The Messenger

greeted her in French. Sarah selected two shirts, one dark blue, the other pale yellow, and gave the woman Zizi’s measurements. The woman disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later with the shirts.
    “Do you have a gift box?”
    “Of course, Madame.”
    She produced one from beneath the counter, then carefully wrapped the shirts in tissue paper and placed them inside.
    “Do you have a gift card of some sort?” Sarah asked. “Something with an envelope?”
    Again the woman reached beneath the counter. She placed the card before Sarah and handed her a pen.
    “How will you be paying, Madame?”
    Sarah gave her the credit card. While the saleswoman rang up the purchases, Sarah leaned over the gift card and wrote: Alain al-Nasser—Montreal. Then she inserted the card into the envelope, licked the adhesive flap, and sealed it tightly. The saleswoman then placed the credit card receipt in front of Sarah. She signed it, then handed the woman the pen, along with the sealed envelope.
    “I don’t understand, Madame.”
    “Sometime this morning a friend of mine is going to come here to see whether I forgot something,” Sarah said. “Please give my friend this envelope. If you do, you’ll be paid handsomely. Discretion is important. Do you understand me, Madame?”
    “Of course.” She smiled at Sarah mischievously, then looked at Jean-Michel sitting in the café. “Your secret is safe with me.”
    The woman placed the gift box in a paper bag and handed it to Sarah. Sarah winked at her, then went out and returned to the café. Her breakfast was waiting for her when she sat down.
    “Any problems?” Jean-Michel asked.
    Sarah shook her head and handed him the credit card. “No,” she said. “No problems at all.”

    T HIRTY MINUTES LATER Sarah and Jean-Michel boarded the launch and returned to Alexandra. Gabriel waited another fifteen minutes before entering the boutique. He collected the gift card from the saleswoman and gave her one hundred euros for her trouble. Five minutes after that he was seated at the tiller of a Zodiac, heading out of the inner harbor toward the anchorage.
    Alexandra lay directly before him, by far the largest private vessel in port, second in scale only to the cruise ship that had come in overnight. Gabriel turned a few degrees to port and headed toward Sun Dancer, which was anchored several hundred yards away, near the twin rocks that stood guard over the entrance of the harbor. He tied off the Zodiac at the stern and went into the main salon, which had been converted into a mobile command and operations center. There was a secure satellite telephone and a computer with a link to King Saul Boulevard. Two dozen cellular phones and several handheld radios stood in formation in their chargers, and a video camera with telephoto lens was trained on Alexandra.
    Gabriel stood before the monitor and watched Sarah step out onto her private sundeck. Then he looked at Yaakov, who was on the phone to Tel Aviv. When Yaakov hung up a moment later, Gabriel held up the gift card. Alain al-Nasser—Montreal.
    “That’s our girl,” Yaakov said. “Have a seat, Gabriel. King Saul Boulevard has had a busy morning.”

    G ABRIEL POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee from a thermos and sat down.
    “Technical hacked into the reservation system of the villa rental firm early this morning,” Yaakov said. “The villa where Sarah went last night was rented by a company called Meridian Construction of Montreal.”
    “Meridian Construction is controlled entirely by AAB Holdings,” Lavon said.
    “Did the reservation say who would be staying there?” Gabriel asked.
    Yaakov shook his head. “The booking was handled by a woman named Katrine Devereaux at Meridian headquarters. She paid for everything in advance and instructed the rental company to have the house open and ready for his arrival.”
    “When did he get here?”
    “Three days ago, according to the records.”
    “How much longer is he staying?”
    “The reservation is for four more nights.”
    “What about his car?”
    “There’s a Cabriolet parked at the house now. The sticker on the back says Island Rental Cars. No computerized reservation system. Everything’s on paper. If we want the particulars we’ll have to break in the old-fashioned way.”
    Gabriel looked at Mordecai, a neviot man by training. “Their office is at the airport,” Mordecai said. “It’s nothing more than a booth with a sliding aluminum shutter over the