The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  “Negotiations?”

  “Over the price of my settlement. Paul made an offer, I made a counteroffer. We went back and forth several times.”

  “All by phone?”

  Lacroix nodded.

  “What’s Brossard’s role in the operation?”

  “He’s staying in the house where they’re keeping the girl.”

  “Is Paul there with him?”

  “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

  CÔTE D’AZUR, FRANCE

  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.

  “Homesick?” asked Gabriel.

  “Occasionally, I like to hear the sound of my native language.”

  “You’ve never been back?”

  “To England?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Never,” answered Keller. “I refuse to work there, and I’ve never accepted a contract on a British subject.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “One has to operate by a certain code.”

  “So your parents have no idea you’re alive?”

  “They haven’t a clue.”

  “Then you couldn’t possibly be Jewish,” admonished Gabriel. “No Jewish boy would ever allow his mother to think he was dead. He wouldn’t dare.”

  Gabriel turned to the most recent entry in Madeline Hart’s personnel file and read it silently as Keller drove. It was a copy of a letter, sent by Jeremy Fallon to the Party chairman, suggesting that Madeline be promoted to a junior post in a ministry and groomed for elected office. Then he looked at the snapshot of Madeline sitting at an outdoor café with the man they knew only as Paul.

  Keller, watching him, asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m just wondering why a rising young star in Britain’s governing party was sharing a bottle of champagne with a first-rate creep like our friend Paul.”

  “Because he knew she was having an affair with the British prime minister. And he was preparing to kidnap her.”

  “How could he have known?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “Is it supported by fact?”

  “A couple.”

  “Then it’s only a theory.”

  “But at least it will help to pass the time.”

  Gabriel closed the file, as if to say he was listening. Keller switched off the radio.

  “Men like Jonathan Lancaster always make the same mistake when they have an affair,” he said. “They trust their bodyguards to keep their mouths shut. But they don’t. They talk to each other, they talk to their wives, they talk to their girlfriends, and they talk to their old mates who’ve found work in London’s private security industry. And before long the talk reaches the ears of someone like Paul.”

  “You think Paul is connected to the London security business?”

  “He could be. Or he could know someone who is. However it happened,” Keller added, “a piece of information like that is gold to someone like Paul. He probably put Madeline under watch in London and hacked into her mobile phone and e-mail accounts. That’s how he found out she was coming to Corsica on holiday. And when she arrived, Paul was waiting.”

  “Why have lunch with her? Why take the risk of showing his face?”

  “Because he needed to get her alone so he could get her cleanly.”

  “He seduced her?”

  “He’s a charming bastard.”

  “I don’t buy it,” said Gabriel after a moment of reflection.

  “Why not?”

  “Because at the time of her abduction, Madeline was romantically involved with the British prime minister. She wouldn’t have been attracted to someone like Paul.”

  “Madeline was the prime minister’s mistress,” Keller countered, “which means there was very little romance in their relationship. She was probably a lonely girl.”

  Gabriel looked at the photo again—not at Madeline but at P
aul. “Who the hell is he?”

  “He’s no amateur, that’s for sure. Only a professional would know about the don. And only a professional would dare to knock on the don’s door to ask for help.”

  “If he’s such a professional, why did he have to rely on local talent to pull off the job?”

  “You’re asking why he doesn’t have a crew of his own?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Simple economics,” Keller responded. “Maintaining a crew can be a complicated undertaking. And invariably there are personnel problems. When work is slow, the boys get unhappy. And when there’s a big score, the boys want a big cut.”

  “So he uses freelancers on straight fee-for-service contracts to avoid having to share the profits.”

  “In today’s competitive global business environment, everyone’s doing it.”

  “Not the don.”

  “The don is different. We’re a family, a clan. And you’re right about one thing,” Keller added. “Marcel Lacroix is lucky Paul didn’t have him killed. If he’d dared to ask Don Orsati for more money after completing a job, he would have ended up on the bottom of the Mediterranean in a cement coffin.”

  “Which is where he is now.”

  “Absent the cement, of course.”

  Gabriel glared at Keller in disapproval but said nothing.

  “You’re the one who ripped his earring out.”

  “A torn earlobe is a temporary affliction. A bullet through the eye is forever.”

  “What were we supposed to do with him?”

  “We could have run him over to Corsica and left him with the don.”

  “Trust me, Gabriel—he wouldn’t have lasted long. Orsati doesn’t like problems.”

  “And, as Stalin liked to say, death solves all problems.”

  “No man, no problem,” said Keller, finishing the quotation.

  “But what if the man was lying to us?”

  “The man had no reason to lie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he knew he was never going to leave that boat alive.” Keller lowered his voice and added, “He was just hoping we would give him a painless death instead of letting him drown.”

  “Is this another one of your theories?”

  “Marseilles rules,” replied Keller. “When things start out violently down here, they always end violently.”

  “And what if René Brossard isn’t sitting at Le Provence at five ten with a metal attaché case at his feet? What then?”

  “He’ll be there.”

  Gabriel wished he could share Keller’s confidence, but experience wouldn’t allow it. He checked his wristwatch and calculated the time they had left to find her.

  “If Brossard does happen to show,” he said, “it might be better if we don’t kill him before he can lead us to the house where they’re hiding Madeline.”

  “And then?”

  Death solves all problems, thought Gabriel. No man, no problem.

  14

  AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE

  The ancient city of Aix-en-Provence, founded by Romans, conquered by Visigoths, and adorned by kings, had little in common with Marseilles, its gritty neighbor to the south. Marseilles had drugs, crime, and an Arab quarter where little French was spoken; Aix had museums, shopping, and one of the country’s finest universities. The Aixois tended to look down their noses at Marseilles. They ventured there rarely, mainly to use the airport, then fled as quickly as possible, hopefully while still in possession of their valuables.

