Gabriel rode into Saint-Jean to have a look for himself. The restaurant was an open-air structure, with swatches of colorful cloth hanging from the ceiling and ear-shattering dance music blaring from the speakers. A dozen tables stood beneath a peaked wooden shelter and several more were scattered along the beach. There was a small bar and, like many restaurants on the island, a boutique that sold atrociously expensive women’s beachwear. Lunch service had reached fever pitch, and barefoot girls clad only in bikini tops and ankle-length beach dresses rushed from table to table, dispensing food and drink. A feline-looking bathing-suit model emerged from the boutique and posed for him. When Gabriel gave no sign of approval, the girl frowned and moved on to a table of well-lubricated Americans, who bayed in approval.
He walked over to the bar and ordered a glass of rosé, then carried it over to the boutique. The changing rooms and toilets were down a narrow passage, at the end of which was the parking lot. He stood there for a moment, visualizing movement, calculating time. Then he swallowed half of the rosé and went out.
It was perfect, he thought. But there was one problem. Snatching Sarah from a table was out of the question. Zizi’s bodyguards were heavily armed and to a man were all former officers of the Saudi National Guard. To get Sarah cleanly, they had to move her into the changing rooms at a pre-arranged time. And to do that they would have to get her a message. As Gabriel rode off on his motorbike, he called Lavon at the villa and asked whether she was on the island.
THE RESTAURANT at Saline has no view of the sea, only of the sand dunes and a broad salt marsh framed by scrub-covered green hills. Sarah sat on the shaded veranda, her fingers wrapped around the stem of a wineglass filled with icy rosé. Next to her sat Nadia, the modern Muslim woman, who was working on her third daiquiri and improving in mood with each passing minute. On the opposite side of the table Monique and Jean-Michel were silently quarreling. The Frenchman’s eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses, but Sarah could see he was scrutinizing the young couple who had just arrived on a motorbike and were now tramping up the stairs to the veranda.
The man was tall and lanky, clad in knee-length swimming trunks, flip-flops, and a cotton pullover. His English accent betrayed an Oxbridge education, as did the imperious manner in which he inquired about the availability of a table. The girl’s accent was indeterminate middle European. Her bikini top was still wet from her swim and clung suggestively to a pair of generous suntanned breasts. She asked the hostess about the location of the toilet, loudly enough for Sarah and everyone else in the restaurant to hear, then calmly held Jean-Michel’s gaze as she walked past the table, her emerald beach wrap flowing from a pair of childbearing hips.
Nadia sucked at her daiquiri, while Monique scowled at Jean-Michel, as if she suspected his interest in the girl extended beyond the professional. Two minutes later, when the girl emerged, she was fussing with her hair and swaying playfully to the reggae music issuing from the stereo behind the bar. Office Doctrine, thought Sarah. When operating in public places like bars and restaurants, don’t sit quietly or read a magazine. That only makes you look like a spy. Call attention to yourself. Flirt. Be loud. Drink too much. A quarrel is always nice. But there was something else Sarah noticed that she was sure Jean-Michel had not. Rimona was wearing no earrings, which meant she had left a message for Sarah inside the toilet.
Sarah watched as Rimona sat down next to Yossi and snapped at him for not having a drink waiting for her. A line of clouds was coming over the dunes, and a sudden wind was chasing in the marsh grass. “Looks like a big storm,” said Jean-Michel, and he ordered a third bottle of rosé to help ride it out. Nadia lit a Virginia Slims, then gave the pack to Monique, who did the same. Sarah turned to watch the approaching storm. All the while she was thinking of the clock and wondering how many minutes she should let pass before she went to the bathroom. And what she might find when she went there.
Five minutes later the clouds opened, and a gust of wind hurled rain against Sarah’s back. Jean-Michel signaled the waitress and asked her to lower the awning. Sarah stood, seized her beach bag, and started toward the back of the restaurant.
“Where are you going?” asked Jean-Michel.
“We’re working on our third bottle of wine. Where do you think I’m going?”
He stood suddenly and followed after her.
“This is very thoughtful of you, but I really don’t need your help. I’ve been doing this sort of thing alone since I was a little girl.”
He took her by the arm and led her to the restroom. The door was ajar. He pushed it all the way open, looked quickly around, then stepped aside and allowed her to enter. Sarah closed the door and bolted it, then dropped the toilet seat, loudly enough so that it could be heard beyond the door.
We have several places we like to hide things, Gabriel had told her. Taped to the inside of the toilet tank or hidden inside the seat-cover dispenser. Rubbish bins are always good, especially if they have a lid. We like to hide messages inside tampon boxes, because we’ve found that Arab men, even professionals, are loath to touch them.
She looked beneath the sink, saw an aluminum canister, and put her foot on the pedal. When the lid rose she saw the box, partially concealed by crumpled paper towels. She reached down and plucked it out. Read the message quickly, Gabriel had said. Trust yourself to remember the details. Never, I mean never, take the message with you. We like to use flash paper, so if you have a lighter or matches, set it on fire in the sink and it will disappear. If not, flush it down the toilet. Worst case, put it back in the box and leave it in the trash. We’ll clean it out after you leave.
Sarah looked in her beach bag and saw she had a book of matches. She started to take them out but decided she didn’t have the nerve for it, so she tore the message to bits and flushed them down the toilet. She stood before the mirror a moment and examined her face while she ran water into the basin. You’re Sarah Bancroft, she told herself. You don’t know the woman who left the tampon box in the trash. You’ve never seen her before.
She shut off the taps and returned to the veranda. Rainwater was now spilling over the gutters in torrents. Yossi was in the process of noisily sending back a bottle of Sancerre; Rimona was examining the menu as though she found it of little interest. And Jean-Michel was watching her coming across the room as though seeing her for the first time. She sat down and watched the storm rolling across the marsh, knowing it would soon be over. You’re having dinner at Le Tetou tonight, the message had said. When you see us, pretend to be ill and go to the bathroom. Don’t worry if they send a bodyguard. We’ll take care of him.
ALL THEY NEEDED now was the guest of honor. For much of that day they did not see him. Gabriel grew concerned that bin Shafiq had somehow managed to slip away undetected and briefly considered placing a phone call to the villa to make certain it was still occupied. But at 11:30 they saw him emerge onto the terrace, where, after his customary vigorous swim, he sunned himself for an hour.
At 12:30 he went inside again, and a few minutes later the white Cabriolet came rolling down the drive with the top down and the woman behind the wheel. She drove to a charcuterie in Lorient village, spent ten minutes inside, then returned to the villa on Pointe Milou for an alfresco lunch.