by Daniel Silva
“It says we make a handsome couple.”
Natalie kissed Mikhail’s cheek and went out. Downstairs on the shaded terrace a trio of Alpha Group household servants was setting a luncheon table with inordinate care. At the opposite end of the terrace Christopher Keller was drinking rosé. Natalie tugged a Marlboro from his packet and addressed him in French.
“Can’t you even pretend to be a little nervous?”
“Actually, I’m looking forward to finally meeting him. Here he comes now.”
Natalie looked toward the horizon and saw a pair of black Range Rovers skirting the edge of the bay, one for Martel and Olivia, the other for their security detail. “Bodyguards at lunch,” she said with Madame Sophie’s disdain. “How gauche.” Then she lit the cigarette and smoked for a moment without coughing.
“You’re getting rather good at that.”
“It’s a filthy habit.”
“Better than some. In fact, I can think of several that are far worse.” Keller watched the approaching Range Rovers. “You really have to relax, Madame Sophie. It’s a party, after all.”
“Jean-Luc Martel and I come from the same part of France. I’m afraid he’s going to look at me and see a Jewish girl from Marseilles.”
“He’s going to see whatever you want him to see. Besides,” said Keller, “if you can convince Saladin that you’re a Palestinian, you can do anything.”
Natalie suppressed a cough and watched the Alpha Group servants putting the finishing touches on the table.
“Why candles?” she murmured. “We’re doomed.”
During the final hours of preparation for the long-awaited meeting between Jean-Luc Martel and Monsieur Dmitri Antonov, there had been an unusually heated debate between Gabriel and Paul Rousseau over what seemed to be a trivial detail. Specifically, whether the imposing gate of Villa Soleil should be open to Martel’s arrival or left closed, thus placing before him one final metaphorical hurdle to clear. Rousseau lobbied in favor of a welcoming approach—Martel, he argued, had suffered enough. But Gabriel was in a less forgiving mood, and after a quarrel of several minutes he prevailed upon Rousseau to leave the gate closed. “And make him ring the bell like everyone else,” said Gabriel. “As far as Dmitri Antonov is concerned, Martel is kitchen help. It’s important we treat him as such.”
And so it was that, at twenty-nine minutes past one o’clock, Martel’s driver had to press the intercom button not once but twice before Villa Soleil’s gate finally opened with an inhospitable groan. Roland Girard, in a dark suit and tie, roasted slowly in the sun-drowned forecourt, a radio to his ear. Thus, it was the face of an Alpha Group operative, not his host’s, that Martel saw when he emerged from the back of his vehicle, dressed in a wedding-cake-white poplin suit, his trademark mane of hair twisting in the eddies of hot wind that swirled and died around the dancing waters of the fountain. Six cameras recorded his arrival, and the transmitter worn by Roland Girard captured a tense exchange concerning the fate of his bodyguards. It seemed Martel wanted them to accompany him into the villa, a request Girard politely but firmly denied. Incensed, Martel turned away and struck out across the court with a predatory swiftness, his manner that of a gangster entrepreneur, a rock-star hoodlum. Olivia was at that point an afterthought. She followed a few paces behind as though already preparing her apologies for his conduct.
By then, the Antonovs were standing in the shade of the portico, posed as if for a photograph, which was indeed the case. The greetings were gender-based. Madame Sophie welcomed Olivia Watson as though the frigid encounter outside the gallery had never occurred, while Martel and Dmitri Antonov shook hands like opponents preparing to thrash one another on the field of play. Through a tight smile, Martel said he had heard much about Monsieur Antonov and was pleased to finally make his acquaintance. He did so in English, which suggested he was aware of the fact that Monsieur Antonov did not speak French.
“Your villa is quite magnificent. But I’m sure you know its history.”
“I’m told it was once owned by a member of the British royal family.”
“I was referring to Ivan Kharkov.”
“Actually, it was one of the reasons why I agreed to take it off the hands of the French government.”
“You knew Monsieur Kharkov?”
