“Wristwatch on the left hand, wristwatch on the right. Coat collar up, coat collar down. Handbag in the left, handbag in the right.”

“Newspapers folded under the arm?”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve always been partial to hair myself.”

“Hair?”

“How do you like to wear your hair, Sarah?”

“Down, mostly.”

“You have very nice cheekbones. A very graceful neck. You should think about wearing your hair up from time to time. Like Marguerite.”

“Too old-fashioned.”

“Some things never go out of fashion. Put your hair up for me now.”

She reached into her handbag, for the clasp Chiara had given her on her last day at the gallery, and did as Gabriel asked.

“You look very beautiful with your hair up. This will be our signal if you see a man you think is bin Shafiq.”

“And what happens then?”

“Leave that to us, Sarah.”

25.

THAT NIGHT, for the first time since boarding Alexandra, Sarah did not sleep. She lay in the large bed, forcing herself to remain motionless so that bin Talal, if he was watching her through concealed cameras, would not suspect her of a restless conscience. Shortly before six the sky began to grow light, and a red stain appeared above the horizon. She waited another half-hour before ordering coffee. When it came she had a pounding headache.

She went onto the sundeck and stood at the rail, her gaze on the light slowly coming up in the harbor, her thoughts on Alain al-Nasser of Montreal. They had remained at his villa a little more than an hour, then had driven to Gustavia for dinner. Zizi had taken over a restaurant called La Vela on the edge of the harbor. Alain al-Nasser had not come with them. Indeed his name had not been mentioned at dinner, at least not within earshot of Sarah. A man who might have been Eli Lavon had strolled past the restaurant during dessert. Sarah had looked down to dab her lips on her napkin, and when she had looked up again the man had vanished.

She felt a sudden craving for physical movement and decided to go to the gym before it was commandeered by Zizi. She pulled on a pair of span-dex shorts, a tank top, and her running shoes, then went into the bathroom and pinned up her hair in front of the mirror. The gym, when she arrived, was in silence. She had expected to find it empty but instead saw Jean-Michel hunched over an apparatus, working on his biceps. She greeted him coolly and mounted the treadmill.

“I’m going to the island for a real run. Care to join me?”

“What about Zizi’s workout?”

“He says his back is sore.”

“It sounds as though you don’t believe him.”

“His back is always sore whenever he wants a day off.” He finished his set and wiped his glistening arms with a towel. “Let’s go before the traffic gets too heavy.”

They boarded a launch and set out toward the inner harbor. There was no wind yet, and the waters were still calm. Jean-Michel tied up at a public dock, near an empty café that was just opening for breakfast. They stretched for a few moments on the quay, then set out through the quiet streets of the old town. Jean-Michel moved effortlessly beside her. As they started the twisting ascent up the hillside behind the port, Sarah fell a few paces behind. A motor scooter overtook her, ridden by a helmeted girl in blue jeans with shapely hips. She pushed herself harder and closed the gap. At the top of the hill she stopped to catch her breath while Jean-Michel jogged lightly in place.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve gained nearly ten pounds on this trip.”

“It’s nearly over.”

“How much longer are we staying?”

“Two more days in Saint Bart’s.” He pulled his lips down in typically Gallic expression. “Maybe three. Zizi’s getting anxious to leave. I can tell.”

Just then the first flight of the day swept low over their heads and plunged down the opposite side of the hill toward the runway below. Without warning Jean-Michel started down the road after it. They ran past the airport and the island’s main shopping center, then rounded a bend in the road and started toward Saint-Jean village. The first traffic began to appear; twice they had to leap onto the sandy shoulder of the road to avoid approaching trucks. Jean-Michel led her through an opening in the stone wall at the edge of the road and down a sandy pathway to the beach. “It’s better if we run here,” he said. “I’m going to do a couple of fast intervals. Do you think you can stay out of trouble?”

“What makes you think I can’t keep up with you?”

He lengthened his stride. Sarah struggled to keep pace with him.

“The interval is about to begin,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“I thought this was the interval.”

Jean-Michel sprinted away. Sarah, exhausted from her sleepless night, slowed to a walk, reveling in the fact that for the first time since entering Zizi’s camp she was alone. It did not last long. Two minutes later Jean-Michel came sprinting back toward her, arms pumping like pistons. Sarah turned and started running again. Jean-Michel overtook her and slowed his pace.

“I’m famished,” she said. “How about some breakfast?”

“First we finish the run. We’ll have something at that café next to the boat.”

It took them twenty minutes to cover the distance back to the harbor. The café was beginning to fill by the time they arrived, but Jean-Michel found an empty table outside in the shade and sat down. Sarah looked over the menu for a few moments, then lifted her gaze toward the men’s clothing boutique opposite the café. The window display was filled with handmade French dress shirts of expensive-looking cotton. Sarah closed the menu and looked at Jean-Michel.

“I should buy Zizi a thank-you present.”

“The last thing Zizi needs is a gift. He truly is the man who has everything.”

“I should get him something. He was very generous to me.”

“I’m sure he was.”

She touched Jean-Michel’s arm and pointed to the boutique.

“The last thing Zizi needs is another shirt,” he said.

“They’re very nice-looking, though.”

Jean-Michel nodded. “They’re French,” he said. “We still can do a few things well.”

“Give me your credit card.”

“It’s an AAB company card.”

“I’ll reimburse you.”

He produced a card from the pocket of his running shorts and handed it over. “Don’t bother paying me back,” he said. “Trust me, Sarah, you won’t be the first person to buy Zizi a present with his own money.”

“What size shirt does he wear?”

“Sixteen-and-a-half-inch neck, thirty-three sleeve.”

“Very impressive.”

“I’m his personal trainer.”

She gave Jean-Michel her breakfast order-tartin, scrambled eggs, and café au lait-then walked over to the boutique. She stood outside for a moment, gazing at the shirts in the window, then slipped through the entrance. An attractive young woman with short blond hair greeted her in French. Sarah selected two shirts, one dark blue, the other pale yellow, and gave the woman Zizi’s measurements. The woman disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later with the shirts.

“Do you have a gift box?”

“Of course, Madame.”

She produced one from beneath the counter, then carefully wrapped the shirts in tissue paper and placed them inside.

“Do you have a gift card of some sort?” Sarah asked. “Something with an envelope?”

Again the woman reached beneath the counter. She placed the card before Sarah and handed her a pen.

“How will you be paying, Madame?”

Sarah gave her the credit card. While the saleswoman rang up the purchases, Sarah leaned over the gift card and wrote: Alain al-Nasser- Montreal. Then she inserted the card into the envelope, licked the adhesive flap, and sealed it tightly. The saleswoman then placed the credit card receipt in front of Sarah. She signed it, then handed the woman the pen, along with the sealed envelope.