Daniel Silva - The Messenger

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 false gaiety of any kind. Both were silent and both were taking slow and steady breaths to calm their racing hearts. The older man was watching the traffic along the road, the younger man was contemplating the gentle surf. Both, however, were picturing the scene that would take place in a few minutes in the villa at the end of the point. At 8:30 the older one raised his radio to his lips and uttered two words: “Go, Dina.”

IT WAS MONIQUE, Jean-Michel’s wife, who spotted the girl first.

Drinks had just been served; Zizi had just finished ordering everyone to enjoy the meal, because it was to be their last on Saint-Bart’s. Sarah was seated at the opposite end of the table, next to Herr Wehrli. The Swiss banker was discussing his admiration for the work of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner when Sarah, from the corner of her eye, noticed the swift turn of Monique’s angular head and the supple movement of her dark hair.

“There’s that girl,” Monique said to no one in particular. “The one with the terrible scar on her leg. Remember her, Sarah? We saw her on the beach at Saline yesterday. Thank God she’s wearing pants tonight.”

Sarah politely disengaged herself from the Swiss banker and followed Monique’s gaze. The girl was walking along the water’s edge, dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans rolled up to her calves. As she approached the restaurant one of the bodyguards came forward and tried to block her path. Sarah, though she could not hear their conversation, could see the girl exerting her right to walk along a public stretch of beach, regardless of the high-security private party taking place at Le Tetou. Office Doctrine, she thought. Don’t try to appear inconspicuous. Make a spectacle of yourself .

The bodyguard finally relented, and the girl limped slowly past and vanished into the darkness. Sarah allowed another moment to elapse, then leaned across the table in front of Monique and spoke quietly into Jean-Michel’s ear.

“I think I’m about to be sick.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Too much wine at lunch. I nearly threw up in the launch.”

“You want to go to the restroom?”

“Can you take me, Jean-Michel?”

Jean-Michel nodded and stood up.

“Wait,” Monique said. “I’ll come with you.”

Jean-Michel shook his head, but Monique stood abruptly and helped Sarah to her feet. “The poor girl’s sick,” she hissed at him in French. “She needs a woman to look after her.”

AT THAT same moment a Suzuki Vitara pulled into the parking lot of Le Tetou. Yossi was behind the wheel; Yaakov and Lavon were seated in back. Yaakov chambered the first round in his 9mm Beretta, then peered down the passage and waited for Sarah to appear.

SARAH GLANCED over her shoulder as they left the beach and saw Zizi and Nadia staring at her. She turned and looked straight ahead. Jean-Michel was on her left, Monique on her right. Each held an arm. They led her quickly through the interior portion of the restaurant and past the boutique. The passageway was in heavy shadow. Jean-Michel opened the door of the ladies’ room and switched on the light, then looked quickly around and gestured for Sarah to enter. The door slammed shut. Too hard, she thought. She locked it securely and looked in the mirror. The face staring back at her was no longer hers. It might have been painted by Max Beckmann or Edvard Munch. Or perhaps Gabriel’s grandfather, Viktor Frankel. A portrait of a terrified woman. Through the closed door she heard the voice of Monique asking if she was all right. Sarah made no reply. She braced herself on the sink, then closed her eyes and waited.

“SHIT,” murmured Yaakov. “Why did she have to bring the fucking kickboxer?”

“Can you take him?” asked Lavon.

“I think so, but if things start to go badly out there make sure you shoot him in the head.”

“I’ve never shot anyone in my life.”

“It’s easy,” Yaakov said. “Put your finger on the trigger and pull.”

IT WAS PRECISELY 8:32 P.M. when Gabriel mounted the wooden stairs on the beach at Marigot Bay. He wore a motorcycle helmet with a dark visor and, beneath the helmet, a lip microphone and miniature earpiece. The black nylon rucksack containing the Berettas was secured to his back by the shoulder straps. Mikhail, one step behind him, was identically attired. They climbed aboard the motorbikes and fired the engines simultaneously. Gabriel nodded his head once, and together they accelerated into the empty road.