The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know she’s there?”

  “Because one knows a criminal operation when one sees one,” said Keller assuredly. “They’re either running a meth lab, assembling a dirty bomb, or babysitting a kidnapped English girl. I’m betting on the girl.”

  “How many people are in the house?”

  “Brossard, the woman, and two other Marseilles boys. The boys stay inside during the day, but at night they come outside for a smoke and a bit of fresh air.”

  “Any visitors?”

  Keller shook his head. “The woman left the villa once each day to do some shopping and wave to the neighbors, but there was no other activity.”

  “How long was she away?”

  “One hour and twenty-eight minutes the first day, two hours and twelve minutes the second.”

  “I admire your precision.”

  “I didn’t have much else to keep me occupied.”

  Gabriel asked how Brossard spent his days.

  “He pretends to be on holiday,” Keller replied. “But he also takes a walk around the property to have a look at things. He almost stepped on me a couple of times.”

  “What’s the routine at night?”

  “Someone is always awake. They watch television in the sitting room or hang out in the garden.”

  “How can you tell they’re watching television?”

  “I can see it flickering through the shutters. By the way,” he added, “the shutters are never open. Never.”

  “Any other lights on at night?”

  “Not inside,” said Keller. “But the outside is lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  Gabriel frowned. Keller suppressed a yawn and asked about Paris.

  “It was cold.”

  “Paris or the meeting?”

  “Both,” replied Gabriel. “Especially when I suggested letting the French handle the rescue.”

  “Why on earth would we do that?”

  “That was Graham’s reaction, too.”

  “What a shock.”

  “You seem to have your finger on the pulse of Downing Street.”

  Keller allowed the remark to pass without a response. Gabriel contemplated the flickering votive candles for a moment before telling Keller about the rest of his meeting with Graham Seymour: the Office safe house in Cherbourg, the Office reception committee, the quiet return to England on a forged Office passport. But it was all predicated on one thing. They had to get Madeline out of the villa quickly and quietly. No shootouts. No car chases.

  “Shootouts are for cowboys,” said Keller, “and car chases only happen in the movies.”

  “How do we get through the lights without being seen by the guards?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Explain.”

  Keller did.

  “And if Brossard or one of the others comes downstairs?”

  “It’s possible they might get hurt.”

  “Permanently,” added Gabriel. He looked at Keller seriously for a moment. “Do you know what’s going to happen when the police find those bodies? They’ll start asking questions in town. And before long they’ll have a composite sketch of a former SAS man who was supposed to have died in Iraq. Hotel surveillance photographs, too.”

  “That’s what the macchia is for.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ll go to ground in Corsica and wait it out.”

  “It might be a long time before you’ll be able to ply your trade again,” Gabriel said. “A very long time.”

  “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  “For queen and country?”

  “For the girl.”

  Gabriel regarded Keller in silence for a moment. “I take it you have a problem with men who harm innocent women?”

  Keller nodded his head slowly.

  “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “You might find this hard to believe,” said Keller, “but I’m really not in the mood to take a stroll down memory lane with you.”

  Gabriel smiled. “There’s hope for you after all, Keller.”

  “A little,” the Englishman replied.

  Gabriel heard footfalls in the church and, turning, saw the woman in the belted raincoat coming slowly up the nave. Once again she paused before the main altar and made the sign of the cross with great care, forehead to heart, left shoulder to right.

  “The deadline is tomorrow,” said Gabriel. “Which means we have to go in tonight.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “We need more people to do this the right way,” Gabriel said gloomily.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “A hundred things could go wrong.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “She might not be able to walk.”

  “So we’ll carry her,” said Keller. “It won’t be the first time I’ve carried someone off the battlefield.”

  Gabriel looked at the woman in the tan raincoat staring into space, then at the flickering light of the votive candles.

  “Who do you suppose he is?” he asked after a moment.

  “Who?”

  “Paul.”

  “I don’t know,” said Keller, rising. “But if I ever see him, he’s dead.”

  After leaving the church, Gabriel returned to the hotel and informed management he would be checking out. It was nothing serious, he assured them—a small crisis at home that only he, the peerless Herr Johannes Klemp of Munich, could disentangle. Management smiled regretfully but privately was pleased to see him go. The chambermaids had unanimously declared him the most annoying guest of the season, and Mafuz, the chief bellman, secretly wished him dead.

  It was Mafuz, standing pillar-like at his post by the front door, who saw him gratefully into the night. He rode through the streets of the town for several minutes to make certain he was not being followed. Then, with his headlamp doused, he made his way to the narrow dirt-and-gravel track running along the rim of the valley with three villas. One of the villas, the one in the east, was illuminated as if for a special occasion. Keller was standing amid a coppice of pine, staring at the villa intently. Gabriel joined him and stared at it, too. After a few minutes a shadowed figure appeared in the garden and a lighter flared. Keller extended his arm and whispered, “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”

  They remained in the pine trees until the man had returned to the villa. Then they sat in Keller’s darkened Renault thrashing out the final details of their plan of attack—their positions, their sightlines, their firing lanes, their conduct inside the villa itself. After twenty minutes all that remained to be decided was who would take the shot that would set everything in motion. Gabriel insisted he be the one, but Keller objected. Then he reminded Gabriel that he had achieved the highest score ever recorded in the killing house at Hereford.

