Messenger

by Daniel Silva

  “Depends on how harmless.”

  “Let’s start with an easy one. Where’s the painting now? France or England?”

  “It’s here in London.”

  “In your gallery?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What sort of painting are we talking about? Landscape? Still life? Portrait?”

  “Portrait.”

  “Self?”

  “No.”

  “Male or female.”

  “Female.”

  “Dreamy. Early or late?”

  “Very late.”

  “Saint-Rémy? Auvers?”

  “The latter, Andrew. It was painted during the final days of his life in Auvers.”

  “You’re not sitting on an undiscovered portrait of Marguerite Gachet, are you, Julian?”

  “Maybe we should have a glance at the menu.”

  “Fuck the menu, Julian. Answer the question: Are you sitting on an undiscovered portrait of Marguerite?”

  “I’ve gone as far as I can in terms of the content, Andrew. And that’s final. If you want to know what it is, you’ll have to take a look at it for yourself.”

  “You’re offering me a look?”

  “I’m offering your man a look, not you.”

  “Easier said than done. Running the world keeps my man busy.”

  “I’m prepared to offer you and Zizi exclusivity for seventy-two hours. After that, I’ll have to open it up to other collectors.”

  “Bad form, Julian. My man doesn’t like ultimatums.”

  “It’s not an ultimatum. It’s just business. He understands that.”

  “What kind of price tag are we talking about?”

  “Eighty-five million.”

  “Eighty-five million? Then you do indeed need Zizi. You see, money’s a bit tight at the moment, isn’t it? Can’t remember the last time someone’s laid down eighty-five million for something. Can you, Julie?”

  “This painting is worth every penny.”

  “If it’s what you say it is, and if it’s in perfect condition, I’ll get you your eighty-five million in very short order. You see, my man has been looking for something splashy like this for a very long time. But then you knew that, didn’t you, Julie? That’s why you brought it to me first. You knew we could get the deal done in an afternoon. No auctions. No press. No nagging questions about your quiet little French woman who wants to remain anonymous. I’m the goose that lays the golden egg as far as you’re concerned, and you’re going to have to give the goose his due.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Andrew?”

  “You know precisely what I’m talking about.”

  “Maybe I’m a bit slow today. Mind spelling it out?”

  “I’m talking about money, Julian. I’m talking about a very small slice of a very large pie.”

  “You want a cut? A piece of the action, as the Americans like to say.”

  “Let’s leave the Americans out of this, shall we? My man’s not terribly fond of the Americans at the moment.”

  “What sort of slice are we talking about, Andrew?”

  “Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that your commission on the sale is ten percent. That means you’ll clear eight and a half million dollars for an afternoon’s work. I’m asking for ten percent of your ten percent. Actually, I’m not asking, I’m demanding it. And you’ll pay it, because that’s the way the game is played.”

  “To the best of my faded recollection, you are Zizi al-Bakari’s exclusive art consultant. Zizi pays you an outrageous salary. You practically live on Zizi’s expense account. And you spend most of your free time relaxing at Zizi’s properties. He does this so that the advice you bring him remains untainted by other dealings on your part. But you’ve been playing both sides of the street, haven’t you, Andrew? How long has it been going on? How much have you been skimming? How much of Zizi’s money have you got salted away?”

  “It’s not Zizi’s money. It’s my money. And what Zizi doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “And if he finds out? He’ll drop you in the Empty Quarter and let the vultures pick over your bones.”

  “Precisely, love. Which is why you’re never going to mention a word of this to Zizi. I’m offering you seven and a half million dollars for an afternoon’s work. Not bad, Julie. Take the deal. Let’s get rich together, shall we?”

  “All right, Andrew. You’ll get your ten percent. But I want Zizi al-Bakari in my gallery in all his glory in seventy-two hours or the deal’s off.”

  GABRIEL STOPPED THE RECORDING, reset it, and played the final bit again.

  “But you’ve been playing both sides of the street, haven’t you, Andrew? How long has it been going on? How much have you been skimming? How much of Zizi’s money have you got salted away?”

