Daniel Silva - The Messenger

“But that’s not the way it happened,” Muhammad said. “You see, shortly after your arrival tonight, you checked into your room at the Dolder Grand Hotel. The clerk examined your passport, as is customary here in Switzerland, and forwarded the information to the Swiss police, as is also customary. In a few hours you will awaken and, after taking coffee in your room, you will go to the hotel gym for your morning workout. Then you will shower and dress for your appointment. A car will collect you at 9:45 and take you to Herr Klarsfeld’s residence on the Zurichberg. There you will be seen by several members of Herr Klarsfeld’s household staff. After viewing the Manet painting, you will place a call to Mr. al-Bakari in the Caribbean, at which point you will inform him that you cannot reach accord on a sale price. You will return to the Dolder Grand Hotel and check out of your room, then proceed to Kloten Airport, where you will board a commercial flight back to London. You will spend two days relaxing at your apartment in Chelsea, during which time you will make several telephone calls on your phone and make several charges on your credit cards. And then, unfortunately, you will vanish inexplicably.”

“Who is she?”

“Suffice it to say she bears a vague resemblance to you, enough so she can travel on your passport and slip in and out of your apartment without attracting suspicion from the neighbors. We have helpers here in Europe, Sarah, helpers with white faces.”

“The police will still come after Zizi.”

“No one comes after Zizi al-Bakari. The police will have questions, of course, and they will be answered in due time by Mr. al-Bakari’s lawyers. The matter will be handled quietly and with tremendous discretion. It is one of the great advantages of being a Saudi. We truly are above the law. But back to the matter at hand.”

He looked down and tapped the tip of his pen impatiently against the blank page of his notebook.

“You will answer my questions now, Sarah?”

She nodded.

“Say yes, Sarah. I want you to get in the habit of speaking.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll answer your questions.”

“Is your name Sarah Bancroft?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Are the place of birth and date of birth correct on your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Was your father really an executive for Citibank?”

“Yes.”

“Are your parents now truly divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attend Dartmouth University and later pursue graduate studies at the Courtauld Institute in London?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the Sarah Bancroft who wrote a well-received dissertation on German Expressionism while earning a Ph.D. from Harvard?”

“I am.”

“Were you also working for the Central Intelligence Agency at this time?”

“No.”

“When did you join the CIA?”

“I never joined the CIA.”

“You’re lying, Sarah.”

“I’m not lying.”

“When did you join the CIA?”

“I’m not CIA.”

“Who do you work for, then?”

She was silent.

“Answer the question, Sarah. Who are you working for?”

“You know who I’m working for.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I am working for the intelligence service of the State of Israel.”

He removed his eyeglasses and stared at her for a moment.

“Are you telling me the truth, Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying again.”

“I know.”

“Would you care for some more tea?”

She nodded.

“Answer me, Sarah. Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, I would like some more tea.”

Muhammad leaned back in his chair and slapped his palm on the door of the chamber. It opened immediately and outside Sarah saw two men standing watch. “More tea,” Muhammad said to them in English, then turned to a fresh page in his notebook and looked up at her with his eager, open face. Sarah lifted her hand to her imaginary clock and added ten more minutes.

THOUGH SARAH did not know it, the setting of her interrogation was the largely Roman Catholic canton of Uri, in the region of the country the Swiss fondly refer to as Inner Switzerland. The chalet was located in a narrow gorge cut by a tributary of the Reuss River. There was only one road in the gorge and a single slumbering village at the top. Uzi Navot inspected it quickly, then turned around and headed back down the gorge. The Swiss, he knew from experience, were some of the most vigilant people on the planet.

The Saudis had tried to evade him in Zurich, but Navot had been prepared. He had always believed that when tailing a professional who is expecting surveillance, it is best to let him think that he is indeed being followed-and more important, that his countermeasures are working. Navot had sacrificed three of his watchers in northern Zurich in service to that cause. It was Navot himself who had watched the Mercedes with diplomatic plates turn into the warehouse in the Industrie-Quartier, and it was Navot who had followed it out of Zurich twenty minutes later.

His team had regrouped along the shores of the Zürichsee and joined him in the pursuit southward toward Uri. The foul weather had granted them an additional layer of protection, as it did now for Navot, as he climbed out of his car and stole quietly through the dense trees toward the chalet, a gun in his outstretched hands. Thirty minutes later, after conducting a cursory survey of the property and the security, he was back behind the wheel, heading down the gorge to the Reuss River valley. There he parked in a turnout by the riverbank and waited for Gabriel to arrive from Zurich.

“WHO IS YOUR control officer?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time. What is the name of your control officer?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know his name. At least not his real name.”

“By what name do you know him?”

Don’t give him Gabriel, she thought. She blurted the first that came into her mind.

“He called himself Ben.”

“Ben?”

“Yes, Ben.”

“You’re sure? Ben?”

“It’s not his real name. It’s just what he called himself.”

“How do you know it’s not his real name?”

She embraced the precision of his inquiry, for it allowed her to add more minutes to her imaginary clock.

“Because he told me it wasn’t his real name.”

“And you believed him?”

“I suppose I had no reason not to.”

“When did you meet this man?”

“It was December.”

“Where?”

“In Washington.”

“What time of day was it?”

“In the evening.”

“He came to your house. Your place of work.”

“It was after work. I was on the way home.”

“Tell me how it happened, Sarah. Tell me everything.”

And she did, morsel by morsel, drop by drop.

“WHERE WAS this house they brought you?”

“In Georgetown.”

“Which street in Georgetown?”

“It was dark. I don’t remember.”

“Which street in Georgetown, Sarah?”

“It was N Street, I think.”

“You think, or you know?”

“It was N Street.”

“The address?”

“There was no address on it.”

“Which block?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Was it east of Wisconsin Avenue or west, Sarah?”

“You know Georgetown?”

“East or West?”

“West. Definitely West.”

“Which block, Sarah?”

“Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth, I think.”

“You think?”

“Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth.”

“Which side of the street?”

“What do you mean?”