  Aix’s main thoroughfare was the Cours Mirabeau, a long, broad boulevard lined with cafés and shaded by two parallel rows of leafy plane trees. Just to the north was a tangle of narrow streets and tiny squares known as the Quartier Ancien. It was mainly a pedestrian quarter, with all but the largest streets closed to motor traffic. Gabriel performed a series of time-tested Office maneuvers to see whether he was being followed. Then, after determining he was alone, he made his way to a busy little square along the rue Espariat. In the center of the square was an ancient column topped by a Roman capital; and on the southeastern corner, partially obscured by a large tree, was Le Provence. There were a few tables on the square and more along the rue Espariat, where two old men sat staring into space, a bottle of pastis between them. It was a place for locals more than tourists, thought Gabriel. A place where a man like René Brossard would feel comfortable.

  Entering, Gabriel went to the tabac counter and asked for a pack of Gauloises and a copy of Nice-Matin; and while waiting for his change, he surveyed the interior to make certain there was only one way in and out. Then he went outside to select a fixed observation post that would allow him to see the tables on both sides of the restaurant’s exterior. As he was weighing his options, a pair of Japanese teenagers approached and in dreadful French asked if he would take their picture. Gabriel pretended not to understand. Then he turned and walked along the rue Espariat, past the blank stares of the two old Provençal men, to the Place du General de Gaulle.

  The roar of the cars racing around the busy traffic circle was jarring after the pedestrian quiet of the Quartier Ancien. It was possible Brossard would leave Aix by another route, but Gabriel doubted it; a car could get no closer to Le Provence than the Place du General de Gaulle. It would happen quickly, he thought, and if they weren’t prepared, they would lose him. He peered down the cours Mirabeau, at the leaves of the plane trees fluttering in the faint breeze, and calculated the number of operatives and vehicles it would take to do the job correctly. Twelve at least, with four vehicles to avoid detection during the pursuit to the isolated property where they were holding the girl. Shaking his head slowly, he walked over to a café at the edge of the traffic circle where Keller sat drinking coffee alone.

  “Well?” asked the Englishman.

  “We need a motorbike.”

  “Where’s the money you took from Lacroix before I killed him?”

  Frowning, Gabriel patted his midsection. Keller left a few euros on the table and rose to his feet.

  There was a dealership not far away, on the boulevard de la République. After spending a few minutes scrutinizing the inventory, Gabriel selected a Peugeot Satelis 500 premium scooter, which Keller paid for in cash and registered under one of his false Corsican-based identities. While the clerk saw to the paperwork, Gabriel crossed the street to a men’s clothing store where he purchased a leather jacket, black jeans, and a pair of leather boots. He changed in one of the shop’s dressing rooms and put his old clothing in the storage compartment of the scooter. Then, after slipping on a black helmet, he climbed on board the bike and followed Keller down the boulevard to the Place du General de Gaulle.

  By then, it was approaching five o’clock. Gabriel left the bike at the base of the rue Espariat and, with the helmet beneath his arm, made his way up the narrow street to the tiny square with a Roman column at the center. The two old men had yet to move from their table at Le Provence. Gabriel took a table at an Irish pub on the opposite side of the street and ordered a lager from the waitress; and for a moment he wondered why anyone would come to an Irish pub in the south of France. His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a powerfully built man coming up the street through the shadows, a metal attaché case dangling from his right hand. The man entered the interior portion of Le Provence and emerged a moment later with a café crème and a shot of something stronger. His eyes swept slowly over the square as he sat down at an empty table, settling briefly on Gabriel before moving on. Gabriel looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past five exactly. He removed his mobile phone from his coat pocket and speed-dialed Keller.

  “I told you he’d come,” said the Englishman.

  “How did he arrive?”

  “Black Mercedes.”

  “What kind?”

  “E-Class.”

  “Registration?”

  “Guess.”

  “Same car that was waiting at the marina?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

&nbs
p; “Who was driving?”

  “A woman, mid-twenties, maybe early thirties.”

  “French?”

  “Could be. I’ll ask her, if you’d like.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Driving in circles.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Two cars behind her.”

  Gabriel severed the connection and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. Then, from the other pocket, he removed one of the phones he had taken from Marcel Lacroix’s boat. It would happen quickly, he thought again, and if they weren’t prepared they would lose him. Twelve operatives, four vehicles—that’s what he needed to do the job properly. Instead, he had only two vehicles, and the only other member of his team was a professional hit man who had once tried to kill him. He drank some of the lager, if only for the sake of his cover. Then he stared at the dead man’s phone and watched the minutes tick slowly past.

  15

  AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE

  At 5:18 time seemed to stumble to a stop. The distant hum of the traffic faded; the figures in the tiny square froze, as though rendered in oil on canvas by the hand of Renoir. Gabriel, the restorer, was able to examine them at his leisure. A quartet of florid Germans examining the menu at the tapas bar. Two sandaled Scandinavian girls staring mystified at the last paper street map in all creation. A pretty woman sitting at the base of the Roman column with a boy of perhaps three on her knees. And a man seated at a café called Le Provence with no company other than a metal attaché case filled with one hundred thousand euros. One hundred thousand euros that had been supplied by a man without a country and with no name other than Paul. Gabriel looked at the woman and the child at the base of the column and in his thoughts saw a flash of fire and blood. Then he glanced again at the man sitting alone at Le Provence. It was now twenty minutes past five o’clock. At the instant Gabriel’s watch ticked over to 5:21, the man rose to his feet, snatched up the attaché, and departed.

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

  “Le Cézanne, just up the street.”