The Messenger

29.

Off Saint Maarten

SARAH PRESENTED HERSELF ON the aft deck promptly at nine o’clock. It was raining heavily now; the clouds were low and dark, and a strong wind was playing havoc with the sea. Zizi was wearing a pale marine raincoat and dark sunglasses despite the gray weather. Bin Talal stood next to him, dressed in a tropical-weight blazer to conceal his sidearm.

“Never a dull moment,” Sarah said as amiably as possible. “First a bomb threat, then a note with my breakfast telling me to pack my bags.” She looked toward the helipad and saw Zizi’s pilot climbing behind the controls of the Sikorsky. “Where am I going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Zizi said, taking her by the arm.

“You’re coming with me?”

“Only as far as Saint Maarten.” He pulled her toward the stairs that led to the helipad. “There’s a private jet for you there.”

“Where’s the private jet going?”

“It’s taking you to see a painting. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

“Where’s it going, Zizi?”

He stopped halfway down the stairs and looked at her, his eyes concealed behind the dark glass.

“Is something bothering you, Sarah? You seem tense.”

“I just don’t like getting on airplanes when I don’t know where they’re going.”

Zizi smiled and started to tell her, but his words were drowned out by the engine of the Sikorsky.

GABRIEL WAS STANDING in the prow of Sun Dancer when the helicopter lifted off. He watched for a moment, then rushed up to the bridge, where a navy lieutenant was at the helm.

“They’re moving her to Saint Maarten. How far are we from shore?”

“About five miles.”

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“Given the weather, I’d say thirty minutes. Maybe a bit less.”

“And the Zodiacs?”

“You don’t want to try it in a Zodiac-not in these conditions.”

“Get us close-as quickly as possible.”

The lieutenant nodded, and started making preparations to change heading. Gabriel went to the command center and dialed Carter.

“She’s headed toward the airport on Saint Maarten as we speak.”

“Is she alone?”

“Zizi and his chief of security are with her.”

“How long before you can get there?”

“Forty-five minutes to shore. Another fifteen to the airport.”

“I’ll put the crew on standby. The plane will be ready when you arrive.”

“Now we just need to know where Zizi’s sending her.”

“Thanks to al-Qaeda, we’re now tapped into every traffic control tower in the hemisphere. When Zizi’s pilot files a flight plan, we’ll know where she’s going.”

“How long will it take?”

“Usually it takes us only a few minutes.”

“I don’t suppose I need to remind you that sooner is better.”

“Just get to shore,” Carter said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“IT’S A MANET,” Zizi said as they swept toward the coastline, just beneath the deck of low dark clouds. “I’ve had my eye on it for several years now. The owner has been reluctant to part with it, but last night he telephoned my office in Geneva and said he was interested in making a deal.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Inspect the painting and make certain it’s in reasonable condition. Then review the provenance carefully. As I’m sure you’re aware, thousands of French Impressionist paintings entered Switzerland during the war under illicit circumstances. The last thing I need is some Jewish family beating down my door demanding their painting back.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear in the center of her chest. She turned away and looked out the window.

“And if the provenance is in order?”

“Work out a suitable price. I’m willing to go to thirty million, but for God’s sake, don’t tell him that.” He handed her a business card with a handwritten number on the back. “Once you’ve got a final number, call me before you accept.”

“What time do I see him?”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. One of my drivers will meet you at the airport tonight and take you to your hotel. You can get a good night’s sleep before you see the painting.”

“Do I get to know the owner’s name?”

“Hermann Klarsfeld. He’s one of the richest men in Switzerland, which is saying something. I’ve warned him about how beautiful you are. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“Lovely,” she said, still looking out the window at the approaching coastline.

“Herr Klarsfeld is an octogenarian, Sarah. You needn’t worry about any inappropriate behavior.”

Zizi looked at bin Talal. The security chief reached under his seat and produced a new Gucci bag. “Your things, Miss Sarah,” he said, his tone apologetic. Sarah accepted the bag and opened it. Inside were the electronic items taken from her the afternoon of her arrival: the mobile phone and the PDA; the iPod and the hair dryer; even the travel alarm clock. Nothing remained of her aboard Alexandra, no evidence she’d ever been there.

The helicopter started to lose altitude. Sarah looked out the window again and saw that they were descending toward the airport. At the end of the airfield were a handful of private jets. One was being fueled for takeoff. Zizi was once more extolling the wealth of Herr Klarsfeld, but Sarah heard none of it. She was now thinking only of escape. There is no Herr Klarsfeld, she told herself. And there is no Manet. She was being put on an airplane to oblivion. She remembered Zizi’s benediction the afternoon she accepted his job offer. As you can see I’m very generous to the people who work for me, but I get very angry when they betray me. She had betrayed him. She had betrayed him for Gabriel. And now she would pay with her life. Zizi’s rules.

She looked down at the airfield, wondering if Zizi had somehow left a crack through which she might escape. Surely there would be a customs officer to check her passport. Maybe an airport official or a policeman or two. She rehearsed the lines she would say to them. My name is Sarah Bancroft. I am an American citizen, and these men are trying to transport me to Switzerland against my will. Then she looked at Zizi and his chief of security. You’ve taken that scenario into account, haven’t you? You’ve paid off the customs officials and bribed the local police. Zizi didn’t countenance delays, especially not for a hysterical infidel woman.

The Sikorsky’s skids bumped down on the tarmac. Bin Talal opened the cabin door and climbed out, then reached back inside and offered Sarah his hand. She took it and climbed down the staircase, into a vortex of swirling wind. Fifty yards from the helicopter stood a waiting Falcon 2000, engines screaming in preparation for takeoff. She looked around: no customs officials, no policeman. Zizi had closed her only window. She looked back into the cabin of the Sikorsky and saw him for the last time. He gave her a genial wave, then looked at his gold Rolex, like an attending physician marking the time of death.

Bin Talal seized her bags, reminded her to duck her head, then took her by the arm and led her toward the Falcon. On the staircase she tried to pull away from him, but he squeezed her upper arm in a painful viselike grip and conveyed her up the steps. She screamed for help, but the sound was drowned out by the whining of the jet engines and the thumping of the Sikorsky’s rotor blade.