  “It’s not Zizi’s money. It’s my money. And what Zizi doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “And if he finds out? He’ll drop you in the Empty Quarter and let the vultures pick over your bones.”

  “Precisely, love. Which is why you’re never going to mention a word of this to Zizi.”

  Gabriel closed the file and removed the disk from the computer.

  “Mr. Malone has been a very bad boy,” said Yaakov.

  “Yes, he has,” said Gabriel, but then Gabriel had known that for some time.

  “Don’t you think that someone should tell Zizi about it?” asked Dina. “It’s only right.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel, slipping the disk into his pocket. “Someone should. But not yet.”

  IT WAS among the longest seventy-two hours any of them had ever endured. There were false starts and false promises, commitments made and broken within the span of an afternoon. Malone played the role of the intimidator one minute and the supplicant the next. “Zizi’s in a bit of a bind,” he said late Saturday. “Zizi’s in the middle of a major deal. Zizi’s doing Delhi today and Singapore tomorrow. He can’t possibly make time for London until midweek.” Isherwood held firm. Zizi’s exclusive window closed Monday at 5:00 P.M., he said. After that Zizi would find himself in scrum fighting it out with all comers.

  Late on Sunday evening Malone phoned with the disappointing news that Zizi was taking a pass. Gabriel was not the least bit concerned, because that very afternoon the neviot team stationed in Archer Travel had seen a well-dressed Arab in his mid-thirties making an obvious reconnaissance run of Mason’s Yard. Lavon, after viewing the surveillance photographs, identified the man as Jafar Sharuki, a former Saudi national guardsman who served as one of Zizi’s advance security men. “He’s coming,” Lavon said. “Zizi always likes to play hard to get.”

  The call they were all expecting came at precisely 10:22 the following morning. It was Andrew Malone, and even though they could not see him, they knew the cadaver was all smiles. Zizi was on his way to London, he said. Zizi would be at Isherwood’s gallery at 4:30. “Zizi has a few rules,” Malone said before ringing off. “No alcohol or cigarettes. And make sure those two girls of yours are properly dressed. Zizi likes pretty girls, but he likes them modestly attired. He’s a religious man, our Zizi. He’s easily offended.”

  London

  MARGUERITE GACHET WAS THE first to arrive. She came in the back of an unmarked van, driven by a bodel from London Station, and was secreted into the premises of Isherwood Fine Arts through the secure loading bay. The delivery was monitored by two men from Wazir bin Talal’s security unit, who were seated in a parked car in Duke Street, and by Jafar Sharuki, the advance man, who was picking at a plate of fish and chips in the pub next door to Isherwood’s gallery. Confirmation of the painting’s safe transfer arrived at the Surrey safe house at 3:18 P.M. in the form of a secure e-mail from the neviot team. It was taken in by Dina, then read aloud to Gabriel, who was at that moment slowly pacing the threadbare carpet in the drawing room. He paused for a moment and tipped his head, as though listening to distant music, then resumed his restless journey.

  He felt as helpless as a playwright on op
ening night. He had created the characters, given them their lines, and could see them now on a stage of his making. He could see Isherwood in his chalk-stripe suit and lucky red tie, craving a drink and nibbling on the nail of his left forefinger to relieve the tension. And Chiara seated behind her glossy new receptionist’s desk, with her hair drawn sensibly back and her long legs crossed primly at the ankle. And Sarah, in the black Chanel suit she’d bought at Harrods two weeks earlier, propped serenely on the divan in the upstairs exhibition room, with her eyes on Marguerite Gachet and her thoughts on the monster who would be coming up the lift in two hours’ time. If he could have rewritten anyone’s role, it would have been Sarah’s. It was too late for that now. The curtain was about to rise.

