Page 39

O n the western side of Cap d’Antibes was a marina with a boat dealership and a dive shop and a small café.

Gabriel and his three Police Nationale chaperones sat in the unmarked Renault in the car park.

Gabriel’s notebook computer rested atop the museum case, connected to the Internet via his mobile hot spot.

With the help of the hacking malware Proteus, he was eavesdropping on an art transaction taking place in a palatial villa located approximately one hundred and fifty meters to the east. For the past fifteen minutes, four men had been engaged in a spirited discussion—a Dutch art dealer, a French art consultant, the CFO of Camorra Inc.

, and a Kremlin-connected Russian oligarch.

There was nothing to indicate that Ingrid was in the room.

Given her recent exploits in Moscow, it was probably for the best.

“Where do you suppose she is?” asked the officer sitting at his side.

“It is my profound hope that she’s outside in the car with Rocco and Enzo. It is also my profound hope that Alexander Prokhorov and his art adviser don’t realize that they’re about to spend five hundred million dollars for an original Gabriel Allon. Otherwise things will get rather ugly.”

“The heist of the century,” remarked the officer, whose name was Jean-Luc.

“Not yet, it isn’t.”

“It sounds to me as though you’ve got him.”

“In that case, why hasn’t he signed the sales agreement?”

“Give him a few minutes, Monsieur Allon. Five hundred million is a great deal of money.”

“Once upon a time it was. But not anymore.”

Just then the conversation in the villa fell silent. For several minutes not one of the four men present spoke a single word.

“It’s over,” said Gabriel darkly.

“Almost,” agreed the French policeman.

“I’m done for.”

“You’re just fine. And so is your friend Ingrid.”

Two more minutes went by. Not a sound.

“Come on, Proko,” pleaded Gabriel. “What are you waiting for?”

***

Ingrid was at that moment thinking the same thing, though unlike Gabriel, she had no inkling as to what was taking place inside the opulent villa.

The weight of her two captors was bearing down on her.

She made no attempt to address them, for she did not speak their language and they did not speak hers.

Besides, they did not strike her as brilliant conversationalists.

The French limousine driver seemed like a reasonable fellow, but sensing something was amiss, he had left his post to have a cigarette.

Ingrid, who was only an occasional smoker, was sorely in need of one herself.

According to her wristwatch, it was seven minutes past three o’clock when Franco Tedeschi and Peter van de Velde finally emerged from the villa.

They wore blank expressions on their faces.

Van de Velde was carrying the art transport case with his usual care.

The two security men were as vigilant as ever.

Ingrid’s two captors climbed out of the Mercedes, and Tedeschi and Van de Velde took their places.

Neither man spoke as the car rolled up the drive with the slowness of a hearse.

But a moment after they passed through the security gate, Van de Velde let out a mighty shout and slapped his palms against the transport case.

“Don’t worry, Rikke,” said Franco Tedeschi. “There’s nothing in it.”

“I’m relieved.”

“So am I. There was a slight delay with the wire transfer, but otherwise the transaction went off without a hitch.” He placed a hand on her arm. “I hope you can forgive my behavior earlier.”

“As far I’m concerned, it never happened.”

“And you won’t mention it to Herr Vogel?”

Ingrid smiled. “Why on earth would I do a thing like that?”

***

There was an excellent wine shop in the centre ville of Antibes near the old Marché Provencal.

Tedeschi grabbed two bottles of chilled champagne, which he and Van de Velde drank during the short drive back to the airport.

They polished off two more before the plane left the ground.

Tedeschi insisted that Ingrid have a glass too, but she declined, citing the unbendable rules of Executive Jet Services regarding the consumption of wine and spirits with passengers.

In truth, she could have used a drink, but the effervescence in champagne sent the alcohol straight to her brain, and she required a clear head to carry out her remaining duties.

The caterers had provisioned the plane with a full dinner service— chicken cordon bleu or roasted salmon with a savory lemon cream sauce—but Tedeschi and party selected the liquid option instead, accompanied by oven-warmed nuts and other high-sodium fare.

Ingrid dispensed with the collection of bottles and glasses during the steep final approach to Lugano, for she was quite certain her passengers would have refused to surrender them.

Upon arrival they tripped happily down the airstair and into their waiting limousines with none of the tactical flare of their prior movements.

Peter van de Velde, feeling no pain, left the empty transport case behind in the cabin.

The driving time between Lugano Airport and the Piazza della Riforma was only twenty minutes or so.

Ingrid used two of those minutes to quickly put the cabin in some semblance of order.

Then she fetched her carry-on bag from the cargo hold and, after bidding the flight crew a good evening, wheeled it across the tarmac toward the Gulfstream G550 owned by the Swiss financier and philanthropist Martin Landesmann.

He was relaxing in the cabin, a glass of champagne at his elbow, as Ingrid came up the airstair.

Christopher Keller was holding a tumbler of whisky in his sledgehammer hand.

His beautiful art dealer wife was mixing a martini in the galley.

“How was your day?” she asked in that peculiar throaty voice of hers.

“A bit more exciting than planned.”

“So we were told.” Sarah checked the time. “By my calculation, we have approximately fifteen minutes before Franco Tedeschi arrives at his bank. Therefore, we should get on with it.”

Ingrid unzipped her carry-on and removed her laptop.

“Password?” she asked Martin.

“One World.”

“The name of your bloody foundation?”

“A single word with no caps,” he replied sheepishly.

Ingrid entered the password and connected her computer to the Gulfstream’s Wi-Fi system. After logging into SBL PrivatBank’s network, she looked at Christopher and said, “Account and routing numbers, please.”

He handed her a slip of paper. Ninety seconds was all it took to initiate the transfer. “Ring your man at Oschadbank, Mr. Keller. The money is on its way.”

Christopher routed the call through SIS headquarters in London. It took three minutes for the president of Oschadbank to come on the line. Russian missiles, he explained, were once again falling on Kyiv.

“Has the money arrived?” asked Christopher.

“Nothing yet.”

Two more minutes went by.

“Well?” asked Christopher.

“Still nothing, I’m afraid.”

Christopher looked at Ingrid. “Perhaps you should send it again.”

“Patience, Mr. Keller.”

Another minute passed, then the Ukrainian bank executive announced, “We have the money. On behalf of the Ukrainian people, I thank you for your generous contribution to our war effort.”

“Glad to be of assistance. Please spend it wisely.” Christopher killed the call and raised his glass toward Ingrid. “It was a pleasure working with you again.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” She looked at Martin and said, “I could use a lift back to Denmark, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“How about Saint-Barthélemy instead? I’ve rented an enormous villa in Pointe Milou for the holidays.”

“It sounds lovely. But I don’t have a stitch of clothing.”

“All the better,” said Martin with a smile .

“What about Mrs. Landesmann?”

“Monique flew to the Caribbean this morning on my Boeing Business Jet.”

Ingrid was apoplectic. “Separate transatlantic flights?”

Martin sipped his champagne. “We all have to make sacrifices, Ms. Johansen.”