Shafiq. Later, an Abdul volunteered three of their names, which Sarah stored in her memory for later retrieval. That afternoon she encountered Zizi alone in one of the lounges and asked him whether they could discuss his job offer.
“What’s the rush, Sarah? Relax. Enjoy yourself. We’ll talk when the time is right.”
“I have to be getting back to London, Zizi.”
“To Julian Isherwood? How can you go back to Julian after this?”
“I can’t stay forever.”
“Of course you can.”
“Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “One of our little traditions. As honorary captain, I get to pick our destination. I keep it secret from the others. We’re planning to make a call tomorrow at Grand Turk. You can go ashore if you like and do a bit of shopping.”
Just then Hassan appeared, handed Zizi a phone, and murmured something in Arabic into his ear that Sarah couldn’t understand. “Will you excuse me, Sarah? I have to take this.” And with that he disappeared into his conference room and closed the door.
She woke the following morning to the sensation of utter stillness. Instead of lingering in bed, she rose immediately and went out onto the sundeck and saw that they had anchored off Cockburn Town, the capital of Turks and Caicos. She had breakfast in her room, checked in with Chiara in London, then made arrangements with the crew for a shore craft to take her into town. At eleven-thirty she went astern and found Jean-Michel waiting for her, dressed in a black pullover and white Bermuda shorts.
“I volunteered to be your escort,” he said.
“I don’t need an escort.”
“No one goes ashore without security, especially the girls. Zizi’s rules.”
“Is your wife coming?”
“Unfortunately, Monique is not well this morning. It seems dinner didn’t agree with her.”
They rode into the harbor in silence. Jean-Michel docked the boat expertly, then followed her along a waterfront shopping street while she ran her errands. In one boutique she selected two sundresses and a new bikini. In another she bought a pair of sandals, a beach bag, and a pair of sunglasses to replace the pair she’d lost in the previous day’s jet-ski derby. Then it was over to the pharmacy for shampoo and body lotion and a loofah to remove the peeling skin from her sunburned shoulders. Jean-Michel insisted on paying for everything with one of Zizi’s credit cards. On the way back to the boat, Rimona walked past, hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses and a floppy straw hat. And in a tiny bar overlooking the harbor, she noticed a familiar-looking man with a white bucket hat and sunglasses, peering mournfully into a drink with a festive umbrella. Only when she was back aboard Alexandra did she realize it had been Gabriel.
When she telephoned London the next day, Julian came briefly on the line and asked when she was planning to return. Two days later he did so again, but this time his voice contained an audible note of agitation. Late that afternoon Zizi rang Sarah’s room. “Would you come up to my office? I think it’s time we talked.” He hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.
SHE DRESSED as professionally as possible: white Capri pants, a yellow blouse that covered her arms, a pair of flat-soled sandals. She considered putting on a bit of makeup but decided she could make no improvements to what a week in the Caribbean sun had already accomplished. Ten minutes after receiving the summons, she left her suite and headed upstairs to Zizi’s office. He was seated at the conference table along with Daoud Hamza, Abdul amp; Abdul, and Herr Wehrli. They rose in unison as Sarah was shown into the room, then gathered up their papers and filed wordlessly out. Zizi gestured for Sarah to sit. At the opposite end of the room, Al Jazeera flickered silently on a large flat-panel television: Israeli troops destroying the home of a Hamas suicide bomber while his mother and father wept for the cameras. Zizi’s gaze lingered on the screen a moment before turning toward Sarah.
“I’ve invested tens of millions of dollars in the Palestinian territories, and I’ve given them millions more in charitable donations. And now the Israelis are tearing it to shreds while the world stands by and does nothing.”
Where was the world’s condemnation yesterday, Sarah thought, when twenty-two charred and broken bodies lay scattered along a Tel Aviv street? She looked down at her hands, at Zizi’s gold bangle and Zizi’s Harry Winston watch, and said nothing.
“But let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Zizi said.
“Please, let’s.” She looked up and smiled. “You’d like to make me an extravagant offer to come work for you.”
“I would?”
“Yes, you would.”
Zizi returned her smile. “We have an opening in our art department.” His smile faded. “An unexpected opening, but an opening nonetheless. I’d like you to fill it.”
“Your art department?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s how we refer to the various divisions of the operation. Hassan is chief of the communications department. Mansur’s department is travel. Herr Wehrli is banking. Mr. bin Talal is-”