SHE BEGAN to think of them as friends. They rode with her in the Tube. They strolled in Mason’s Yard and loitered in Duke Street. They followed her to lunch and there was always one waiting in Green’s each evening when she stopped at the bar for a quick one with Oliver and the boys. They went with her to an auction at Sotheby’s and watched her pick over the dreary contents of a saleroom in Hull. They even made a long trip with her down to Devon, where she sweet-talked a dusty minor aristocrat into parting with a lovely Venetian Madonna and Child that Isherwood had coveted for years. “Zizi’s coming for you,” Gabriel told her in a brief telephone call on the Monday afternoon. “It’s only a matter of time. And don’t be alarmed if your things seem a bit out of place when you go home tonight. Sharuki broke into your flat and searched it this morning.”

The next day the first gift arrived, a Harry Winston diamond watch. Attached to the gift-wrapped box was a handwritten note: Thank you for finding Marguerite. Eternally grateful, Zizi. The earrings from Bulgari came the following day. The double strand of Mikimoto pearls the day after that. The gold mesh bangle from Tiffany on Thursday evening, just as she was preparing to leave work. She stuck it on her right wrist and walked over to Green’s, where Oliver made a clumsy pass at her. “In another lifetime,” she said, kissing his cheek, “but not tonight. Be a love, Oliver, and walk me to the Tube.”

Evenings were the hardest on her. There were no more trips to the Surrey safe house. As far as Sarah was concerned the Surrey safe house did not exist. She found she missed them all terribly. They were a family, a loud, quarrelsome, cacophonous, loving family—the sort of family Sarah had never had. All that remained of them now was the occasional cryptic phone call from Gabriel and the light in the flat on the opposite side of the street. Yossi’s light, but soon even Yossi would be lost to her. At night, when she was alone and afraid, she sometimes wished she had told them to find someone else. And sometimes she would think of poor Julian and wonder how on earth he was going to get along without her.

THE FINAL PACKAGE arrived at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was hand-delivered by a messenger dressed in a suit and tie. Inside was a handwritten note and a single airline ticket. Sarah opened the ticket jacket and looked at the destination. Ten seconds later the telephone on her desk rang.

“Isherwood Fine Arts. This is Sarah.”

“Good afternoon, Sarah.”

It was Zizi.

“Hello, Mr. al-Bakari. How are you, sir?”

“I’ll know in a moment. Did you receive the invitation and the airline tickets?”