The Messenger

handwritten note: Thank you for finding Marguerite. Eternally grateful, Zizi. The earrings from Bulgari came the following day. The double strand of Mikimoto pearls the day after that. The gold mesh bangle from Tiffany on Thursday evening, just as she was preparing to leave work. She stuck it on her right wrist and walked over to Green’s, where Oliver made a clumsy pass at her. “In another lifetime,” she said, kissing his cheek, “but not tonight. Be a love, Oliver, and walk me to the Tube.”
    Evenings were the hardest on her. There were no more trips to the Surrey safe house. As far as Sarah was concerned the Surrey safe house did not exist. She found she missed them all terribly. They were a family, a loud, quarrelsome, cacophonous, loving family—the sort of family Sarah had never had. All that remained of them now was the occasional cryptic phone call from Gabriel and the light in the flat on the opposite side of the street. Yossi’s light, but soon even Yossi would be lost to her. At night, when she was alone and afraid, she sometimes wished she had told them to find someone else. And sometimes she would think of poor Julian and wonder how on earth he was going to get along without her.

    T HE FINAL PACKAGE arrived at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was hand-delivered by a messenger dressed in a suit and tie. Inside was a handwritten note and a single airline ticket. Sarah opened the ticket jacket and looked at the destination. Ten seconds later the telephone on her desk rang.
    “Isherwood Fine Arts. This is Sarah.”
    “Good afternoon, Sarah.”
    It was Zizi.
    “Hello, Mr. al-Bakari. How are you, sir?”
    “I’ll know in a moment. Did you receive the invitation and the airline tickets?”
    “I did, sir. And the earrings. And the watch. And the pearls. And the bangle.”
    “The bangle is my favorite.”
    “Mine, too, sir, but the gifts were completely unnecessary. As is this invitation. I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
    “You insult me, Sarah.”
    “It’s not my intention, sir. As much as I would love to spend a few days in the sun, I’m afraid I can’t go jetting off at a moment’s notice.”
    “It’s not a moment’s notice. If you look carefully at the tickets, you see that you have three days until your departure.”
    “I can’t go jetting off three days from now either. I have business to attend to here at the gallery.”
    “I’m sure Julian can spare you for a few days. You just made him a great deal of money.”
    “This is true.”
    “So how about it, Sarah? Will you come?”
    “I’m afraid the answer is no, sir.”
    “You should know one thing about me, Sarah, and that is I never take no for an answer.”
    “I just don’t think it would be appropriate, sir.”
    “Appropriate? I think you’ve misinterpreted my motives.”
    “What are your motives, sir?”
    “I’d like you to come to work for me.”
    “As what, sir?”
    “I never discuss such matters over the phone, Sarah. Will you come?”
    She allowed ten seconds to elapse before she gave him her answer.
    “Brilliant,” he said. “One of my men will accompany you. He’ll collect you at your flat at eight A.M . Monday morning.”
    “I’m perfectly capable of traveling alone, Mr. al-Bakari.”
    “I’m sure you are, but it will be easier if one of my security men comes with you. I’ll see you Monday evening.”
    And then he rang off. As Sarah replaced the receiver, she realized he hadn’t asked for her address.

    G ABRIEL WAS breaking down his studio at the Surrey safe house when Lavon came pounding up the stairs, holding a printout of the message that had just arrived from the neviot team in Mason’s Yard. “Zizi’s made his move,” he said, handing the printout to Gabriel. “He wants to see her right away.”
    Gabriel read the message, then looked up at Lavon. “Shit,” he murmured. “We’re going to need a boat.”

    T HEY HAD a champagne supper to celebrate, complete with a place setting for Sarah, the one member of the team who could not join them. The next morning Lavon drove Gabriel to Heathrow Airport, and by four-thirty that afternoon he was enjoying the view of the sunset from a CIA safe flat on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Adrian Carter was wearing chinos, a cotton pullover, and penny loafers with no socks. He handed Gabriel a glass of lemonade and a photograph of a very large boat.
    “She’s called Sun Dancer ,” Carter said. “She’s a seventy-four-foot ocean-going