The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  “How long will he wait there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “And if you don’t show?”

  “The deal’s off.”

  But why would a professional criminal fail to appear for a lucrative payday of one hundred thousand euros? Because the criminal was at that very moment lying on the seafloor of the Mediterranean eight miles south-southeast of Marseilles with a bullet in his brain. René Brossard couldn’t be allowed to know that, of course, which was why Gabriel had the dead man’s phone at the ready. He watched Brossard moving swiftly along the shadowed street, attaché case in hand. Then he looked at the florid Germans, and the sandaled Scandinavians, and the mother and child who, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his memory, were still burning. It was 5:22. Eight minutes, he thought, and then the chase would be on. One mistake was all it would take. One mistake, and Madeline Hart would die. He drank more of the beer, but in his current state it tasted of wormwood. He stared at the woman and the child and watched helplessly as the flames consumed their flesh.

  At 5:25 he rang Keller again.

  “Where is she?”

  “Still driving in circles.”

  “Maybe she’s leading you on a wild goose chase. Maybe there’s a second car.”

  “Are you always so negative?”

  “Only when a young woman’s life is at stake.”

  Keller said nothing.

  “Where is she now?”

  “If I had to guess, heading back in your direction.”

  Gabriel severed the connection and picked up the other phone. After speed-dialing Brossard’s number, he placed his thumb tightly over the microphone and brought the phone to his ear. Two rings. Then the sound of Brossard’s voice.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  Gabriel pressed his thumb tighter against the microphone and said nothing.

  “Marcel? Is that you? Where are you?”

  Gabriel removed the phone from his ear and pressed the END button. Thirty seconds later he redialed. Once again he covered the microphone with his thumb and said nothing. Brossard picked up on the first ring.

  “Marcel? Marcel? I thought I told you no more phones. You have three minutes. Then I’m gone.”

  This time it was Brossard who rang off first. Gabriel slipped the phone into his pocket and called Keller again.

  “How did it go?” asked the Englishman.

  “He thinks Lacroix is alive and well and in a spot with bad cell service.”

  “Very bad.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Getting close to the Place du General de Gaulle.”

  Gabriel killed the connection and checked the time. Three minutes, then Brossard would walk. He would be agitated, wary. It was possible he would notice a man following him on foot, especially if that man had been drinking lager in the Irish pub when Brossard had been at Le Provence. But if Brossard passed by the man on his way to the car, he might be less inclined to regard him with suspicion. It was one of Shamron’s golden rules of physical surveillance. Sometimes, he preached, it was better to follow a man from in front rather than from behind.

  Gabriel stared at his watch. Then, at the stroke of 5:28, he left his table at the pub and set out down the rue Espariat with his helmet beneath his arm. Le Cézanne was the last business on the right, at the point where the street emptied into the Place du General de Gaulle. Brossard was at a table outside. As Gabriel passed, he could feel the Frenchman’s eyes boring into his back, but he forced himself not to turn and look. The motorbike was where he had left it, parked next to several others beneath a plane tree that was beginning to shed its leaves. Three had come to rest on the bike’s saddle. Gabriel brushed them away. Then he climbed on board and pulled on the helmet.

  In the rearview mirror he could see Brossard rising from his table and stepping into the narrow street. A few seconds later the Frenchman passed within a few inches of Gabriel’s right shoulder. Close enough so that Gabriel could smell his cologne. Close enough that, if he were so inclined, he could have plucked the attaché case from his left hand. Earlier Brossard had carried the attaché in his right hand, but now that was not possible; he had a mobile phone in his right hand. And the phone was pressed hard against his ear.

  Gabriel started the bike’s engine as Brossard entered the esplanade at the edge of the Place du General de Gaulle, his head swiveling slowly from side to side like the turret of a tank looking for a target to engage and destroy. There were late-afternoon crowds milling about; Gabriel might have lost sight of him were it not for the attaché case, which shone like a newly minted coin in the gathering dusk. By the time Brossard reached the curb of the traffic circle, the mobile phone was back in his pocket and he was reaching for the front passenger door of a black Mercedes E-Class sedan that had pulled to the side. As he lowered himself into the seat, a Renault hatchback swept past and then turned into the boulevard de la République. The Mercedes did the same thing ten seconds later. Watching, Gabriel couldn’t help but smile at their good fortune. Sometimes, he thought, it was better to follow a man from in front rather than from behind. He twisted the throttle of the motorbike and eased into the traffic, his eyes fixed on the taillights of the Mercedes. One mistake, he was thinking. That’s all it would take. One mistake and the girl would die.

