The Messenger

like a scout looking for signs of the enemy, then turned and with an old-fashioned hand signal beckoned the others forward.

Next came two very pretty girls with long black hair and long coats, looking peeved for having to walk the one hundred feet from the stranded cars to the gallery. The one on the right was Nadia al-Bakari, Zizi’s spoiled daughter. The one on the left was Rahimah Hamza, daughter of Daoud Hamza, the Stanford-educated Lebanese reputed to be the true financial genius behind AAB Holdings. Hamza himself was trailing a few paces behind the girls with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

After Hamza came Herr Manfred Wehrli, the Swiss banker who handled Zizi’s money. Next to Wehrli was a child with no apparent owner, and behind the child two more beautiful women, one blond, the other with short hair the color of sandstone. When the child bolted suddenly across the yard in the wrong direction, he was snared in a pantherlike movement by Jean-Michel, the French kickboxer who now served as Zizi’s personal trainer and auxiliary bodyguard.

Abdul-Jalil and Abdul-Hakim, the American-trained lawyers, came next. Yossi had broken up one of the briefings by contemptuously pointing out that Zizi had chosen lawyers whose names meant Servant of the Great and Servant of the Wise One. After the lawyers came Mansur, chief of Zizi’s travel department, then Hassan, chief of communications, then Andrew Malone, Zizi’s soon-to-be-former exclusive art consultant. And finally, sandwiched between Wazir bin Talal and Jafar Sharuki, was Zizi himself.

Sarah turned away from the window. Under Chiara’s watchful gaze, she entered the tiny lift and pressed the button for the top floor. A moment later she was deposited into the upper exhibition room. In the center of the room, propped on a stately easel and veiled like a Muslim woman, was the van Gogh. From below she could hear Rafiq the bodyguard tramping heavily up the stairs.

You’re not to think of him as a terrorist, Gabriel had said. You’re not to wonder whether any of his money ended up in the pocket of Marwan al-Shehhi or any of the other terrorists who murdered Ben. You’re to think of him as an extraordinarily wealthy and important man. Don’t flirt with him. Don’t try to seduce him. Think of it as a job interview. You’re not going to bed with him. You’re going to work for him. And whatever you do, don’t try to give Zizi any advice. You’ll ruin the sale. Both of them.

She turned and examined her appearance in the reflection of the elevator door. She was vaguely out of focus, which she found fitting. She was still Sarah Bancroft, just a different version. A reworking of the same painting. She smoothed the front of her Chanel suit-not for Zizi, she told herself, but for Gabriel-and from below she heard the voice of the monster for the first time. “Good afternoon, Mr. Isherwood,” said the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. “I’m Abdul Aziz al-Bakari. Andrew tells me you have a picture for me.”

THE FIRST ELEVATOR dispensed only security men. Rafiq plunged into the room and groped her unabashedly with his eyes, while Sharuki peered beneath the divan for hidden weapons and Jean-Michel, the kickboxer, roamed the perimeter on the balls of his feet like a lethal ballet dancer. The next elevator brought Malone and Isherwood, who were wedged happily between Nadia and Rahimah. Zizi came on the third, with only the trusted bin Talal for company. His dark handmade suit hung gracefully over what was an otherwise paunchy physique. His beard was carefully trimmed, as was his deeply receded head of graying hair. His eyes were alert and active. They settled immediately on the one person in the room whose name he did not know.

Don’t attempt to introduce yourself, Sarah. Don’t look him directly in the eye. If there’s a move to be made, let it be Zizi who makes it.

She looked down at her shoes. The elevator doors opened again, this time disgorging Abdul amp; Abdul, Servants of the Great Wise One, and Herr Wehrli the Swiss moneyman. Sarah watched them enter, then cast a glance at Zizi, who was still staring at her.

“Forgive me, Mr. al-Bakari,” Isherwood said. “My manners are atrocious today. This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here this afternoon.”

Don’t try to shake his hand. If he offers his, take it briefly and let go.

She stood very straight, with her hands behind her back and her eyes downward at a slight angle. Zizi’s eyes were roving over her. Finally he stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She took it and heard herself say: “The pleasure is mine, Mr. al-Bakari. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

He smiled and held on to her hand a moment more than was comfortable. Then he released it suddenly and made for the painting. Sarah turned and this time was treated to a view of his back, which was soft through the shoulders and wide in the hips. “I’d like to see the painting, please,” he said to no one in particular, but Sarah was once more listening only to the voice of Gabriel. Do the presentation on Zizi’s timetable, he had said. If you force him to sit through a story, you’ll only make him angry. Remember, Zizi is the star of the show, not Marguerite.

Sarah slipped past him, careful not to brush his shoulder, then reached up and slowly removed the baize covering. She remained in front of the canvas for a moment longer, gathering up the fabric and blocking Zizi’s view, before finally stepping to one side. “May I present Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table by Vincent van Gogh,” she said formally. “Oil on canvas, of course, painted in Auvers in July 1890.”

A collective gasp rose from Zizi’s entourage, followed by an excited murmur. Only Zizi remained silent. His dark eyes were casting about the surface of the painting, his expression inscrutable. After a moment he lifted his gaze from the canvas and looked at Isherwood.

“Where did you find it?”

“I wish I could take credit for it, Mr. al-Bakari, but it was Sarah who discovered Marguerite.”

Zizi’s gaze moved to Sarah. “You?” he asked with admiration.

“Yes, Mr. al-Bakari.”

“Then I’ll ask you the same question I asked of Mr. Isherwood. Where did you find her?”

“As Julian explained to Mr. Malone, the owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

“I’m not asking for the identity of the owner, Miss Bancroft. I’d just like to know how you discovered it.”

You’ll have to give him something, Sarah. He’s entitled to it. But do it reluctantly and be discreet. A man like Zizi appreciates discretion.

“It was the result of several years of investigation on my part, Mr. al-Bakari.”

“How interesting. Tell me more, please, Miss Bancroft.”

“I’m afraid I can’t without violating my agreement with the owners, Mr. al-Bakari.”

“Owner,” said Zizi, correcting her. “According to Andrew, the painting is the property of a French woman.”

“Yes, that’s correct, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific.”

“But I’m just curious about how you found it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I love a good detective story.”

“I would love to indulge you, Mr. al-Bakari, but I’m afraid I can’t. All I can tell you is that it took me two years of searching in Paris and Auvers to find the painting and another year to convince the owner to give it up.”

“Perhaps someday, when sufficient time has elapsed, you’ll be gracious enough to share more of this fascinating story with me.”

“Perhaps, sir,” she said. “As for the authentication, we have determined the work is unquestionably Vincent’s and, of course, we are prepared to stand behind that authentication.”

“I’d be happy to examine the reports of your authenticators, Miss Bancroft, but quite frankly I don’t need to see them. You see, it’s quite obvious to me that this painting is truly the work of van Gogh.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come here,” he said paternally. “Let me show you something.”

Sarah took a step closer to the canvas. Zizi pointed to the upper right corner.

“Do you see that slight mark on the surface? If I’m not mistaken, that’s Vincent’s thumbprint. You see, Vincent was notoriously cavalier in the way he handled his work. When he finished this one, he probably picked it up by the corner and carried it through the streets of Auvers to his room above Cafe Ravoux. At any given time there were dozens of paintings in his room there. He used to lean them against the wall, one atop the next. He was working so quickly that the previous paintings were never quite dry when he laid the new ones on top. If you look carefully at this one, you can see the crosshatched impression of canvas on the surface of the paint.”

His hand was still resting on her shoulder. “Very impressive, Mr. al-Bakari. But I’m not surprised, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”