The next day the first gift arrived, a Harry Winston diamond watch. Attached to the gift-wrapped box was a handwritten note: Thank you for finding Marguerite. Eternally grateful, Zizi. The earrings from Bulgari came the following day. The double strand of Mikimoto pearls the day after that. The gold mesh bangle from Tiffany on Thursday evening, just as she was preparing to leave work. She stuck it on her right wrist and walked over to Green’s, where Oliver made a clumsy pass at her. “In another lifetime,” she said, kissing his cheek, “but not tonight. Be a love, Oliver, and walk me to the Tube.”
Evenings were the hardest on her. There were no more trips to the Surrey safe house. As far as Sarah was concerned the Surrey safe house did not exist. She found she missed them all terribly. They were a family, a loud, quarrelsome, cacophonous, loving family-the sort of family Sarah had never had. All that remained of them now was the occasional cryptic phone call from Gabriel and the light in the flat on the opposite side of the street. Yossi’s light, but soon even Yossi would be lost to her. At night, when she was alone and afraid, she sometimes wished she had told them to find someone else. And sometimes she would think of poor Julian and wonder how on earth he was going to get along without her.
THE FINAL PACKAGE arrived at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was hand-delivered by a messenger dressed in a suit and tie. Inside was a handwritten note and a single airline ticket. Sarah opened the ticket jacket and looked at the destination. Ten seconds later the telephone on her desk rang.
“Isherwood Fine Arts. This is Sarah.”
“Good afternoon, Sarah.”
It was Zizi.
“Hello, Mr. al-Bakari. How are you, sir?”
“I’ll know in a moment. Did you receive the invitation and the airline tickets?”
“I did, sir. And the earrings. And the watch. And the pearls. And the bangle.”
“The bangle is my favorite.”
“Mine, too, sir, but the gifts were completely unnecessary. As is this invitation. I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
“You insult me, Sarah.”
“It’s not my intention, sir. As much as I would love to spend a few days in the sun, I’m afraid I can’t go jetting off at a moment’s notice.”
“It’s not a moment’s notice. If you look carefully at the tickets, you see that you have three days until your departure.”
“I can’t go jetting off three days from now either. I have business to attend to here at the gallery.”
“I’m sure Julian can spare you for a few days. You just made him a great deal of money.”
“This is true.”
“So how about it, Sarah? Will you come?”
“I’m afraid the answer is no, sir.”
“You should know one thing about me, Sarah, and that is I never take no for an answer.”
“I just don’t think it would be appropriate, sir.”
“Appropriate? I think you’ve misinterpreted my motives.”
“What are your motives, sir?”
“I’d like you to come to work for me.”
“As what, sir?”
“I never discuss such matters over the phone, Sarah. Will you come?”
She allowed ten seconds to elapse before she gave him her answer.
“Brilliant,” he said. “One of my men will accompany you. He’ll collect you at your flat at eight A.M. Monday morning.”
“I’m perfectly capable of traveling alone, Mr. al-Bakari.”
“I’m sure you are, but it will be easier if one of my security men comes with you. I’ll see you Monday evening.”
And then he rang off. As Sarah replaced the receiver, she realized he hadn’t asked for her address.
GABRIEL WAS breaking down his studio at the Surrey safe house when Lavon came pounding up the stairs, holding a printout of the message that had just arrived from the neviot team in Mason’s Yard. “Zizi’s made his move,” he said, handing the printout to Gabriel. “He wants to see her right away.”
Gabriel read the message, then looked up at Lavon. “Shit,” he murmured. “We’re going to need a boat.”
THEY HAD a champagne supper to celebrate, complete with a place setting for Sarah, the one member of the team who could not join them. The next morning Lavon drove Gabriel to Heathrow Airport, and by four-thirty that afternoon he was enjoying the view of the sunset from a CIA safe flat on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Adrian Carter was wearing chinos, a cotton pullover, and penny loafers with no socks. He handed Gabriel a glass of lemonade and a photograph of a very large boat.
“She’s called Sun Dancer,” Carter said. “She’s a seventy-four-foot ocean-going luxury motor yacht. I’m sure you and your team will find her more than comfortable.”
“Where did you get it?”
“We seized it a few years ago from a Panamanian drug runner named Carlos Castillo. Mr. Castillo now resides in a federal prison in Oklahoma, and we’ve been using his boat to do the Lord’s work down here in the Caribbean.”
“How many times has it been used?”
“Five or six times by the DEA, and we’ve used it twice.”
Gabriel handed the photograph back to Carter. “It’s dirty,” he said. “Can’t you get me something with a clean provenance?”
“We’ve changed her name and registry several times. There’s no way Zizi or any of his security goons can trace it back to us.”
Gabriel sighed. “Where is it now?”
“A marina on Fisher Island,” Carter said, pointing to the south. “It’s being provisioned right now. We have a CIA crew leaving Langley tonight.”
“Nice try,” Gabriel said, “but I’ll use my own crew.”
“You?”
“We have a navy, Adrian. A very good one, in fact. I have a crew on standby in Haifa. And tell your boys to take out the listening devices. Otherwise, we’ll do it for them, and Sun Dancer won’t look very good when we give it back to you.”
“It’s already been taken care of,” Carter said. “How are you planning to get your team over here?”
“I was hoping a friend of mine from American intelligence would extend a helping hand.”
“What do you need?”
“Airlift and landing rights.”
“How quickly can your crew get from Haifa to London?”
“They can leave first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll send one of our planes to London tonight. It will collect your team and bring them back here. We’ll set it down at Homestead and dispense with passports and customs. You can put out to sea on Sunday night and rendezvous with Zizi Monday afternoon.”
“Sounds like we have ourselves a deal,” Gabriel said. “All we need now is Ahmed bin Shafiq.”
“He’ll come,” Carter said with certainty. “The only question is will your girl be there when he does?”
“She’s our girl, Adrian. Sarah belongs to all of us.”
PART THREE. The Night Journey
22.
THERE SHE IS,” Wazir bin Talal shouted above the roar of the Sikorsky’s rotor blades. He pointed out the right side of the aircraft. Alexandra, Zizi’s vast private yacht, was slicing through the waters west of the island. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s very large,” Sarah shouted back at him.
“Two hundred seventy-five feet,” said bin Talal, as though he had built it himself.
Two hundred eighty-two, Sarah thought. But who’s counting? Yossi had described it as a floating emirate. She permitted them to enter her thoughts. Her last contact had been Sunday afternoon. Eli Lavon had bumped into her in Oxford Street while she was picking up a few odds and ends for the trip. We’ll be with you the entire time, he had told her. Don’t look for us. Don’t try to make contact unless it’s a force-ten calamity. We’ll come to you. Have a nice trip.