  They followed the boulevard de la République to the route d’Avignon and then headed north. For a mile or so it was all storefronts and stoplights; but gradually the shops turned to apartment blocks and houses, and before long they were moving at speed along a split four-lane road. After a mile a gas station appeared on their right. Keller slowed and switched on his turn signal, and the Mercedes immediately overtook him. Then, with little warning, the road shrank to two lanes again. Gabriel settled into position about fifty meters behind the Mercedes, with Keller on his tail.

  By then, the sun was gone and the autumn night was falling with the quickness of a curtain dropping onto a stage. The cypress pine lining the road turned from dark green to black; then the darkness devoured them. As the gloom settled over the countryside, Gabriel’s world shrank: white headlights, red taillights, the whine of the bike’s engine, the hum of Keller’s Renault a few meters behind. His eyes were focused on the back of René Brossard’s Mercedes, but in his mind he was gazing at a map of France. In this part of Provence the towns and villages were strung tightly together, like pearls on a necklace. But if they continued in this direction, they would cross into the Vaucluse. There, in the Lubéron, the villages would become more sparse and the terrain rugged. That would be the kind of place they would be keeping her, he thought. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere with only a single road in and out. That way they would know whether they were being watched. Or being followed.

  They flashed through the edges of a nothing town called Lignane. Just beyond it, the Mercedes pulled into the deserted gravel parking lot of a business that sold ceramic garden pottery, leaving Gabriel and Keller no choice but to continue past. About two hundred meters farther along was a traffic circle. In one direction was Saint-Cannat; in the other, reached by a smaller road, was Rognes. With a hand signal, Gabriel sent Keller toward Saint-Cannat. Then, after switching off his headlamp, he leaned the bike toward Rognes and quickly sought shelter in the shadow of a cinderblock wall. A moment later the Mercedes came purring past, though now Brossard was behind the wheel and the woman, whom Gabriel could see clearly for the first time, was peering intently into the passenger-side mirror. He quickly dialed Keller and told him the news. Then he forced himself to count slowly to ten and eased the bike back onto the road.

  On the road to Rognes, time receded. The pavement narrowed, the night darkened, the air turned colder as they rose steadily in elevation toward the base of the Alps. A three-quarter moon was ducking in and out of the clouds, illuminating the landscape one minute, plunging it into darkness the next. On both sides of the road, vineyards marched neatly into the blackening hills like soldiers heading off to war, but otherwise the land seemed e
mpty of human habitation. Scarcely a light burned anywhere, and the road was deserted except for the black E-Class Mercedes. Gabriel hovered in its wake, with Keller trailing far behind where he was invisible to Brossard. Whenever possible, Gabriel navigated without aid of his headlamp. Buffeted by the cold wind, and robbed partially of the ability to see, he had the sensation of traveling at the speed of sound.

  As they approached the outskirts of Rognes, a few cars and trucks finally appeared. In the center of the town, the Mercedes stopped a second time, outside a charcuterie and an adjoining boulangerie. Again Keller sped past, but Gabriel managed to conceal himself in the lee of an ancient church. There he watched as the woman climbed out of the car and entered the shops alone, emerging a few minutes later with several plastic sacks filled with food. It was enough to feed a house filled with people, thought Gabriel, with some left over for a hostage. The fact that they had stopped for supplies suggested that Brossard did not suspect he was being followed. It also suggested they were getting close to their destination.

  The woman placed the items in the trunk, then, after a glance around the quiet street, lowered herself into the passenger seat. Brossard had the car moving again even before she closed the door. They sped through the streets of the centre ville and then turned onto the D543, a two-lane road that ran from Rognes to the reservoir at Saint-Christophe. Beyond the reservoir was the river Durance. Brossard crossed it at half past six and entered the Vaucluse.

