The Messenger

“Them?” asked Lavon.

“It’s the only way we’ll get off the island,” Gabriel said. “The woman has to die, too.”

27.

GustaviaHarbor, Saint-Barthelemy

IN THE TWO HOURS that followed Gabriel’s declaration, there took place a quiet movement of personnel and materiel that went largely unnoticed by the island’s docile population. Sarah was witness to only one element of the preparations, for she was seated on her private deck, wrapped in a white terry robe, as Sun Dancer got under way and receded silently into the gathering darkness. The gusty winds of the afternoon had died away, and there was only a gentle warm breeze chasing around the yachts anchored at the mouth of the harbor. Sarah closed her eyes. She had a headache from the sun, and her mouth tasted of nickel from too much rose. She latched on to her discomfort. It gave her something to dwell upon besides what lay ahead. She glanced at her wristwatch, the Harry Winston wristwatch that had been given to her by the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. It read 7:20. She was almost home.

She looked toward Alexandra’s stern and saw that the Sikorsky was darkened and motionless. They were going ashore by launch tonight, departure scheduled for 7:45, arrangements having been made by Hassan, ever-efficient chief of Zizi’s travel department. And please don’t be late, Miss Sarah, Hassan had told her. Zizi had advised her to wear something special. Le Tetou is my favorite restaurant on the island, he had said. It promises to be a memorable evening.

The breeze rose and from somewhere in the harbor came the clanging of a buoy. She gave another glance at her watch and saw it was 7:25. She allowed herself to picture a reunion. Perhaps they would have a family meal, like the meals they had shared together in the manor house in Surrey that did not exist. Or perhaps the circumstances would be such that food was not appropriate. Whatever the mood, she craved their embrace. She loved them. She loved all of them. She loved them because everyone else hated them. She loved them because they were an island of sanity surrounded by a sea of zealots and because she feared that the tide of history might one day sweep them away and she wanted to be a part of them, if only for a moment. She loved their hidden pain and their capacity for joy, their lust for life and their contempt for those who murdered innocents. To each of their lives was attached a purpose, and to Sarah each seemed a small miracle. She thought of Dina-scarred, beautiful Dina, the last of six children, one child for each million murdered. Her father, she had told Sarah, had been the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust. After coming to Israel he had chosen the name Sarid, which in Hebrew means remnant, and he had named his last child Dina, which means avenged. I’m Dina Sarid, she had said. I’m the avenged remnant.

And tonight, thought Sarah, we stand together.

Seven-thirty and still she did not move from her chair on the deck. Her procrastination had purpose. She wanted to give herself only a few minutes to dress-less time to send an inadvertent signal that she had no intention of coming back. Bring nothing with you, Rimona’s message had said. Leave your room in a mess.

And so she remained on the deck another five minutes before rising and entering her cabin. She let the robe slide from her shoulders and fall to the floor, then quickly pulled on underpants and a bra. Her clothing, a loose- fitting saffron-colored pantsuit that Nadia had bought for her the previous afternoon in Gustavia, was laid out on the unmade bed. She pulled it on quickly and went to the vanity in the bathroom. She slipped on the gold bangle but left the rest of the jewelry Zizi had given her on the counter. When deciding how to wear her hair, she hesitated for the first time. Up or down? Down, she decided. The first step back toward her old life. A life that Gabriel had warned would never be the same.

She went back into the room and took one last look around. Leave your room in a mess. Mission accomplished. Bring nothing with you. No handbag or wallet, no credit cards or money, but then who needs credit cards and money when one is attached to the entourage of Zizi al-Bakari? She went out into the corridor and closed the door, making certain it was unlocked. Then she headed to the stern, where the launches were waiting. Rafiq handed her aboard to Jean-Michel, and she squeezed between the Abduls in the aft seating compartment. Zizi was opposite her, next to Nadia. As the boat started toward shore, they were eyeing her intently in the darkness.

“You should have worn your pearls, Sarah. They would have gone nicely with your pantsuit. But I’m pleased to see your hair is down again. It looks much nicer that way. I never liked you with your hair up.” He looked at Nadia. “Don’t you think she looks better with her hair down?”

But before Nadia could answer, Hassan pressed an open cell phone into Zizi’s palm and murmured something in Arabic that sounded frightfully urgent. Sarah looked toward the inner harbor, where four black Toyota Land Cruisers waited at the edge of the quay. A small cluster of onlookers had gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse of the celebrity who could command such an impressive motorcade on so small an island. The dark-haired girl seated beneath the shelter of a gazebo fifty yards away couldn’t be bothered by the spectacle of celebrity. The avenged remnant was gazing off into space, her mind obviously wrestling with more weighty matters.

THE BEACH at Saline, one of the few on the island to have no hotels or villas, was dark except for the phosphorous glow of the breakers in the bright moonlight. Mordecai brought the first Zodiac ashore at 8:05. Oded came two minutes later, piloting his own Zodiac and towing a third by a nylon line. At 8:10 they signaled Gabriel. Team Saline was in place. The escape hatch was now open.

AS USUAL the beach at Saint-Jean had been slow to empty that evening, and there were still a few steadfast souls sitting in the sand in the gathering darkness. At the end of the airport runway, near a weather-beaten sign that warned of low-flying aircraft, a small party was under way. They were four in number, three men and a dark-haired girl who had arrived by motor scooter from Gustavia a few moments earlier. One of them had brought some Heineken beer; another a small portable CD player, which was now playing a bit of Bob Marley. The three men were laying about in various states of relaxation. Two of them, a tough-looking man with pockmarked skin and a gentle soul with quick brown eyes and flyaway hair, were chain-smoking for their nerves. The girl was dancing to the music, her white blouse glowing softly in the moonlight.

Though it was not evident in their demeanor, they had taken great care in choosing the location for their party. From their position they could monitor traffic on the road from Gustavia, along with the large private dinner party now beginning about a hundred yards down the beach at Le Tetou restaurant. At 8:30, one of the men, the tough one with a pockmarked face, appeared to receive a call on his mobile phone. It was not an ordinary phone but a two-way radio capable of sending and receiving secure transmissions. A moment after hanging up, he and the other two men got to their feet and made their way noisily back to the road, where they climbed into a Suzuki Vitara.

The girl dressed in white remained behind on the beach, listening to Bob Marley as she watched a private turboprop plane descending low over the waters of the bay toward the runway. She looked at the weather-beaten sign: BEWARE OF LOW-FLYING AIRCRAFT. The girl was dissident by nature and paid it no heed. She turned up the volume of the music and danced as the plane roared over her head.

THE BEACH at Marigot Bay is small and rocky and rarely used except by locals as a place to store their boats. There is a small turnout just off the coast road with room for two or three cars and a flight of rickety wood stairs leading down to the beach. On that night the turnout was occupied by a pair of Piaggio motorbikes. Their owners were on the darkened beach, perched on the belly of an overturned rowboat. Both had nylon rucksacks at their feet and both rucksacks contained two silenced handguns. The younger man carried.45-caliber Barak SP-21s. The older man preferred smaller weapons and had always been partial to Italian guns. The weapons in his bag were 9mm Berettas.

Unlike their compatriots at Saint-Jean, the two men were not drinking or listening to music or engaging in