The Messenger

Then he looked at Lavon. “Do you remember Zwaiter, Eli?”
    Lavon raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Of course Lavon remembered Zwaiter. Chief of Black September in Italy. First to die for Munich. Gabriel could almost see him now, a skinny intellectual in a plaid jacket, crossing the Piazza Annibaliano in Rome with a bottle of fig wine in one hand and a copy of A Thousand and One Nights in the other.
    “How long did you watch him, Eli? Two weeks?”
    “Nearly three.”
    “Tell them what you learned about Wadal Zwaiter before we even thought about killing him.”
    “That he stopped each evening in the same small market. That he always went to the Trieste Bar to make a few phone calls, and that he always went into his apartment building through Entrance C. That the lights in the foyer operated on a timer, and that he always stood in the dark for a moment, searching his pockets for a ten-lira coin to operate the lift. That’s where you did it, wasn’t it, Gabriel? In front of the lift?”
    “Excuse me, but are you Wadal Zwaiter?”
    “No! Please, no!”
    “And then you vanished,” Lavon continued. “Two escape cars. A team to cover the route. By morning you were in Switzerland. Shamron said it was like blowing out a match.”
    “We controlled every detail. We chose the time and the place of the execution and planned it down to the smallest detail. We did everything right that night. But we can’t do any of those things on this island.” Gabriel looked at the map. “We operate best in cities, not places like this.”
    “That might be true,” said Dina, “but you can’t let him leave here alive.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because he has the resources of a billionaire at his fingertips. Because he can fly off to the Najd at a moment’s notice and be lost to us forever.”
    “There are right ways to do these things, and there are wrong ways. This is definitely the wrong way.”
    “Don’t be afraid to pull the trigger because of what happened at the Gare de Lyon, Gabriel.”
    “This has nothing to do with Paris. We have a professional target. A small battlefield. A hazardous escape route. And an unpredictable variable named Sarah Bancroft. Shall I go on?”
    “But Dina is right,” Yossi said. “We have to do it now. We might never get another shot at him.”
    “The Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not get caught . That’s our first responsibility. Everything else is secondary.”
    “Did you see him aboard Zizi’s yacht today?” Rimona asked. “Shall we watch the tape again? Did you see his face when he came out? What do you think they were talking about, Gabriel? Investments? He tried to kill my uncle. He has to die.”
    “What would we do about the woman?” Yossi asked.
    “She’s an accomplice,” Lavon said. “She’s obviously part of his network. Why is her voice the only one we hear? Doesn’t she find it a bit odd that her husband never picks up the phone?”
    “So do we kill her?”
    “If we don’t, we’ll never make it off this island.”
    Dina suggested they put the entire operation to a vote. Yaakov shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “this is not a democracy.”
    Gabriel looked at Lavon. The two held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Lavon closed his eyes and nodded once.

    T HEY DID NOT sleep that night. In the morning Yossi rented a second Suzuki Vitara four-wheel-drive, while Yaakov and Rimona each rented Piaggio motorbikes. Oded and Mordecai went to a marine supply outlet in Gustavia and purchased two Zodiacs with outboard engines. Dina spent much of that day calling the island’s most exclusive restaurants trying to book a table for thirty. At 1:30 she learned that Le Tetou, a trendy beachside restaurant in Saint-Jean, had already been booked that evening for a private party and would not be open to the public.
    Gabriel rode into Saint-Jean to have a look for himself. The restaurant was an open-air structure, with swatches of colorful cloth hanging from the ceiling and ear-shattering dance music blaring from the speakers. A dozen tables stood beneath a peaked wooden shelter and several more were scattered along the beach. There was a small bar and, like many restaurants on the island, a boutique that sold atrociously expensive women’s beachwear. Lunch service had reached fever pitch, and barefoot girls clad only in bikini tops and ankle-length beach dresses rushed from table to table, dispensing food and drink. A feline-looking