  “It was an exercise,” said Gabriel dismissively.

  “A live-fire exercise,” Keller countered.

  “It was still an exercise.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I once shot a Palestinian terrorist between the eyes from the back of a moving motorcycle.”

  “So what?”

  “The terrorist was sitting in the middle of a crowded café on the boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris.”

  “Yes,” said Keller, feigning boredom, “I think I remember reading something about that in one of my history books.”

  In the end it came down to a coin toss.

  “Don’t miss,” said Gabriel, as he slipped the coin back into his pocket.

  “I never miss.”

  By then, it was approaching ten o’clock, too early to move. Keller closed his eyes and slept while Gabriel sat staring at the lights of the easternmost villa. He imagined a small room on the lower level: a cot, handcuffs, a hood, a bucket for a toilet, insulation to muffle the screaming, a woman who was no longer herself. And for an instant he was walking through Russian snow, toward a dacha on the edge of a
birch forest. He blinked away the image and absently fingered the hand of red coral hanging around his neck. When she is dead, he was thinking. Then you will know the truth.

  Four hours later he squeezed Keller’s shoulder. Keller woke instantly, climbed out, and removed the rucksack from the trunk of the car. Inside were two rolls of duct tape, a pair of heavy-duty twenty-four-inch bolt cutters, and two suppressors—one for Keller’s HK45 compact, the other for Gabriel’s Beretta. Gabriel screwed the suppressor into the end of the Beretta’s barrel and swung the rucksack over his shoulder. Then he followed Keller down through the pine trees and over the rim of the valley. There was no moon or stars and not a breath of wind. Keller moved through the scrub and rock formations in complete silence, slowly, as if he were under water. Every few steps he would raise his right hand to freeze Gabriel in his tracks, but otherwise they did not communicate. They did not need to. Every step, every move, had been worked out in advance.

  At the base of the hill, they parted. Keller went to the southern side of the villa and settled into a drainage ditch; Gabriel headed for the eastern side and concealed himself in a thicket of briar. His position was fifty feet beyond the line where the exterior lights of the villa died and the darkness reclaimed the night. Directly opposite was a row of French doors leading from the garden to the sitting room. Through the shutters he could see the flickering light of the television and, he assumed, the faint shadow of a man.

  He looked at his watch. It was 2:37 a.m. Three hours of darkness left. After that, there could be no more trips to the garden for the man inside the villa. Surely he would step outside for one last breath of fresh air and one more glance at the sky, even if there was no moon or stars and not a breath of wind. Then, from the drainage ditch on the southern side of the villa, there would come a single shot. And then it would begin: a cot, handcuffs, a bucket for a toilet, a woman who was no longer herself.

  He glanced at his watch again, saw that only two minutes had passed, and shivered in the cold. Perhaps Keller was right; perhaps he was an indoor spy after all. To help pass the time he removed himself mentally from the thicket of briar and placed himself before a canvas. It was the painting he had left behind in Jerusalem—Susanna bathing in her garden, watched over by the village elders. Once again he cast Madeline in the role of Susanna, though now the wounds he healed were caused not by time but by captivity.

  He worked slowly but steadily, repairing the sores on her wrists, adding flesh to her atrophied shoulders and color to her hollow cheeks. And all the while he kept watch on the passing of the minutes, and on the villa, which appeared to him in the background of the painting. For two hours there was no movement. Then, as the first light appeared in the eastern sky, one of the French doors opened slowly and a man stepped into Madeline’s garden. He stretched his arms, looked left, then right, then left again. At Madeline’s request, Gabriel quickly completed the restoration. And when he saw a flash of light from the south, he rose from his knees, gun in hand, and started running.

  19

  THE LUBÉRON, FRANCE

  By the time Gabriel breached the outer limits of the light, he could see Keller charging hard and fast across the garden. The Englishman arrived at the open French door first and took up a position along the left side. Gabriel went to the right and looked briefly down at the man who, a few seconds earlier, had stepped into the garden for a breath of fresh air. There was no need to check for a pulse; the .45-caliber round fired by Keller’s gun had entered the skull cleanly and exited in a mess. The man had never known what had hit him and probably had been dead before he fell. It was a decent way to depart this world, thought Gabriel. For a criminal. For a soldier. For anyone.

  Gabriel looked at Keller. Their poses were identical: one shoulder against the exterior of the villa, two hands on the gun, the barrel pointed at the ground. After a few seconds Keller gave a terse nod. Then, raising the HK to eye level, he rotated silently inside. Gabriel followed and covered the right side of the room while Keller saw to the left. There was no movement and no sound other than the television, where Jimmy Stewart was pulling Kim Novak from the waters of San Francisco Bay. The room smelled of spoiled food, stale tobacco, and spilled wine. Empty cardboard containers littered every surface. A month in Provence, thought Gabriel, Marseilles underworld style.

