The Messenger

malevolently.

“What’s the problem, Sarah?”

“You’re taking me to Saudi Arabia, aren’t you?”

“We’re going to Switzerland, just like Zizi told you.”

“Why the abaya?”

“It will make your entry into the country go more smoothly. When the Swiss customs men see a Saudi woman in a veil, they tend to be highly respectful.” He gave her another grotesque smile. “I think it’s a shame covering a girl like you in black, but I did enjoy putting it on you.”

“You’re a pig, Jean-Michel.”

Sarah never saw the blow coming-a well-aimed backhand that landed precisely on her swollen right cheek. By the time her vision cleared Jean-Michel was once more reclining in his seat. The plane heaved in a sudden burst of turbulence. Sarah felt bile rising into her throat.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Just like at Le Tetou?”

Think quickly, Sarah.

“I was sick at Le Tetou, you idiot.”

“You made a very quick recovery. In fact, you looked fine to me after we returned to Alexandra.”

“Those drugs you’re shooting into me are making me nauseated. Take me into the bathroom.”

“You want to check for messages?”

Fast, Sarah. Fast.

“What are you talking about? Take me to the toilet so I can throw up.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“At least lift the abaya for me.”

He looked at her disbelievingly, then leaned across the divide and lifted the veil, exposing her face to the cool air of the cabin. To Sarah it seemed appallingly like a bridegroom lifting the veil of his new wife. A wave of anger broke within her, and she lashed out at his face with her cuffed hands. Jean-Michel easily swatted away her blow, then landed one of his own against the left side of her head. It knocked her from the leather seat and sent her to the floor. Without rising he kicked her in the abdomen, knocking the breath from her lungs. As she fought to regain it, the contents of her stomach emptied onto the carpet.

“Fucking bitch,” the Frenchman said savagely. “I should make you clean that up.”

He grabbed hold of the chain linking her wrists and pulled her back into her seat, then rose and went into the toilet. Sarah heard the sound of water splashing into the basin. When Jean-Michel emerged he was holding a damp linen towel, which he used to punitively scrub the vomit from her lips. Then, from a small leather case, he produced another syringe and a vial of clear liquid. He loaded the syringe without much care for the dosage, then seized hold of her arm. Sarah tried to pull away, but he hit her twice in the mouth. As the drug entered her bloodstream, she remained conscious but felt as though a great weight was pressing down on her body. Her eyelids closed, but she remained trapped in the present.

“I’m still awake,” she said. “Your drugs aren’t working anymore.”

“They’re working just fine.”

“Then why am I still conscious?”

“It’s easier to get answers that way.”

“Answers to what?”

“Better fasten your seat belt,” he said mockingly. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

Sarah, the model prisoner, tried to do as she was told, but her arms lay limply in her lap, unable to obey her commands.

SHE LEANED her face against the cold glass of the window and looked out. The darkness was absolute. A few moments later they entered the clouds, and the plane pitched in wave after wave of turbulence. Jean-Michel poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it in a single swallow.

They emerged from the clouds into a snowstorm. Sarah looked down and studied the pattern of the ground lights. There was a mass of brilliant illumination wrapped around the northern end of a large body of water and strands of lesser light laying along the shoreline like jewels. She tried to remember where Zizi had said she’d be going. Zurich , she thought. Yes, that was it. Zurich…Herr Klarsfeld…The Manet for which Zizi would pay thirty million and not a million more…

The plane passed north of central Zurich and banked toward the airport. Sarah prayed for a crash landing. It was obscenely smooth, though-so smooth she was unaware of the moment of touchdown. They taxied for several minutes. Jean-Michel was gazing calmly out the window, while Sarah was sliding further into oblivion. The fuselage seemed as long as an Alpine tunnel, and when she tried to speak, words would not form in her mouth.

“The drug I just gave you is shorter in duration,” Jean-Michel said, his tone maddeningly reassuring. “You’ll be able to talk soon. At least I hope so-for your sake.”

The plane began to slow. Jean-Michel lowered the black veil over her face, then unlocked the handcuffs and the shackles. When they finally came to a stop he opened the rear cabin door and poked his head out to make certain things were in order. Then he seized Sarah beneath the arms and pulled her upright. Blood returned painfully to her feet, and her knees buckled. Jean-Michel caught her before she could fall. “One foot in front of the other,” he said. “Just walk, Sarah. You remember how to walk.”

She did, but barely. The door was just ten feet away, but to Sarah it seemed a mile at least. A few paces into her journey she stepped on the hem of the abaya and pitched forward, but once again Jean-Michel prevented her from falling. When finally she reached the door she was met by a blast of freezing air. It was snowing heavily and bitterly cold, the night made darker by the black fabric of the veil. Once again there were no customs officers or security men in evidence, only a black Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates. Its rear door hung ajar, and through the opening Sarah could see a man in a gray overcoat and fedora. Even with the drugs clouding her thoughts, she could comprehend what was happening. AAB Holdings and the Saudi consulate in Zurich had requested VIP diplomatic treatment for a passenger arriving from Saint Maarten. It was just like the departure: no customs, no security, no avenue of escape.

Jean-Michel helped her down the stairs, then across the tarmac and into the back of the waiting Mercedes. He closed the door and headed immediately back toward the jet. As the car lurched forward, Sarah looked at the man seated next to her. Her vision blurred by the veil, she saw him only in the abstract. Enormous hands. A round face. A tight mouth surrounded by a bristly goatee. Another version of bin Talal, she thought. A well-groomed gorilla.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m unimportant. I’m no one.”

“Where are we going?”

He drove his fist into her ear and told her not to speak again.

THIRTY SECONDS LATER the Mercedes sedan with diplomatic plates sped past a snow-covered figure peering forlornly beneath the open hood of a stalled car. The man seemed to pay the Mercedes no heed as it swept by, though he did look up briefly as it headed up the ramp to the motorway. He forced himself to count slowly to five. Then he slammed the hood and climbed behind the wheel. When he turned the key, the engine started instantly. He slipped the car into gear and pulled onto the road.

SHE DID NOT know how long they drove-an hour, perhaps longer-but she knew the purpose of their journey. The stops, the starts, the sudden double-backs and nauseating accelerations: Eli Lavon had referred to such maneuvers as countersurveillance. Uzi Navot had called it wiping your backside.

She stared out the heavily tinted window of the car. She had spent several years in Switzerland as a young girl and knew the city reasonably well. These were not the Zurich streets she remembered of her youth. These were the gritty, dark streets of the northern districts and the Industrie-Quartier. Ugly warehouses, blackened brick