“Madame al-Nasser,” Mordecai said. “There’s one small problem with the tap. As it stands now, we’re at the outside edge of its range. The signal is weak and full of interference. If bin Shafiq picked up the phone right now we might not be able to make a voice ID on him because of static on the line. We need a listening post.”

Gabriel looked at Yaakov. “What about moving the boat?”

“The waters off that point are too rough to be used as an anchorage. If we dropped anchor out there to watch the villa, we’d stick out like a sore thumb. We might as well just walk up to al-Nasser’s front door and introduce ourselves.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Mikhail as he entered the salon. “I volunteer.”

“We need a static post,” Yaakov said.

“So we’ll get one.” Gabriel held up the gift card again. “What about this name? Do you recognize it?”

“It’s not an alias that we know about,” Yaakov said. “I’ll have King Saul Boulevard run it through the computers and see what they come up with.”

“What now?” asked Mikhail.

“We’ll spend the day watching him,” Gabriel said. “We’ll try to get his photograph and his voice. If we can, we’ll send them to King Saul Boulevard for analysis.”

“It’s a small island,” Lavon said, his tone cautionary. “And we have limited personnel.”

“That can work to our advantage. In a place like this, it’s not uncommon to see the same people every day.”

“True,” Lavon said, “but bin Talal’s goons will get nervous if they see too many familiar faces.”

“And what if King Saul Boulevard tells us that Alain al-Nasser of Montreal is really a Saudi GID officer named Ahmed bin Shafiq?” Mikhail asked. “What do we do then?”

Gabriel glanced up at the monitor and looked at Sarah. “I’m going back to Gustavia,” he said, still gazing at the screen. “We need a listening post.”

THE WELL-BRED ENGLISHWOMAN who greeted him fifteen minutes later at the Sibarth villa rental agency had sun-streaked brown hair and pale blue eyes. Gabriel played the role of Heinrich Kiever, a German of means who had stumbled upon paradise and now wished to stay on a bit longer. The Englishwoman smiled—she had heard many such tales before—then printed out a listing of available properties. Gabriel scanned it and frowned. “I was hoping for something here,” he said, tapping the map that lay spread over her desk. “On this point on the north side of the Island.”

“Pointe Milou? Yes, it’s lovely, but I’m afraid we have nothing available there at the moment. We do have something here, though.” She tapped the map. “The next point over. Pointe Mangin.”

“Can you see Pointe Milou from the house?”

“Yes, quite clearly. Would you like to see some photographs?”

“Please.”