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.”