She tried to answer him but was gasping for breath.
“My-name-is-Sarah.”
“Then Sarah it will be.”
“Why-are-you-doing-this-to-me?”
“Come, come, Sarah.”
“Please-let-me-go!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
She was doubled forward now, with her head between her knees. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upright, then lifted the veil and examined the damage to her face. From his expression it was unclear whether he thought they had been too hard on her or too lenient. She gazed back at him. Leather trench coat, cashmere scarf, small round spectacles with tortoiseshell rims: the very picture of a successful Zurich moneyman. His dark eyes radiated a calculating intelligence. His expression was identical to the one he had worn the moment of their first meeting.
“Who are you working for?” he asked benevolently.
“I work”-she coughed violently-“for Zizi.”
“Breathe, Sarah. Take long slow breaths.”
“Don’t-hit-me-anymore.”
“I won’t,” he said. “But you have to tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“I want to know who you’re working for.”
“I told you-I work for Zizi.”
His face betrayed mild disappointment. “Please, Sarah. Don’t make this difficult. Just answer my questions. Tell me the truth, and this entire disagreeable episode will be over.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Unfortunately, this is true,” he said, as though agreeing with her assessment of the weather. “But if you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be spared the knife, and your death will be as painless as possible. If you persist in these lies, your last hours on earth will be a living hell.”
His cruelty is limitless, she thought. He speaks of my beheading but doesn’t have the decency to look away.
“I’m not lying,” she said.
“You’ll talk, Sarah. Everyone talks. There’s no use trying to resist. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s-”
“I want to know who you’re working for, Sarah.”
“I work for Zizi.”
“I want to know who sent you.”
“Zizi came for me. He sent me jewels and flowers. He sent me airline tickets and bought me clothing.”
“I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline.”
“I don’t-”
“I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean.”
“What man?”
“I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party.”
“How would I know her name?”
“I want to know why you were watching me at my party. And why you suddenly decided to pin your hair up. And why you were wearing your hair up when you went jogging with Jean-Michel.”
She was weeping uncontrollably now. “This is madness!”
“I want to know the names of the three men who followed me on motorcycles later that day. I want to know the names of the two men who came to my villa to kill me. And the name of the man who watched my plane take off.”
“I’m telling you the truth! My name is Sarah Bancroft. I worked at an art gallery in London. I sold Zizi a painting, and he asked me to come to work for him.”
“The van Gogh?”
“Yes!”
“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table?”
“Yes, you bastard.”
“And where did you obtain this painting? Was it acquired on your behalf by your intelligence service?”
“I don’t work for an intelligence service. I work for Zizi.”
“You’re working for the Americans?”
“No.”
“For the Jews?”
“No!”
He exhaled heavily, then removed his spectacles and spent a long moment contemplatively polishing them on his cashmere scarf. “You should know that shortly after your departure from Saint Maarten, four men arrived at the airport and boarded a private plane. We recognized them. We assume they are headed here to Zurich. They’re Jews, aren’t they, Sarah?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Trust me, Sarah. They’re Jews. One can always tell.”
He examined his spectacles and polished some more. “You should also know that colleagues of these Jews clumsily attempted to follow you tonight after you landed at the airport. Our driver easily dispensed with them. You see, we’re professionals, too. They’re gone now, Sarah. And you’re all alone.”
He put on his spectacles again.
“Do you think the so-called professionals for whom you’re working would be willing to sacrifice their lives for you? They’d be vomiting their secrets all over the floor to me by now. But you’re better than them, aren’t you, Sarah? Zizi saw that, too. That’s why he made the mistake of hiring you.”
“It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the one making a mistake.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m leaving you now in the hands of my friend Muhammad. He worked for me in Group 205. Is this name familiar to you, Sarah? Group 205? Surely your handlers must have mentioned it to you during your preparation.”
“I’ve never heard it before.”
“Muhammad is a professional. He’s also a very skilled interrogator. You and Muhammad are going to take a journey together. A night journey. Do you know this term, Sarah? The Night Journey.”
Greeted only by the sound of her weeping, he answered his own question.
“It was during the Night Journey that God revealed Quran to the Prophet. Tonight you’re going to make a revelation of your own. Tonight you’re going to tell my friend Muhammad who you’re working for and everything they know about my network. If you tell him quickly, you will be granted a degree of mercy. If you continue with these lies, Muhammad will carve the flesh from your bones and cut off your head. Do you understand me?”
Her stomach convulsed with nausea. Bin Shafiq appeared to be taking pleasure from her fear.
“Do you realize you’ve been looking at my arm? Did they tell you about my scar? My damaged hand?” Another weary smile. “You’ve been betrayed, Sarah-betrayed by your handlers.”
He opened the door and climbed out, then ducked down and looked at her one more time.
“By the way, you very nearly succeeded. If your friends had managed to kill me on that island, a major operation of ours would have been disrupted.”
“I thought you worked for Zizi in Montreal.”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” He wound his scarf tightly around his throat. “Muhammad won’t find your little lies so amusing, Sarah. Something tells me you’re going to have a long and painful night together.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she asked: “What operation?”
“Operation? Me? I’m only an investment banker.”
She asked him again. “What’s the operation? Where are you going to strike?”
“Speak my real name, and I tell you.”
“Your name is Alain al-Nasser.”
“No, Sarah. Not my cover name. My real name. Say it. Confess your sins, Sarah, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
She began to shake uncontrollably. She tried to form the words but could not summon the courage.
“Say it!” he shouted at her. “Say my name, you bitch.”
She lifted her head and looked him directly in the eyes.
“Your-name-is-Ahmed-bin-Shafiq!”
His head snapped back, as if he were avoiding a blow. Then he smiled at her in admiration.
“You’re a very brave woman.”
“And you’re a murderous coward.”
“I should kill you myself.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do.”
He hesitated a moment, then treated her to an arrogant smile. “Suffice it to say we have some unfinished business at the Vatican. The crimes of Christianity and the Western world against Muslims will soon be avenged once and for all. But you won’t be alive to see this glorious act. You’ll be dead by then. Tell Muhammad what you know, Sarah. Make your last hours on earth easy ones.”