“I’m afraid Ivan and I moved in rather different circles.”
“I knew him quite well,” boasted Martel as he walked next to his host across the villa’s main hall, trailed by Madame Sophie and Olivia and watched by the unblinking eyes of the surveillance cameras. “I entertained the Kharkovs many times in my restaurants in Saint-Tropez and Paris. It was terrible, the way he died.”
“The Israelis were behind it. At least that was the rumor.”
“It was more than just a rumor.”
“You sound rather sure of yourself.”
“There isn’t much that happens on the Côte d’Azur that I don’t know about.”
They went onto the terrace, where the last member of the luncheon party waited among the colonnades.
“Jean-Luc Martel, I’d like you to meet Nicolas Carnot. Nicolas is my closest aide and adviser. He’s from Corsica originally, but don’t hold that against him.”
In the villa outside Ramatuelle, Gabriel watched intently as Jean-Luc Martel accepted the outstretched hand. There followed a tense few seconds as the two men took stock of one another as only creatures of similar birth, upbringing, and career aspirations can do. Clearly, Martel saw something he recognized in the hard-looking man from the island of Corsica. He introduced Monsieur Carnot to Olivia, who explained that they had met on two previous occasions at the gallery. But Martel didn’t seem to hear her; he was admiring the bottle of Bandol rosé sweating in the ice bucket. His approval of the wine was no accident. It was featured prominently at all his bars and restaurants. Gabriel had ordered enough of the stuff to float a cargo ship filled with hashish.
At Madame Sophie’s suggestion, they sat down on the couches and chairs arrayed at the far end of the terrace. She was cool and distant, an observer, like Gabriel. He was standing before the video monitors with his head tilted slightly to one side and a hand resting on his chin. The other he pressed to the small of his back, which was giving him fits. Eli Lavon stood next to him, and next to Lavon was Paul Rousseau. They watched anxiously as an officer of the Alpha Group, clad in a spotless white tunic, removed an exhausted bottle of rosé from the ice bucket and successfully replaced it with a fresh one. Quietly, Madame Sophie instructed him to bring the savories. This, too, he accomplished without casualties or collateral damage. Relieved, Paul Rousseau loaded a pipe and blew a cloud of smoke at the video screens. Madame Sophie appeared relieved, too. She lit a Gitane and, with thumb and ring finger, discreetly picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue.
The conversation was polite but guarded, which was how Gabriel had intended it to be. It was conducted in English for the benefit of Dmitri Antonov, though occasionally he was cast adrift by a burst of French. He took no offense. In fact, he seemed to relish the quiet, for it gave him a respite from Martel’s dogged inquiries regarding his business. He explained he had made a great deal of money trading in Russian commodities and had managed to cash out his chips before the Great Recession and the plunge in oil prices. He had recently embarked on a number of ventures in the West and Asia. Several, he said, had proven quite lucrative.
“Obviously,” said Martel with a glance at his surroundings.
Monsieur Antonov only smiled.
“What sort of things are you investing in?”
“The usual,” he answered evasively. “Mainly, I’ve been indulging my passion for art.”
“Olivia and I would love to see your collection.”
“Perhaps after lunch.”
“You should really have a look at her inventory. She has many extraordinary pieces.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“When?” asked Martel.
“Tomorrow,” said Gabriel to the vid
eo screens, and a few seconds later Dmitri Antonov said, “I’ll drop by tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
With that, they adjourned to the table for lunch. Here again, Gabriel had spared no expense and left nothing to chance. Indeed, he had hired the executive chef from a prominent Paris restaurant and flown him privately to Provence for the occasion. Madame Sophie had chosen the menu. Warm glazed potatoes with caviar, tapioca, and herbs; yellowfin tuna ribbons with avocado, spicy radish, and ginger marinade; diver scallops with caramelized cauliflower and a caper-raisin emulsion; black sea bass crusted with nuts and seeds, with a sweet-and-sour jus. Impressed, Martel asked to meet the chef. Madame Sophie, lighting another Gitane, demurred. The chef and his staff, she explained, were never permitted to leave the kitchen.
