The Messenger

bin Shafiq. He was driving this afternoon like a man who knew he was being followed.”
    “It’s standard procedure,” said Gabriel, playing devil’s advocate without much enthusiasm.
    “You can always tell the difference between someone who’s going through the motions and someone who’s thinks he’s got a watcher on his tail. It feels to me like bin Shafiq knows he’s being watched.”
    “So what are you suggesting, Eli? Call it off?”
    “No,” Lavon said. “But if we can only get one target tonight, make sure it’s Sarah.”

    T EN MINUTES LATER . The green light. The burst of dial tone. The sound of a number being dialed.
    “La Terrazza.”
    “I’d like to make a reservation for this evening, please.”
    “How many in your party?”
    “Two.”
    “What time?”
    “Nine o’clock.”
    “Can you hold a moment while I check the book?”
    “Sure.”
    “Would nine-fifteen be all right?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “All right, we have a reservation for two at nine-fifteen. Your name, please?”
    “Al-Nasser.”
    “Merci, Madame. Au revoir.”
    Click.

    G ABRIEL WALKED over to the map.
    “La Terrazza is here,” he said, tapping his finger against the hills above Saint-Jean. “They won’t have to leave the villa until nine at the earliest.”
    “Unless they go somewhere first,” said Lavon.
    “Zizi’s dinner begins at eight. That gives us almost an hour before we would have to move Sarah into place for the extraction.”
    “Unless Zizi arrives late,” said Lavon.
    Gabriel walked over to the window and looked across the inlet. The weather had broken, and it was now dusk. The sea was beginning to grow dark, and lights were coming on in the hills.
    “We’ll kill them at the villa—inside the house or behind the walls in the drive.”
    “Them?” asked Lavon.
    “It’s the only way we’ll get off the island,” Gabriel said. “The woman has to die, too.”

27.

Gustavia Harbor, Saint-Barthélemy

    I N THE TWO HOURS that followed Gabriel’s declaration, there took place a quiet movement of personnel and matériel that went largely unnoticed by the island’s docile population. Sarah was witness to only one element of the preparations, for she was seated on her private deck, wrapped in a white terry robe, as Sun Dancer got under way and receded silently into the gathering darkness. The gusty winds of the afternoon had died away, and there was only a gentle warm breeze chasing around the yachts anchored at the mouth of the harbor. Sarah closed her eyes. She had a headache from the sun, and her mouth tasted of nickel from too much rosé. She latched on to her discomfort. It gave her something to dwell upon besides what lay ahead. She glanced at her wristwatch, the Harry Winston wristwatch that had been given to her by the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. It read 7:20. She was almost home.
    She looked toward Alexandra ’s stern and saw that the Sikorsky was darkened and motionless. They were going ashore by launch tonight, departure scheduled for 7:45, arrangements having been made by Hassan, ever-efficient chief of Zizi’s travel department. And please don’t be late, Miss Sarah, Hassan had told her. Zizi had advised her to wear something special. Le Tetou is my favorite restaurant on the island, he had said. It promises to be a memorable evening.
    The breeze rose and from somewhere in the harbor came the clanging of a buoy. She gave another glance at her watch and saw it was 7:25. She allowed herself to picture a reunion. Perhaps they would have a family meal, like the meals they had shared together in the manor house in Surrey that did not exist. Or perhaps the circumstances would be such that food was not appropriate. Whatever the mood, she craved their embrace. She loved them. She loved all of them. She loved them because everyone else hated them. She loved them because they were an island of sanity surrounded by a sea of zealots and because she feared that the tide of history might one day sweep them away and she wanted to be a part of them, if only for a moment. She loved their hidden pain and their capacity for joy, their lust for life and their contempt for those who murdered innocents. To each of their lives was attached a purpose, and to Sarah each seemed a small miracle. She thought of Dina—scarred, beautiful Dina, the last of six children, one child for each million murdered. Her father, she had told Sarah, had been the only member of his family to survive the