THE MOTORCADE snaked its way at high speed down the hill into Gustavia. Gabriel, following after them, could see Alexandra ablaze with light at the edge of the harbor. Two minutes later the Land Cruisers turned into the parking lot of the marina. Zizi’s bodyguards handled the disembarkation and loading process with the speed and precision of professionally trained men. Rescue was not an option. Gabriel saw Sarah only once—a flash of saffron wedged between two large dark figures—and a moment later they were seaborne once more, bound for the sanctuary of Alexandra. He had no choice but to turn and head to Saline, where Lavon was waiting for him. Gabriel sat morosely in the prow as they headed into the bay.

“Do you remember what I told you this afternoon, Gabriel?”

“I remember, Eli.”

“If you can only get one target tonight, make sure it’s Sarah. That’s what I told you.”

“I know, Eli.”

“Who made the mistake? Was it us? Or was it Sarah?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, it doesn’t. He’s going to kill her unless we can somehow get her back.”

“He won’t do it here. Not after involving the French police.”

“He’ll find a way. No one betrays Zizi and gets away with it. Zizi’s rules.”

“He’ll have to move her,” Gabriel said. “And, of course, he’ll want to know who she’s working for.”

“Which means we might have a very small window, depending on the methods Zizi is willing to use to get answers.”

Gabriel was silent. Lavon could read his thoughts.

We’ll get her, Gabriel was thinking. Let’s just hope there’s something left of her when we do.

28. CIA Headquarters

CIA Headquarters

WORD OF THE DISASTER in Saint-Barthélemy arrived in the Operations Room at King Saul Boulevard within ten minutes of Gabriel’s return to Sun Dancer. Amos Sharrett, the director-general, was upstairs in his office at the time and was informed of the developments by the duty officer. Despite the lateness of the hour, he immediately woke the prime minister and told him the news. Five minutes later there was a second secure call from Sun Dancer, this one to Langley, Virginia. It went not to the Ops Center but to the private line of Adrian Carter’s seventh-floor office. Carter took the news calmly, as he did most things, and toyed with a stray paper clip as Gabriel made his request. “We have a plane in Miami at the moment,” Carter said. “It can be on the ground in Saint Maarten by dawn.”