She went back into her room, shed her clothing, and padded into the bathroom. Avert your eyes, Wazir, she thought. No pornography. She bathed in Zizi’s hedonistic Jacuzzi tub and listened to Keith Jarrett on Zizi’s state-of-the-art audio system. She wrapped herself in Zizi’s terry-cloth robe and dried her hair with Zizi’s hair dryer. She applied makeup to her face, just enough to erase the effects of the transatlantic journey, and as she arranged her hair loosely about her shoulders she thought briefly of Gabriel.

“How do you like to wear your hair, Sarah?”

“Down, mostly.”

“You have very nice cheekbones. A very graceful neck. You should think about wearing your hair up from time to time. Like Marguerite.”

But not tonight. When she was satisfied with her appearance she went into the bedroom and opened the closet door. Lying on one of the shelves was a gift-wrapped box. She removed the paper and lifted the lid. Inside was an ivory-colored crushed-silk pantsuit and silk camisole. It fit her perfectly, just like everything else. She added the Harry Winston watch, the Bulgari earrings, the Mikimoto pearls, and the Tiffany bracelet. At five minutes to nine she left the room and made her way to the afterdeck. Try to forget we even exist. Be Sarah Bancroft, and nothing can go wrong.

ZIZI GREETED her lavishly.

“Sarah! So lovely to see you again. Everyone, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is everyone. There are too many names for you to remember at once, unless you’re one of those people who’s extremely good with names. I suggest we do it slowly. Please sit down, Sarah. You’ve had a very long day. You must be famished.”

He settled her near the end of the long table and went to his own place at the opposite end. An Abdul was seated to her right and Herr Wehrli the banker to her left. Across from her was Mansur, the chief of the travel department, and Herr Wehrli’s skittish wife, who seemed to find the entire spectacle appalling. Next to Frau Wehrli sat Jean-Michel, the personal trainer. His long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he was gazing at Sarah with unabashed interest, much to the distress of his wife, Monique. Farther along the table sat Rahimah and her beautiful boyfriend, Hamid, who was an Egyptian film star of some sort. Nadia sat proprietarily next to her father. Several times during the long meal, Sarah cast her eyes in Zizi’s direction only to find Nadia glaring back at her. Nadia, she suspected, was going to be as much of a problem as bin Talal.