  And so all the playwright could do now was pace the drawing room of his safe house and wait for the updates. At 3:04 Mr. Baker’s 747 was seen on low approach to Heathrow Airport, Mr. Baker being their code name for Zizi al-Bakari. At 3:32 came word that Mr. Baker and his entourage had cleared VIP customs. At 3:45 they were seen boarding their limousines, and at 3:52 those same limousines were seen trying to set a land-speed record on the A4. At 4:09 Mr. Baker’s artistic adviser, whom they code-named Marlowe, telephoned Isherwood from the motorcade to say they were running a few minutes behind schedule. That turned out not to be the case, however, because at 4:27 the same motorcade was spotted turning into Duke Street from Piccadilly.

  There then followed the first stumble of the afternoon. Thankfully it was Zizi’s and not theirs. It came as the first limousine was attempting to negotiate the narrow passageway from Duke Street into Mason’s Yard. A moment into the exercise the driver determined that the cars were too large to fit through the breach. Sharuki, the advance man, had neglected to take a proper measurement. And so the final message that Gabriel received from the neviot team stated that Mr. Baker, chairman and CEO of Jihad Inc., was getting out of his car and walking to the gallery.

  BUT SARAH was not waiting in the upstairs exhibition room. She was at that moment one floor below, in the office she shared with Julian, gazing out at the rather farcical scene taking place in the passageway. It was her first act of rebellion. Gabriel had wanted her to remain upstairs, hidden from view until the final moment, so that she could be unveiled along with Marguerite. She would obey his order eventually, but not until she saw Zizi once with her own eyes. She had studied his face in Yossi’s magazine clippings and had memorized the sound of his voice in the videos. But clippings and videos were no substitute for a glimpse of the real thing. And so she stood there, in blatant contravention of Gabriel’s instructions, and watched as Zizi and his entourage came filing through the passage into the darkened quadrangle.

  Rafiq al-Kamal, chief of Zizi’s personal security detail, came first. He was bigger than he had appeared in the photographs, but moved with the agility of a man half his size. He had no overcoat, because an overcoat would interfere with his draw. He had no conscience either, Eli Lavon had told her. He made one quick survey of the yard, like a scout looking for signs of the enemy, then turned and with an old-fashioned hand signal beckoned the others forward.

  Next came two very pretty girls with long black hair and long coats, looking peeved for having to walk the one hundred feet from the stranded cars to the gallery. The one on the right was Nadia al-Bakari, Zizi’s spoiled daughter. The one on the left was Rahimah Hamza, daughter of Daoud Hamza, the Stanford-educated Lebanese reputed to be the true financial genius behind AAB Holdings. Hamza himself was trailing a few paces behind the girls with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  After Hamza came Herr Manfred Wehrli, the Swiss banker who handled Zizi’s money. Next to Wehrli was a child with no apparent owner, and behind the child two more beautiful women, one blond, the other with short hair the color of sandstone. When the child bolted suddenly across the yard in the wrong direction, he was snared in a pantherlike movement by Jean-Michel, the French kickboxer who now served as Zizi’s personal trainer and auxiliary bodyguard.

  Abdul-Jalil and Abdul-Hakim, the American-trained lawyers, came next. Yossi had broken up one of the briefings by contemptuously pointing out that Zizi had chosen lawyers whose names meant Servant of the Great and Servant of the Wise One. After the lawyers came Mansur, chief of Zizi’s travel department, then Hassan, chief of communications, then Andrew Malone, Zizi’s soon-to-be-former exclusive art consultant. And finally, sandwiched between Wazir bin Talal and Jafar Sharuki, was Zizi himself.

  Sarah turned away from the window. Under Chiara’s watchful gaze, she entered the tiny lift and pressed the button for the top floor. A moment later she was deposited into the upper exhibition room. In the center of the room, propped on a stately easel and veiled like a Muslim woman, was the van Gogh. From below she could hear Rafiq the bodyguard tramping heavily up the stairs.

  You’re not to think of him as a terrorist, Gabriel had said. You’re not to wonder whether any of his money ended up in the pocket of Marwan al-Shehhi or any of the other terrorists who murdered Ben. You’re to think of him as an extraordinarily wealthy and important man. Don’t flirt with him. Don’t try to seduce him. Think of it as a job interview. You’re not going to bed with him. You’re going to work for him. And whatever you do, don’t try to give Zizi any advice. You’ll ruin the sale. Both of them.