  They continued north through the picturesque villages of Cadenet and Lourmarin before finally scaling the southern slopes of the Massif du Lubéron. In the flatlands of the river valley, Gabriel had remained a kilometer or more behind Brossard; but in the winding roads of the mountains he had no choice but to close the gap and keep Brossard constantly in sight. Passing through the hamlet of Buoux, he felt a stab of fear that Brossard had finally become aware of his presence. But when the Mercedes continued apace for another ten kilometers without taking evasive action, his fears receded. He drove on through the night, past stone walls and granite outcroppings that glowed luminous white in the moonlight, his eyes fixed on the red taillights of the Mercedes and his thoughts on a woman he did not know.

  Finally, Brossard turned through a gap in the trees lining the road and disappeared. Gabriel didn’t dare follow him right away, so he continued along the road for another kilometer before doubling back. The road Brossard had taken was only partially paved and scarcely wide enough for two vehicles. It brought Gabriel to a tiny valley with a patchwork quilt of cultivated fields, separated by hedgerows and stands of trees. There were three villas in the valley, two at the western end and one standing alone in the east, behind a barrier of cypress pine. The Mercedes was nowhere to be seen; Brossard must have switched off his headlamps as a precaution. Gabriel calculated how long it had taken him to double back to the road, and how long it would take for Brossard to reach each of the villas. Then he stood astride the motionless bike, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the valley, thinking that, eventually, Brossard would have to stop somewhere. And when he did, his brake lights would give away his position. After ten more seconds, Gabriel stopped looking at the villas in the west, which were closer to his position, and focused his gaze on the distant villa in the east. And then he saw it, a burst of red light, like the flaring of a match. For an instant it seemed to float atop one of the cypress pines, like a warning light atop a spire. Then the light was extinguished, and the valley was plunged once more into darkness.

  16

  THE LUBÉRON, FRANCE

  The nearest village had only a dreary bed-and-breakfast, so they drove to Apt and checked into a small hotel on the perimeter of the ancient center. The dining room was empty of other patrons, and only a single elderly waiter was on duty. They ate at separate tables and then walked through the quiet, dark streets to the old basilica of Sainte-Anne. The domed nave smelled of candle smoke and incense and faintly of mildew. Gabriel studied the main altarpiece, his head tilted slightly to one side, and then sat next to Keller, before a stand of softly flickering votive candles. The Englishman’s head was bowed and he was holding the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, it was in a repentant whisper.

  “It turns out she was right after all.”

  “Who?”

  “The signadora.”

  “Perhaps I’m mistaken,” said Gabriel, lifting his eyes toward the dome, “but I don’t recall the signadora mentioning anything about a villa in an agricultural valley in the Lubéron.”

  “But she did mention the sea and the mountains.”

  “And?”

  “They brought her across the sea, and now they’re hiding her in the mountains.”

  “Maybe,” said Gabriel. “Or maybe they’ve already moved her to another location. Or maybe she’s dead already.”

  “Jesus,” whispered Keller. “Why are you always so goddamned negative?”

  “Remember where you are, Christopher.”

  Keller rose, walked over to the votive candles, and lit one. He was about to return to the pew but stopped when he saw Gabriel staring at the donation box. He dug a few coins from his pocket and fingered them one by one through the slot. The sound seemed to echo in the dome long after he had retaken his seat.

  “Spend much time in Catholic churches?” he asked.

  “More than you might imagine.”

  Keller resumed his pose of penitential reflection. The red glass of the votive candles lent a pink cast to his face.

  “Let us stipulate,” he said after a moment, “that it is possible the girl is somewhere else. But let us also stipulate that all the evidence suggests that isn’t the case. Otherwise, Brossard wouldn’t be here. He’d be back in Marseilles, working on his next score.”

  “At the moment, he’s probably trying to figure out why Marcel Lacroix didn’t come to Aix to collect his money. And when he tells Paul what happened, Paul is going to get nervous.”

  “You don’t spend much time with criminals, do you?”

  “More than you might imagine,” Gabriel said again.

  “Brossard isn’t going to say a word to Paul about what happened in Aix today. He’ll tell him everything went down as planned. And then he’ll keep the money for himself. Well, not all of it,” Keller added. “I suppose he’ll have to give some to the woman.”

