The Messenger

up, startled, and saw Nadia standing over her.
    “Who?”
    “Alain?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I saw the way you were looking at him, Sarah.”
    Think of something, she thought.
    “I was looking at Jean-Michel.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it?”
    “It’s never a good idea to mix romance and work.”
    “He is beautiful, though.”
    “Very,” said Sarah. “But trouble.”
    “They all are.”
    “How well do you know Alain?”
    “Not very,” she said. “He’s been working for my father for about three years.”
    “I take it he’s not Saudi?”
    “We don’t do names like Alain. He’s Lebanese. Raised in France, I think.”
    “And now he lives in Montreal?”
    “I suppose.” Nadia’s expression darkened. “It’s best not to ask too many questions about my father’s business—or the people who work for him. My father doesn’t like it.”
    Nadia walked away and sat down next to Rahimah. Sarah looked out to sea, at the lights of a passing vessel.
    We know he’s concealed somewhere within Zizi’s empire. He might come as an investment banker or a portfolio manager. He might come as a real estate developer or a pharmaceutical executive….
    Or a venture capitalist named Alain al-Nasser. Alain who is Lebanese but was raised in France, I think. Alain with a rounded face that does not quite match his body but looks vaguely like one she had seen in a country house in Surrey that does not exist. Alain who was at that very moment being led into a back room for a private meeting with the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. Alain who would not shake Sarah’s hand. Is it merely because he fears contamination by an infidel female? Or is it because the hand is slightly withered, the result of a shrapnel wound he received in Afghanistan?
    “In a situation like this, Sarah, simple is best. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Telephone codes. Physical recognition signals.”
    “Physical recognition signals?”
    “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.

Gustavia, Saint-Barthélemy

    T HAT 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