“And what if the generous benefactors of this unholy system are also filling the coffers of the people who fly airplanes into our buildings? What if these friends of ours are up to their necks in terror? What if they’re willing to make any deal with the devil necessary to ensure their survival, even if it leads to dead Americans?”
“You shake their hands and smile,” said Cantwell. “And you think of the terrorism as an inconvenient surcharge on your next tank of gas. You still driving that old Volvo of yours?”
Cantwell knew exactly what Carter drove. Their assigned spaces were next to each other in the west parking lot. “I can’t afford a new car,” Carter said. “Not with three kids in college.”
“Maybe you should sign up for the Saudi retirement plan. I see a lucrative consulting contract in your future.”
“Not my style, Shep.”
“So what about those rumors? Any truth to them?”
“None at all.”
“Glad to hear it,” Cantwell said. “I’ll be sure to set everyone straight. Night, Adrian.”
“Night, Shep.”
Carter went downstairs. The executive parking lot was nearly empty of other cars. He climbed into his Volvo and headed toward Northwest Washington, following the route he and Gabriel had taken eight weeks earlier. As he passed Zizi al-Bakari’s estate, he slowed and peered through the bars of the gate, toward the hideous faux-chateau mansion perched on the cliff overlooking the river. Don’t touch her, Carter thought savagely. Harm one hair on her head, and I’ll kill you myself. As he headed over Chain Bridge, he glanced down at his dash. A warning light was glowing red. How appropriate, he thought. His gas tank was nearly empty.
AT THAT same moment, Sun Dancer was rounding Grande Pointe and returning to the anchorage off Gustavia. Gabriel stood alone in the prow, field glasses pressed to his eyes, gazing at the afterdeck of Alexandra, where the ship’s crew were serving a hastily prepared dinner for thirty. Gabriel saw them as figures in a painting. The Boating Party, he thought. Or was it The Last Supper?
There was Zizi, seated regally at the head of the table, as though the events of the evening had been a welcome diversion from the monotony of an otherwise ordinary journey. At his left hand sat his beautiful daughter, Nadia. At his right hand, stabbing at his food without appetite, was his trusted second in command, Daoud Hamza. Farther down the table were the lawyers, Abdul amp; Abdul, and Herr Wehrli, minder of Zizi’s money. There was Mansur, maker of travel arrangements, and Hassan, chief of communications, secure and otherwise. There was Jean-Michel, tender of Zizi’s fitness and supplementary security man, and his sullen wife, Monique. There was Rahimah Hamza and her lover, Hamid, the beautiful Egyptian film star. There was a quartet of anxious-looking bodyguards and several attractive women with guiltless faces. And then, seated at the far end of the table, as far from Zizi as possible, there was a beautiful woman in saffron silk. She provided the balance to the composition. She was innocence to Zizi’s evil. And Gabriel could see that she was frightened to death. Gabriel knew he was witnessing a performance. But for whose benefit was it being staged? His or Sarah’s?
At midnight the figures in his painting stood and bade each other goodnight. Sarah disappeared through a passageway and was lost to him once more. Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and Wazir bin Talal entered Zizi’s office. Gabriel saw it as a new painting: Meeting of Three Evil Men, artist unknown.
Five minutes later Hassan rushed into the office and handed Zizi a mobile telephone. Who was calling? Was it one of Zizi’s brokers asking for instructions on what position to take at the opening of trading in London? Or was it Ahmed bin Shafiq, murderer of innocents, telling Zizi what to do with Gabriel’s girl?
Zizi accepted the phone and with a wave of his hand banished Hassan from the office. Wazir bin Talal, chief of security, walked over to the windows and drew the blinds.
SHE LOCKED the door and switched on every light in the room. She turned on the satellite television system and changed the channel to CNN. German police battling protesters in the streets. More proof, said a breathless reporter, of America ’s failure in Iraq.
She went out onto the deck and sat down. The yacht she had watched leaving the harbor that afternoon had now returned. Was it Gabriel’s yacht? Was bin Shafiq alive or dead? Was Gabriel alive or dead? She knew only that something had gone wrong. These things happen from time to time, Zizi had said. It’s why we take matters of security so seriously.
She gazed at the yacht, looking for signs of movement on the deck, but it was too far off to see anything. We’re here with you, Sarah. All of us. The wind rose. She wrapped her arms around her legs and drew her knees to her chin.
I hope you’re all still there, she thought. And please get me off this boat before they kill me.
AT SOME POINT, she did not remember when, the cold had driven her inside to her bed. She woke to a gray dawn and the patter of a gentle rain on her sundeck. The television was still on; the president had arrived in Paris, and the place de la Concorde was a sea of protesters. She picked up the telephone and ordered coffee. It was delivered five minutes later. Everything was the same except for the handwritten note, which was folded in half and leaning against her basket of brioche. The note was from Zizi. I have a job for you, Sarah. Pack your bags and be ready to leave by nine. We’ll talk before you leave. She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it to the door of the sundeck. It was then she noticed that Alexandra was under way and that they had left Saint Bart’s. She looked again at Zizi’s note. It didn’t say where she was going.
29.
SARAH PRESENTED HERSELF ON the aft deck promptly at nine o’clock. It was raining heavily now; the clouds were low and dark, and a strong wind was playing havoc with the sea. Zizi was wearing a pale marine raincoat and dark sunglasses despite the gray weather. Bin Talal stood next to him, dressed in a tropical-weight blazer to conceal his sidearm.
“Never a dull moment,” Sarah said as amiably as possible. “First a bomb threat, then a note with my breakfast telling me to pack my bags.” She looked toward the helipad and saw Zizi’s pilot climbing behind the controls of the Sikorsky. “Where am I going?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Zizi said, taking her by the arm.
“You’re coming with me?”
“Only as far as Saint Maarten.” He pulled her toward the stairs that led to the helipad. “There’s a private jet for you there.”
“Where’s the private jet going?”
“It’s taking you to see a painting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“Where’s it going, Zizi?”
He stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at her, his eyes concealed behind the dark glass.
“Is something bothering you, Sarah? You seem tense.”
“I just don’t like getting on airplanes when I don’t know where they’re going.”
Zizi smiled and started to tell her, but his words were drowned out by the engine of the Sikorsky.
GABRIEL WAS STANDING in the prow of Sun Dancer when the helicopter lifted off. He watched for a moment, then rushed up to the bridge, where a navy lieutenant was at the helm.
“They’re moving her to Saint Maarten. How far are we from shore?”
“About five miles.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”