“I want to know the names of the three men who followed me on motorcycles later that day. I want to know the names of the two men who came to my villa to kill me. And the name of the man who watched my plane take off.”

“I’m telling you the truth! My name is Sarah Bancroft. I worked at an art gallery in London. I sold Zizi a painting, and he asked me to come to work for him.”

“The van Gogh?”

“Yes!”

“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table?”

“Yes, you bastard.”

“And where did you obtain this painting? Was it acquired on your behalf by your intelligence service?”

“I don’t work for an intelligence service. I work for Zizi.”

“You’re working for the Americans?”

“No.”

“For the Jews?”

“No!”

He exhaled heavily, then removed his spectacles and spent a long moment contemplatively polishing them on his cashmere scarf. “You should know that shortly after your departure from Saint Maarten, four men arrived at the airport and boarded a private plane. We recognized them. We assume they are headed here to Zurich. They’re Jews, aren’t they, Sarah?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Trust me, Sarah. They’re Jews. One can always tell.”

He examined his spectacles and polished some more. “You should also know that colleagues of these Jews clumsily attempted to follow you tonight after you landed at the airport. Our driver easily dispensed with them. You see, we’re professionals, too. They’re gone now, Sarah. And you’re all alone.”

He put on his spectacles again.

“Do you think the so-called professionals for whom you’re working would be willing to sacrifice their lives for you? They’d be vomiting their secrets all over the floor to me by now. But you’re better than them, aren’t you, Sarah? Zizi saw that, too. That’s why he made the mistake of hiring you.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. You’re the one making a mistake.”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m leaving you now in the hands of my friend Muhammad. He worked for me in Group 205. Is this name familiar to you, Sarah? Group 205? Surely your handlers must have mentioned it to you during your preparation.”

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“Muhammad is a professional. He’s also a very skilled interrogator. You and Muhammad are going to take a journey together. A night journey. Do you know this term, Sarah? The Night Journey.”

Greeted only by the sound of her weeping, he answered his own question.