Over dessert the talk turned to politics. The election in America, the war in Syria, the ISIS terrorist attacks in Europe. At the mention of Islam, Martel suddenly became animated. France as they once knew it was gone, he snarled. Soon it would be just another outpost in the Islamic Maghreb. Gabriel found it to be a rather convincing performance, though Olivia appeared to think otherwise. Bored, she asked Madame Sophie whether she might have one of her Gitanes.
“Jean-Luc has very strong opinions when it comes to the question of minorities in France,” she confided. “I like to remind him that were it not for Arabs and Africans, he would have no one to wash the dishes in his restaurants or change the beds in his hotels.”
Madame Sophie, with her expression, made it clear she found the topic distasteful. She asked the Alpha Group servants to bring the coffee. By then, it was approaching five o’clock. Everyone agreed a tour of the paintings would have to wait for another occasion, though they saw several as they made their way slowly through the vast sitting rooms and rose-colored halls, observed by the surveillance cameras.
“Are you really interested in coming to the gallery tomorrow?” asked Olivia as she paused to admire the pair of Venetian canal scenes by Guardi.
“Absolutely,” answered Dmitri Antonov.
“I’m free at eleven.”
“Afternoon is better,” said Gabriel to the video screens, and Dmitri Antonov then explained that he had several important phone calls to make in the morning and would prefer to visit the gallery after lunch. “If that would be convenient.”
“It would.”
“Monsieur Carnot will make the necessary arrangements. I believe he has your number.”
The Antonovs bid farewell to their guests on the portico, which by then was no longer in shadow but ablaze with a fine orange light. A moment later they were standing once more on the terrace, watching the black Range Rovers racing toward the villa on the other side of the Baie de Cavalaire. Presently, Madame Sophie’s mobile purred.
“What does it say?” asked her husband.
“It says we were perfect.”
“Did they enjoy themselves?”
“Martel is convinced you’re an arms dealer masquerading as a legitimate businessman.”
“And Olivia?”
“She’s looking forward to tomorrow.”
Smiling, Dmitri Antonov stripped off his suit and went down to the pool for a swim. Madame Sophie and Monsieur Carnot watched him from the terrace while they finished the last of the rosé. Madame Sophie’s phone shivered with another incoming message.
“What now?” asked Monsieur Carnot.
“Apparently, Martel thinks I look like a Jew.” She lit another Gitane and smiled. “Saladin said the same thing.”
31
Saint-Tropez, France
At ten the following morning the Place de l’Ormeau was deserted, save for a man of late middle age washing his hands in a thread of water from the wellhead. Olivia thought she had seen him in the village once or twice before but on closer inspection decided she was mistaken. The paving stones warmed her sandaled feet as she crossed the square to the gallery. Fishing her keys from her handbag, she unlocked the outer wooden door and stepped into the stifling vestibule. Next she opened the high-security glass door and, entering, disabled the alarm. She closed the door behind her. It locked automatically.
The interior of the gallery was dim and cool, a respite from the out-of-doors. In her private office Olivia threw a switch that opened the blinds and security grills. Then, as was her habit, she went upstairs to the exhibition rooms to make certain nothing was missing. The Lichtenstein, Basquiat, and Dubuffet displayed in her window were but the tip of the gallery’s inventory. Olivia’s substantial professional collection included works by Warhol, Twombly, de Kooning, Gerhard Richter, and Pollock, along with numerous French and Spanish contemporary artists. She had acquired wisely and developed a reliable clientele among the megarich of the Côte d’Azur—men like Dmitri Antonov, she thought. It was an extraordinary achievement for a woman with no university degree and no formal artistic training. And to think that a few short years earlier she had been managing a little gallery that dispensed the scribblings of local artists to the sweaty tourists who staggered off the cruise ships and motor coaches. Sometimes she allowed herself to think she had arrived at this place as a result of her determination and business acumen, but in truth she knew better than that. It was all Jean-Luc’s doing. Olivia was the public face of the gallery and it bore her name, but it was bought and paid for by Jean-Luc Martel. So, for that matter, was she.