  Gabriel nodded slowly in agreement, as though Keller had spoken words of great spiritual insight. Then he turned his head slightly to watch a woman walking up the center of the nave. She had dark hair combed straight back from a high forehead and wore a belted raincoat of synthetic material. Her footfalls, like the sound of Keller’s coins, echoed in the quiet of the large church. Pausing before the main altar, she genuflected and made the sign of the cross, deliberately, forehead to heart, left shoulder to right. Then she sat on the opposite side of the nave and stared straight ahead.

  “The only way we can determine whether she’s there,” Gabriel said after a moment, “is to watch the villa for an extended length of time. And there’s no way we can do that without a proper fixed observation post.”

  Keller frowned in disapproval. “Spoken like a true indoor spy,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you and your ilk can’t function in the field without safe flats and five-star hotels.”

  “Jews don’t camp, Keller. The last time the Jews went camping, they spent forty years wandering in the desert.”

  “Moses would have found the Promised Land much more quickly if he’d had a couple of lads from the Regiment to guide him.”

  Gabriel looked at the woman in the raincoat; she was still staring straight ahead, her face expressionless. Then he looked at Keller and asked, “How would we do it?”

  “Not we,” answered Keller. “I’ll do it alone, the way I used to in Northern Ireland. One man in a hide with a pair of binoculars and a bag for his waste. Old school.”

  “And what happens if a farmer
spots you while he’s working one of those fields?”

  “A farmer could walk over the top of an SAS man in his hide and never see him.” Keller watched the candles for a moment. “I once spent two weeks in an attic in Londonderry observing a suspected IRA terrorist who lived across the street. The Catholic family below me never knew I was in the house. And when it came time for me to leave, they never heard me go.”

  “What happened to the terrorist?”

  “He had an accident. A pity, really. He was a true pillar of his community.”

  Gabriel heard footfalls and, turning, saw the woman exiting the church.

  “How long can you stay in that valley?” he asked.

  “With enough food and water, I could stay for a month. But forty-eight hours should be more than enough time to tell whether she’s there or not.”

  “That’s forty-eight hours we’ll never get back again.”

  “But they’ll be well spent.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “A ride would be nice. But once I’m in place, you can forget about me.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I go to Paris for a few hours?”

  “Why the hell do you need to go to Paris?”

  “It’s probably time I had a word with Graham Seymour.”

  Keller made no reply.

  “Something bothering you, Christopher?”

  “I’m just wondering why I have to sit in the mud for two days and you get to go to Paris.”

  “Would you prefer that I sit in the mud and you go to see Graham?”

  “No,” said Keller, patting Gabriel’s shoulder. “You go to Paris. It’s a good place for an indoor spy.”

  It had been a long time since they had slept, so they returned to the hotel ten minutes apart and repaired to their rooms. Gabriel drifted into unconsciousness within minutes and woke to find his room ablaze with a violent Provençal sunrise. By the time he made his way downstairs to the dining room, Keller was already there, freshly shaved and looking as though he had slept well. They nodded to one another like strangers and, separated by a pair of linened tables, ate their breakfasts in complete silence. Afterward, they returned to the ancient center of the town, this time to do a quick bit of shopping. Keller bought a heavy coat, a dark woolen sweater, a rucksack, and two waterproof tarpaulins. He also bought enough water, packaged processed food, and plastic ziplock bags to last him forty-eight hours. The shopping excursion complete, they ate a large lunch together, though Keller drank no wine with his. He changed into his new clothing as Gabriel drove through the mountains to the rim of the tiny valley with three villas and spoke not a word as he disappeared into a thicket of undergrowth, as swiftly as a deer alerted by a hunter’s footfall. By then, it was sunset. Gabriel phoned Graham Seymour in London, spoke the name of a Paris landmark, and rang off again. That night, God in his infinite wisdom saw fit to send an autumn storm into the Lubéron. Gabriel lay awake in his hotel room, listening to the rain lashing against the window and thinking of Keller alone in the mud, in the valley with three villas. The next morning he ate breakfast in the dining room with only the papers and the white-haired waiter for company. Then he drove to Avignon and boarded a TGV train to Paris.