The English Girl

“I never asked.”

“How many others are there?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that another woman is also staying there so they look like a family.”

“Has Brossard ever mentioned the English girl?”

“He said she’s alive.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“What’s the current state of your negotiations with Paul and Brossard?”

“We reached an agreement this morning.”

“How much were you able to chisel out of them?”

“Another hundred thousand.”

“When are you supposed to take delivery of the money?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where?”

“Aix.”

“Where in Aix?”

“A café near the Place du General de Gaulle.”

“What’s the place called?”

“Le Provence—what else?”

“How’s it supposed to go down?”

“Brossard is supposed to arrive first, at ten minutes past five. I’m supposed to join him at twenty past.”

“Where will he be sitting?”

“At a table outside.”

“And the money?”

“Brossard told me it would be in a metal attaché case.”

“How inconspicuous.”

“It was his choice, not mine.”

“Is there a fallback if either one of you fails to show?”

“Le Cézanne, just up the street.”

“How long will he wait there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“And if you don’t show?”

“The deal’s off.”

“Were there any other instructions?”

“No more phone calls,” said Lacroix. “Paul’s getting nervous about all the phone calls.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Gabriel looked up toward the flying bridge, but this time Keller was standing stock-still, a black figure against a black sky, a gun balanced in outstretched hands. The single shot, muted by a suppressor, opened a hole above Lacroix’s left eye. Gabriel held the Frenchman’s shoulders as he died. Then he spun around in a rage and leveled his own weapon at Keller.

“You’d better put that away before someone gets hurt,” the Englishman said calmly.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“He got on my bad side. Besides,” Keller added as he slipped his gun into the waistband of his trousers, “we didn’t need him anymore.”

13 (#ulink_668457c7-1012-5e12-803a-5453598a096d)

CÔTE D’AZUR, FRANCE (#ulink_668457c7-1012-5e12-803a-5453598a096d)

THEY SENT HIM to the bottom in the deep waters beyond the Golfe du Lion and then made for Marseilles. It was still dark when they drew into the Old Port; they slipped from Moondance a few minutes apart, climbed into their separate cars, and set out along the coast toward Toulon. Just before the town of Bandol, Gabriel pulled to the side of the road and loosened several engine cables. Then he telephoned the rental company and in the hysterical voice of Herr Klemp left a message saying where the “broken” car could be found. After wiping his fingerprints from the steering wheel and dashboard panel, he climbed into Keller’s Renault and together they drove eastward into the rising sun to Nice. On the rue Verdi was an old apartment building, white as bone, where the Office kept one of its many French safe flats. Gabriel entered the building alone and remained inside long enough to retrieve the post, which included the copy of Madeline Hart’s Party personnel file he had requested from Graham Seymour. He read it as Keller drove toward Aix along the A8 Autoroute.

“What does it say?” the Englishman asked after several minutes of silence.

“It says that Madeline Hart is perfect. But then we already knew that.”

“I was perfect once, too. And look how I turned out.”

“You were always a reprobate, Keller. You just didn’t realize it until that night in Iraq.”

“I lost eight of my comrades trying to protect your country from Saddam’s Scuds,” Keller said.

“And we are forever in your debt.”

Mollified, Keller switched on the radio and tuned it to an English-language station based in Monaco that served the large British expatriate community living in the south of France.