Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“Drive,” said Gabriel.

SARAH WOKE to paralyzing cold, her ears ringing with the hiss of tires over wet asphalt. Where am I now? she thought, and then she remembered. She was in the trunk of a Mercedes, an unwilling passenger on Muhammad’s night journey to oblivion. Slowly, bit by bit, she gathered up the fragments of this day without end and placed them in proper sequence. She saw Zizi in his helicopter, glancing at his wristwatch as he sent her to her death. And Jean-Michel, her traveling companion, catching a few minutes of sleep along the way. And finally, she saw the monster, Ahmed bin Shafiq, warning her that his bloodbath at the Vatican was not yet complete. She heard his voice now; the drumbeat cadence of his questions.

I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline…

He is Yaakov, she thought. And he is five times the man you are .

I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party…

She is Dina, she thought. The avenged remnant .

I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean…

He is Gabriel, she thought. And one day very soon he’s going to kill you .

They’re gone now, and you’re all alone…

No, I’m not, she thought. They’re here with me. All of them .

And in her mind she saw them coming for her through the snowfall. Would they arrive before Muhammad bestowed upon her a painless death? Would they come in time to learn the secret that Ahmed bin Shafiq had so arrogantly spit in her face? Sarah knew she could help them. She had information Muhammad wanted-and it was hers to give at whatever pace, and in whatever detail, she desired. Go slowly, she thought. Take all the time in the world .

She closed her eyes and once again started to lose consciousness. This time it was sleep. She remembered the last thing Gabriel had said to her the night before her departure from London. Sleep, Sarah, he had said. You have a long journey ahead of you .

WHEN SHE woke next the car was pitching violently. Gone was the hiss of tires moving over wet asphalt. Now it seemed they were plowing through deep snow over a rough track. This was confirmed for her a moment later when the tires lost traction and one of the occupants was forced to climb out and push. When the car stopped again, Sarah heard voices in Arabic and Swiss German, then the deep groan of frozen metal hinges. They drove on for a moment longer, then stopped a third time-the final time, she assumed, because the car’s engine immediately went silent.

The trunk flew open. Two unfamiliar faces peered down at her; four hands seized her and lifted her out. They stood her upright and let go of her, but her knees buckled and she collapsed into the snow. This proved to be a source of great amusement to them, and they stood around laughing for several moments before once again lifting her to her feet.

She looked around. They were in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded by towering fir and pine. There was an A-shaped chalet with a steeply pitched roof and a separate outbuilding of some sort, next to which were parked two four-wheel-drive jeeps. It was snowing heavily. To Sarah, still veiled, it seemed the sky was raining ash.

Muhammad appeared and grunted something in Arabic to the two men holding her upright. They took a step toward the chalet, expecting Sarah to walk with them, but her legs were rigid with cold and would not function. She tried to tell them she was freezing to death but could not speak. There was one benefit to the cold: she had long forgotten the pain of the blows she had taken in her face and abdomen.

They took her by the arms and waist and dragged her. Her legs trailed behind, and her feet carved twin trenches in the snow. Soon they were ablaze with the cold. She tried to remember what shoes she had put on that morning. Flat-soled sandals, she remembered suddenly-the ones Nadia had bought for her in Gustavia to go with the outfit she’d worn to Le Tetou.

They went to the back of the chalet. Here the trees were closer, no more than thirty yards from the structure, and a single frozen sentry was standing watch, smoking a cigarette and stamping his boots against the cold. The outer wall of the house was overhung by the eaves of the roof and stacked with firewood. They dragged her through a doorway, then down a flight of cement stairs. Still unable to walk, Sarah’s frozen feet banged on each step. She began to cry in pain, a shivering tremulous wail to which her tormentors paid no heed.

They came to another door, which was tightly closed and secured by a padlock. A guard opened the lock, then the door, then threw a light switch. Muhammad entered the room first. The guards brought Sarah next.

A SMALL square chamber, no more than ten feet on either side. Porcelain-white walls. Photographs. Arab men at Abu Ghraib. Arab men in cages at Guantánamo Bay. A hooded Muslim terrorist holding the severed head of an American hostage. In the center of the room a metal table bolted to the floor. In the center of the table an iron loop. Attached to the loop a pair of handcuffs. Sarah screamed and flailed against them. It was useless, of course. One pinned her arms to the table while the second secured the handcuffs to her wrists. A chair was thrust into the back of her legs. Two hands forced her into it. Muhammad tore the veil from her face and slapped her twice.

“ARE YOU ready to talk?”

“Yes.”

“No more lies?”

She shook her head.

“Say it, Sarah. No more lies.”

“No-more-lies.”

“You’re going to tell me everything you know?”

“Every-thing.”

“You’re cold?”

“Freezing.”

“Would you like something warm to drink?”

She nodded.

“Tea? You drink tea, Sarah.”

Another nod.

“How do you take your tea, Sarah?”

“You can’t-be serious.”

“How do you take your tea?”

“With cyanide.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “You should be so lucky. We’ll have tea, then we’ll talk.”

THEY ALL THREE exited the room. Muhammad closed the door and put the padlock back into place. Sarah lowered her head to the table and closed her eyes. In her mind an image formed-the image of a clock counting down the minutes to her execution. Muhammad was bringing her tea. Sarah opened the glass cover of her imaginary clock and moved the hands back five minutes.

THEY BROUGHT THE TEA Arab-style in a small glass. Sarah’s hands remained cuffed. To drink she had to lower her head toward the table and slurp noisily while Muhammad gazed at her in revulsion. His own tea remained untouched. It stood between his open notebook and a loaded pistol.

“You can’t make me vanish and expect no one to notice,” she said.

He looked up and blinked several times rapidly. Sarah, free of the abaya, examined him in the harsh light of the interrogation chamber. He was bald to the crown of his angular head, and his remaining hair and beard were cropped to precisely the same length. His dark eyes were partially concealed behind a pair of academic spectacles, which flashed with reflected light each time he looked up from his notepad. His expression was open and strangely earnest for an interrogator, and his face, when he was not screaming or threatening to strike her, was vaguely pleasant. At times he seemed to Sarah like an eager young journalist posing questions to a politician standing at a podium.

“Everyone in London knows I went to the Caribbean with Zizi,” she said. “I spent almost two weeks on Alexandra . I was seen with him at restaurants on Saint Bart’s. I went to the beach with Nadia. There’s a record of my departure from Saint Maarten and a record of my arrival in Zurich. You can’t just make me disappear in Switzerland. You’ll never get away with it.”