“What do you expect? He’s a Jew.”

“How can you tell?”

“Trust me, I can tell. Never talk to strangers, Sarah. Especially Jews.”

SARAH WAS in her cabin dressing for dinner when she heard the whine of the Sikorsky’s engine. She fastened the pearls around her neck and hurried up to the afterdeck, where she found Zizi seated on a couch in the cool evening air, dressed in a pair of fashionably cut faded blue jeans and a white pullover. “We’re going to the island for dinner tonight,” he said. “Nadia and I are taking the last helicopter. You’ll come with us.”

They boarded the Sikorsky twenty minutes later. As they floated over the harbor, the lights of Gustavia glowed softly against the gathering darkness. They passed over the ridge of steep hills behind the port and descended toward the airfield, where the others were waiting at the end of the tarmac, clustered around a convoy of gleaming black Toyota Land Cruisers.

With Zizi safely in place, the convoy set out toward the airport exit. On the opposite side of the road, in the parking lot of the island’s main shopping center, Sarah briefly glimpsed Yossi and Rimona sitting astride a motor scooter. She leaned forward and looked over at Zizi, who was seated next to his daughter.

“Where are we going?”

“We’ve commandeered a restaurant in Gustavia for dinner. But first we’re going to a villa on the other side of the island for drinks.”

“Have you commandeered the villa, too?”

Zizi laughed. “Actually it’s being rented by a business associate of ours.”

A cell phone shrieked. It was answered on the first ring by Hassan, who handed it to Zizi after ascertaining the identity of the caller. Sarah looked out her window. They were speeding now along the Baie de Saint-Jean. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the headlights of the last Land Cruiser trailing close behind them. An image formed in her mind: Yossi at the helm of his scooter, with Rimona clinging to his waist. She dropped the image into an imaginary shredder and made it go away.

The convoy slowed suddenly as they entered the busy little beach town of Saint-Jean. There were shops and restaurants on both sides of the narrow road and sunburned pedestrians weaving haphazardly through the sluggish traffic. Jean-Michel swore softly as a man and a woman on a motorbike squirted past through a narrow opening in the traffic jam.

On the other side of the village the traffic thinned suddenly, and the road climbed the cliffs along the edge of the bay. They rounded a hairpin turn and for an instant the sea lay below them, mercury-colored in the light of the newly risen moon. The next town was Lorient, less glamorous than Saint-Jean and far less crowded: a tidy shopping center, a shuttered gas station, a beauty salon that served local women, a burger stand that catered to shirtless boys who rode motorcycles. Seated alone at a chrome-topped table, dressed in khaki shorts and sandals, was Gabriel.

Zizi closed his cell phone with a loud snap and handed it over his shoulder without looking to Hassan. Nadia was holding a strand of her own hair and inspecting the ends for damage. “There’s a decent nightclub in Gustavia,” she said absently. “Maybe we can go dancing after dinner.” Sarah made no reply and looked out the window again. They passed a cemetery with aboveground gravesites and started up a steep hill. Jean-Michel down-shifted and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Halfway up the grade the road bent sharply to the left. As the Land Cruiser swerved, Sarah was thrust against Nadia’s body. Her bare skin felt feverish from the sun.

A moment later they were heading onto a narrow windswept point. Near the end of the point the convoy slowed suddenly and turned through a security gate, into the forecourt of a large white villa ablaze with light. Sarah glanced over her shoulder as the iron gate began to close automatically. A motor scooter sped past, ridden by a man with khaki shorts and sandals, then disappeared. The door of the Land Cruiser opened. Sarah climbed out.

HE STOOD in the entranceway, next to a fair-haired woman of early middle age, and greeted each member of Zizi’s large entourage as they came filing up the flagstone steps. He was tall, with the broad square shoulders of a swimmer and narrow hips. His hair was dark and tightly curled. He wore a pale-blue Lacoste sweater and white trousers. The sleeves of the sweater were pulled down to his wrists, and his right hand was thrust into his pocket. Zizi took Sarah by the arm and made the introduction.

“This is Sarah Bancroft, the new chief of my art department. Sarah, this is Alain al-Nasser. Alain runs a venture capital firm for us in Montreal.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sarah.”

Fluent English, lightly accented. Hand firmly in the pocket. He nodded at the woman.

“My wife, Sophie.”

“Bonsoir, Sarah.”

The woman extended her hand. Sarah shook it, then held out her own hand to Alain al-Nasser, but he looked quickly away and threw his arms elaborately around Wazir bin Talal. Sarah went inside the villa. It was large and airy with one side open to a large outdoor terrace. There was a turquoise swimming pool, and beyond the pool only the darkening sea. A table had been laid with drinks and snacks. Sarah searched in vain for a bottle of wine and settled for papaya juice instead.

She carried her drink onto the terrace and sat down. The gas lanterns were twisting in the night wind. So was Sarah’s hair. She tucked the rebellious strands behind her ears and looked back into the villa. Alain al-Nasser had abandoned Sophie to Jean-Michel and was now in close consultation with Zizi, Daoud Hamza, and bin Talal. Sarah sipped her juice. Her mouth was sandpaper. Her heart was banging against her breastbone.

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

She looked up, startled, and saw Nadia standing over her.

“Who?”

“Alain?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the way you were looking at him, Sarah.”

Think of something, she thought.

“I was looking at Jean-Michel.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it?”

“It’s never a good idea to mix romance and work.”

“He is beautiful, though.”

“Very,” said Sarah. “But trouble.”

“They all are.”

“How well do you know Alain?”

“Not very,” she said. “He’s been working for my father for about three years.”

“I take it he’s not Saudi?”

“We don’t do names like Alain. He’s Lebanese. Raised in France, I think.”

“And now he lives in Montreal?”

“I suppose.” Nadia’s expression darkened. “It’s best not to ask too many questions about my father’s business-or the people who work for him. My father doesn’t like it.”

Nadia walked away and sat down next to Rahimah. Sarah looked out to sea, at the lights of a passing vessel.

We know he’s concealed somewhere within Zizi’s empire. He might come as an investment banker or a portfolio manager. He might come as a real estate developer or a pharmaceutical executive…

Or a venture capitalist named Alain al-Nasser. Alain who is Lebanese but was raised in France, I think. Alain with a rounded face that does not quite match his body but looks vaguely like one she had seen in a country house in Surrey that does not exist. Alain who was at that very moment being led into a back room for a private meeting with the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. Alain who would not shake Sarah’s hand. Is it merely because he fears contamination by an infidel female? Or is it because the hand is slightly withered, the result of a shrapnel wound he received in Afghanistan?

“In a situation like this, Sarah, simple is best. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Telephone codes. Physical recognition signals.”

“Physical recognition signals?”