Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“I’m telling you the truth! My name is Sarah Bancroft. I worked at an art gallery in London. I sold Zizi a painting, and he asked me to come to work for him.”

“The van Gogh?”

“Yes!”

“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table?”

“Yes, you bastard.”

“And where did you obtain this painting? Was it acquired on your behalf by your intelligence service?”

“I don’t work for an intelligence service. I work for Zizi.”

“You’re working for the Americans?”

“No.”

“For the Jews?”

“No!”

He exhaled heavily, then removed his spectacles and spent a long moment contemplatively polishing them on his cashmere scarf. “You should know that shortly after your departure from Saint Maarten, four men arrived at the airport and boarded a private plane. We recognized them. We assume they are headed here to Zurich. They’re Jews, aren’t they, Sarah?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Trust me, Sarah. They’re Jews. One can always tell.”

He examined his spectacles and polished some more. “You should also know that colleagues of these Jews clumsily attempted to follow you tonight after you landed at the airport. Our driver easily dispensed with them. You see, we’re professionals, too. They’re gone now, Sarah. And you’re all alone.”

He put on his spectacles again.

“Do you think the so-called professionals for whom you’re working would be willing to sacrifice their lives for you? They’d be vomiting their secrets all over the floor to me by now. But you’re better than them, aren’t you, Sarah? Zizi saw that, too. That’s why he made the mistake of hiring you.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the one making a mistake.”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m leaving you now in the hands of my friend Muhammad. He worked for me in Group 205. Is this name familiar to you, Sarah? Group 205? Surely your handlers must have mentioned it to you during your preparation.”

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“Muhammad is a professional. He’s also a very skilled interrogator. You and Muhammad are going to take a journey together. A night journey. Do you know this term, Sarah? The Night Journey.”

Greeted only by the sound of her weeping, he answered his own question.

“It was during the Night Journey that God revealed Quran to the Prophet. Tonight you’re going to make a revelation of your own. Tonight you’re going to tell my friend Muhammad who you’re working for and everything they know about my network. If you tell him quickly, you will be granted a degree of mercy. If you continue with these lies, Muhammad will carve the flesh from your bones and cut off your head. Do you understand me?”

Her stomach convulsed with nausea. Bin Shafiq appeared to be taking pleasure from her fear.

“Do you realize you’ve been looking at my arm? Did they tell you about my scar? My damaged hand?” Another weary smile. “You’ve been betrayed, Sarah-betrayed by your handlers.”

He opened the door and climbed out, then ducked down and looked at her one more time.

“By the way, you very nearly succeeded. If your friends had managed to kill me on that island, a major operation of ours would have been disrupted.”

“I thought you worked for Zizi in Montreal.”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” He wound his scarf tightly around his throat. “Muhammad won’t find your little lies so amusing, Sarah. Something tells me you’re going to have a long and painful night together.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she asked: “What operation?”

“Operation? Me? I’m only an investment banker.”

She asked him again. “What’s the operation? Where are you going to strike?”

“Speak my real name, and I tell you.”

“Your name is Alain al-Nasser.”

“No, Sarah. Not my cover name. My real name. Say it. Confess your sins, Sarah, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

She began to shake uncontrollably. She tried to form the words but could not summon the courage.

“Say it!” he shouted at her. “Say my name, you bitch.”

She lifted her head and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Your-name-is-Ahmed-bin-Shafiq!”

His head snapped back, as if he were avoiding a blow. Then he smiled at her in admiration.

“You’re a very brave woman.”

“And you’re a murderous coward.”

“I should kill you myself.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do.”

He hesitated a moment, then treated her to an arrogant smile. “Suffice it to say we have some unfinished business at the Vatican. The crimes of Christianity and the Western world against Muslims will soon be avenged once and for all. But you won’t be alive to see this glorious act. You’ll be dead by then. Tell Muhammad what you know, Sarah. Make your last hours on earth easy ones.”

And with that he turned and walked away. The Unimportant One wrenched her from the back of the car while holding an ether-soaked rag over her nose and mouth. She scratched at him. She flailed. She landed several futile kicks to his cast-iron shins. Then the drug took hold, and she felt herself spiraling toward the ground. Someone caught her. Someone placed her in the trunk of a car. A face appeared briefly and looked down at her, inquisitive and oddly earnest. The face of Muhammad . Then the hatch closed, and she was enveloped in darkness. When the car began to move, she passed out.

GUSTAV SCHMIDT, chief of counterterrorism for the Swiss federal security service, was an unlikely American ally in the war against

Islamic extremism. In a country where elected politicians, the press, and most of the population were solidly opposed to the United States and its war on terror, Schmidt had quietly forged personal bonds with his counterparts in Washington, especially Adrian Carter. When Carter needed permission to operate on Swiss soil, Schmidt invariably granted it. When Carter wanted to make an al-Qaeda operative vanish from the Federation, Schmidt usually gave him the green light. And when Carter needed a place to put down a plane, Schmidt regularly granted him landing rights. The private airstrip at Zug, a wealthy industrial city in the heart of the country, was Carter’s favorite in Switzerland. Schmidt’s, too.

It was shortly after midnight when the Gulfstream V executive jet sunk out of the clouds and touched down on the snow-dusted runway. Five minutes later, Schmidt was seated across from Carter in the modestly appointed cabin. “We have a situation,” Carter said. “To be perfectly honest with you, we don’t have a complete picture.” He gestured toward his traveling companion. “This is Tom. He’s a doctor. We think we’ll need his services before the night is over. Relax, Gustav. Have a drink. We may be here awhile.”

Carter then looked out the window at the swirling snow and said nothing more. He didn’t have to. Schmidt now knew the situation. One of Carter’s agents was in trouble, and Carter wasn’t at all sure he was going to get the agent back alive. Schmidt opened the brandy and drank alone. At times like these he was glad he had been born Swiss.

A SIMILAR VIGIL was under way at that same moment at the general aviation terminal at Kloten Airport. The man doing the waiting was not a senior Swiss policeman but Moshe, the bodel from Paris. At 12:45 A.M., four men emerged from the terminal into the snowstorm. Moshe tapped the horn of his Audi A8, and the four men turned in unison and headed his way. Yaakov, Mikhail, and Eli Lavon climbed in the back. Gabriel sat up front.

“Where is she?”

“Heading south.”