After determining that her collection had survived the night intact, she went downstairs and found Monique, her receptionist, preparing a café crème at the automatic maker. She was a skinny, small-breasted girl of twenty-four, a Degas dancer come to life. Evenings, she worked as a hostess in one of Jean-Luc’s restaurants. She looked as though she’d had a late night. Where Monique was concerned, that was more often than not the case.
“You?” she asked as the last of the steaming milk gurgled and spat into her cup.
“Please.”
Monique handed Olivia the coffee and prepared another for herself. “Any appointments this morning?”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”
Monique made a face.
“Who was it this time?”
“An American. So adorable. He’s from somewhere called Virginia.” Spoken by Monique, it sounded like the most exotic and sensual place in the world. “He raises horses.”
“I thought you hated Americans.”
“Of course. But this one is very rich.”
“Will you ever see him again?”
“Maybe tonight.”
Or maybe not, thought Olivia. She had once been a girl like Monique. Perhaps she still was.
“If you consult your calendar,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll discover that Herr Müller is coming at eleven.”
Monique frowned. “Herr Müller likes to look at my tits.”
“Mine, too.”
In fact, Herr Müller liked looking at Olivia more than at her paintings. He was not alone. Her looks were a professional asset, but on occasion they were a distraction and a waste of time. Rich men—and some not so rich—made appointments at the gallery just to spend a few minutes in her presence. Some screwed up the nerve to proposition her. Others fled without ever making their true intentions known. She had learned long ago how to project an air of unavailability. While technically single, she was JLM’s girl. Everyone in France knew it. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.
Monique sat down at the glass receptionist’s desk. It had only a phone and the appointment calendar. Olivia didn’t trust her with much else. All of the gallery’s business and administrative affairs she saw to herself, with help from Jean-Luc. Monique was but another work of art, one that if so moved was capable of answering the phone. It was Jean-Luc, not Olivia, who had given her the job at the gallery. Olivia was all but certain they were lovers. She did not resent Monique. In fact, she pitied her a little. It would not end well. It never did.
Herr Müller was ten minutes late in arriving, which was not like him. He was fat and florid and smelled of la
st night’s wine. A recent confrontation with a plastic surgeon in Zurich had left him with an expression of perpetual astonishment. He was interested in a painting by the American artist Philip Guston. A similar work had recently fetched twenty-five million in America. Herr Müller was hoping to acquire Olivia’s for fifteen. Olivia turned him down.
“But I must have it!” he exclaimed while staring unabashedly at the front of Olivia’s blouse.
“Then you’ll have to find another five million.”
“Let me sleep on it. In the meantime, don’t let anyone else see it.”
“Actually, I’m planning to show it this afternoon.”
“Demon! Who?”
“Come now, Herr Müller, that would be indiscreet.”
“Is it that Antonov character?”
She was silent.
“I went to a party at his villa recently. I barely survived. Others were not so fortunate.” He chewed at the inside of his lip. “Sixteen. But that’s my final offer.”
“I’ll take my chances with Monsieur Antonov.”
“I knew it!”
At half past twelve Olivia dispatched him into the midday heat. When she returned to her desk she saw that she had received a text message from Jean-Luc. He was boarding his helicopter for a flight to Nice, where he had meetings all afternoon. She tried to text him back but received no reply. She supposed he was already airborne.
She returned the phone to her desk. A few seconds later it rang with an incoming voice call. Olivia didn’t recognize the number. Even so, she accepted the call and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Bonjour.”
“Madame Watson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Nicolas Carnot. We had lunch yesterday at—”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
“I was wondering whether you still had time to show Monsieur Antonov your collection.”
“I’ve cleared my calendar,” she lied. “What time would he like to come?”
“Would two o’clock work?”