The Messenger

reorganization of the American intelligence community.
    “How far beyond?”
    “Far enough so that some people in town are starting to get nervous. You know how the game is played, Adrian. There’s a pipeline between Riyadh and Washington, and it flows green with cash. This town is awash with Saudi money. It pours into the think tanks and the law firms. Hell, the lobbyists dine out on the stuff. The Saudis have even managed to devise a system for bribing us while we’re still in office. Everyone knows that if they look out for the al-Saud while they’re working for Club Fed, the al-Saud will look out for them when they return to the private sector. Maybe it will be in the form of a lucrative consulting contract or some legal work. Maybe a chair at some insipid institute that spouts the Saudi party line. And so when rumors start flying around town that some cowboy at Langley is going after one of the most generous benefactors of this unholy system, people get nervous.”
    “Are you one of them, Shepard?”
    “Me?” Cantwell shook his head. “I’m heading back to Boston the minute my parole comes through. But there are other people in the building planning to hang around town and cash in.”
    “And what if the generous benefactors of this unholy system are also filling the coffers of the people who fly airplanes into our buildings? What if these friends of ours are up to their necks in terror? What if they’re willing to make any deal with the devil necessary to ensure their survival, even if it leads to dead Americans?”
    “You shake their hands and smile,” said Cantwell. “And you think of the terrorism as an inconvenient surcharge on your next tank of gas. You still driving that old Volvo of yours?”
    Cantwell knew exactly what Carter drove. Their assigned spaces were next to each other in the west parking lot. “I can’t afford a new car,” Carter said. “Not with three kids in college.”
    “Maybe you should sign up for the Saudi retirement plan. I see a lucrative consulting contract in your future.”
    “Not my style, Shep.”
    “So what about those rumors? Any truth to them?”
    “None at all.”
    “Glad to hear it,” Cantwell said. “I’ll be sure to set everyone straight. Night, Adrian.”
    “Night, Shep.”
    Carter went downstairs. The executive parking lot was nearly empty of other cars. He climbed into his Volvo and headed toward Northwest Washington, following the route he and Gabriel had taken eight weeks earlier. As he passed Zizi al-Bakari’s estate, he slowed and peered through the bars of the gate, toward the hideous faux-chateau mansion perched on the cliff overlooking the river. Don’t touch her, Carter thought savagely. Harm one hair on her head, and I’ll kill you myself . As he headed over Chain Bridge, he glanced down at his dash. A warning light was glowing red. How appropriate, he thought. His gas tank was nearly empty.

    A T THAT same moment, Sun Dancer was rounding Grande Pointe and returning to the anchorage off Gustavia. Gabriel stood alone in the prow, field glasses pressed to his eyes, gazing at the afterdeck of Alexandra, where the ship’s crew were serving a hastily prepared dinner for thirty. Gabriel saw them as figures in a painting. The Boating Party, he thought. Or was it The Last Supper ?
    There was Zizi, seated regally at the head of the table, as though the events of the evening had been a welcome diversion from the monotony of an otherwise ordinary journey. At his left hand sat his beautiful daughter, Nadia. At his right hand, stabbing at his food without appetite, was his trusted second in command, Daoud Hamza. Farther down the table were the lawyers, Abdul & Abdul, and Herr Wehrli, minder of Zizi’s money. There was Mansur, maker of travel arrangements, and Hassan, chief of communications, secure and otherwise. There was Jean-Michel, tender of Zizi’s fitness and supplementary security man, and his sullen wife, Monique. There was Rahimah Hamza and her lover, Hamid, the beautiful Egyptian film star. There was a quartet of anxious-looking bodyguards and several attractive women with guiltless faces. And then, seated at the far end of the table, as far from Zizi as possible, there was a beautiful woman in saffron silk. She provided the balance to the composition. She was innocence to Zizi’s evil. And Gabriel could see that she was frightened to death. Gabriel knew he was witnessing a performance. But for whose benefit was it being staged?