  Keller inched forward through the flickering light of the television, the HK extended, sweeping back and forth in a ninety-degree arc. Gabriel hovered a half step behind, his gun pointed in the opposite direction but moving in the same arc. They came to an archway separating the sitting room from the dining room. Gabriel pivoted inside, swiveled the gun in all directions, and then pivoted back to Keller’s side. At the entrance to the kitchen, he quickly repeated the movement. Both rooms were unoccupied, but both were piled high with soiled plates and cutlery. The squalor of the place made the back of Gabriel’s neck burn with anger. As a rule, captors who lived like pigs did not treat their hostages well.

  At last they came to the entrance hall. It was the one place in the villa that still bore any resemblance to the photographs Gabriel had seen at the offices of L’Immobiliere du Lubéron. The heavy timbered door with iron studs. The small decorative table. The two flights of limestone steps, one rising to the second level of the house, the other sinking into the basement. Both were in total darkness.

  Keller took up a post midway between the two as Gabriel drew a Maglite from his pocket. He left the light switched off and descended blindly into the gloom, slowly, one step, two steps, three steps, four. Halfway down, he heard a sound from above, footfalls, muffled and quick. Then came two dull thumps, the sound of an HK45 with a suppressor firing two shots in rapid succession.

  Someone had come down the stairs.

  Someone had bumped into the man who scored the highest total ever recorded in the killing house at Hereford.

  Someone had died.

  Gabriel switched on the Maglite and raced down the steps two at a time.

  At the bottom was a foyer with a tile floor and doors on each of the three walls. The owner’s storeroom was on the left. Caught by the beam of the Maglite, the padlock sparkled with a brightness that suggested it had not been there long. Gabriel swung the rucksack from his shoulders, removed the bolt cutters, and closed the jaws around the shackle. A few pounds of pressure were all it took to send the padlock clattering to the floor. Gabriel moved aside the latch and pushed open the door. The smell hit him instantly. Heavy and nauseatingly sweet. The smell of a human being in captivity. He played the beam of the Maglite around the interior. A cot. Handcuffs. A hood. A bucket for a toilet. Insulation to muffle the screaming.

  But Madeline was gone.

  Upstairs there were two more dull thuds from Keller’s muted HK.

  Then two more.

  The first body was in the entrance hall, at the base of the stairs leading to the second floor. It was one of the guards who hadn’t shown his face outside the villa. Now, thanks to two hollow-nosed .45-caliber rounds, there was little left of it. The same was true for René Brossard, who was sprawled next to him, a gun still in his lifeless hand. The woman was on the second-floor landing. Keller hadn’t wanted to shoot her, but he’d had no choice; she had pointed a gun at him and given every indication that she intended to fire. He had spared her face, though, shooting her twice in the upper torso. As a result, she was the only one of the three still alive. Gabriel knelt next to her and held her hand. It was already cold to his touch.

  “Am I going to die?” she asked him.

  “No,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “You’re not going to die.”

  “Help me,” she said. “Please help me.”

  “I will,” answered Gabriel. “But you have to help me, too. You have to tell me where I can find the girl.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  The woman’s mouth tried to form words but could not.

  “Where is she?” Gabriel repeated.

  �
��I swear I don’t know.” The woman shivered. Her eyes were losing focus. “Please,” she whispered, “you have to help me.”

  “When was she here last?”

  “Two days ago. No, three.”

  “Which was it?”

  “I can’t remember. Please, please, you have to—”

  “Was it before or after you and Brossard went to Aix?”

  “How do you know we went to Aix?”

  “Answer me,” said Gabriel, squeezing her hand again. “Was it before or after?”

  “It was that night.”

  “Who took her?”

  “Paul.”

  “Only Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did he take her?”

  “To the other safe house.”

  “Is that what he called it? A safe house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me,” repeated Gabriel.

  “Paul never told us where it was. He called it operational security.”

  “Those were his exact words? Operational security?”

  She nodded.

  “How many safe houses are there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Two? Three?”

  “Paul never told us that.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “From the beginning,” the woman said.

  And then she died.

  They laid the four bodies on the floor of the storage room and covered them in clean white linen. There was nothing to be done about the blood inside the house, but outside Gabriel quickly hosed down the paving stones of the garden to superficially erase the evidence of what had occurred there. He reckoned they had at least forty-eight hours; then the woman from L’Immobiliere du Lubéron would come calling to collect the keys from the departing clients and supervise the cleanup. After discovering the blood, she would immediately phone the gendarmes, who would in turn discover the four bodies in the owner’s private storage room—a storage room that had been emptied of its contents and converted into a cell for a kidnap victim. Forty-eight hours, thought Gabriel. Perhaps a bit longer, but not much.