  She turned and examined her appearance in the reflection of the elevator door. She was vaguely out of focus, which she found fitting. She was still Sarah Bancroft, just a different version. A reworking of the same painting. She smoothed the front of her Chanel suit—not for Zizi, she told herself, but for Gabriel—and from below she heard the voice of the monster for the first time. “Good afternoon, Mr. Isherwood,” said the chairman and CEO of Jihad Incorporated. “I’m Abdul Aziz al-Bakari. Andrew tells me you have a picture for me.”

  THE FIRST ELEVATOR dispensed only security men. Rafiq plunged into the room and groped her unabashedly with his eyes, while Sharuki peered beneath the divan for hidden weapons and Jean-Michel, the kickboxer, roamed the perimeter on the balls of his feet like a lethal ballet dancer. The next elevator brought Malone and Isherwood, who were wedged happily between Nadia and Rahimah. Zizi came on the third, with only the trusted bin Talal for company. His dark handmade suit hung gracefully over what was an otherwise paunchy physique. His beard was carefully trimmed, as was his deeply receded head of graying hair. His eyes were alert and active. They settled immediately on the one person in the room whose name he did not know.

  Don’t attempt to introduce yourself, Sarah. Don’t look him directly in the eye. If there’s a move to be made, let it be Zizi who makes it.

  She looked down at her shoes. The elevator doors opened again, this time disgorging Abdul & Abdul, Servants of the Great Wise One, and Herr Wehrli the Swiss moneyman. Sarah watched them enter, then cast a glance at Zizi, who was still staring at her.

  “Forgive me, Mr. al-Bakari,” Isherwood said. “My manners are atrocious today. This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here this afternoon.”

  Don’t try to shake his hand. If he offers his, take it briefly and let go.

  She stood very straight, with her hands behind her back and her eyes downward at a slight angle. Zizi’s eyes were roving over her. Finally he stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She took it and heard herself say: “The pleasure is mine, Mr. al-Bakari. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  He smiled and held on to her hand a moment more than was comfortable. Then he released it suddenly and made for the painting. Sarah turned and this time was treated to a view of his back, which was soft through the shoulders and wide in the hips. “I’d like to see the painting, please,” he said to no one in particular, but Sarah was once more listening only to the voice of Gabriel. Do the presentation on Zizi’s timetable, he had said. If you force him to sit through a story, you’ll only make him angry. Remember, Zizi is the star of the show, not Marguerite.

  Sarah slipped past
him, careful not to brush his shoulder, then reached up and slowly removed the baize covering. She remained in front of the canvas for a moment longer, gathering up the fabric and blocking Zizi’s view, before finally stepping to one side. “May I present Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table by Vincent van Gogh,” she said formally. “Oil on canvas, of course, painted in Auvers in July 1890.”

  A collective gasp rose from Zizi’s entourage, followed by an excited murmur. Only Zizi remained silent. His dark eyes were casting about the surface of the painting, his expression inscrutable. After a moment he lifted his gaze from the canvas and looked at Isherwood.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “I wish I could take credit for it, Mr. al-Bakari, but it was Sarah who discovered Marguerite.”

  Zizi’s gaze moved to Sarah. “You?” he asked with admiration.

  “Yes, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “Then I’ll ask you the same question I asked of Mr. Isherwood. Where did you find her?”

  “As Julian explained to Mr. Malone, the owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “I’m not asking for the identity of the owner, Miss Bancroft. I’d just like to know how you discovered it.”

  You’ll have to give him something, Sarah. He’s entitled to it. But do it reluctantly and be discreet. A man like Zizi appreciates discretion.

  “It was the result of several years of investigation on my part, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “How interesting. Tell me more, please, Miss Bancroft.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t without violating my agreement with the owners, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “Owner,” said Zizi, correcting her. “According to Andrew, the painting is the property of a French woman.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific.”

  “But I’m just curious about how you found it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I love a good detective story.”