Page 27 of The New Girl

“It is my assumption, Miss Bancroft, that you are either a current or former officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. Needless to say, your secrets are safe within these walls.”

“Rafiq al-Madani served at the Saudi Embassy in Washington for several years as the representative of the Ministry of Islamic Affairs. It’s one of the official conduits the House of Saud uses to spread Wahhabism around the globe.”

Rousseau smiled charitably. “Yes, I know.”

“The FBI didn’t care much for al-Madani,” said Sarah. “And neither did the Counterterrorism Center at Langley. We didn’t like the company he’d kept before coming to Washington. And the FBI didn’t like some of the projects he was funding in America. The State Department quietly asked Riyadh to find work for him elsewhere. And much to our surprise, the Saudis agreed to our request.”

“Unfortunately,” said Rousseau, “they sent him to Paris. From the moment he arrived, he’s been funneling Saudi money and support to some of the most radical mosques in France. In our opinion, Rafiq al-Madani is a hard-liner and a true believer. He is also quite close to His Royal Highness. He is a frequent visitor to the prince’s château, and last summer he spent several days aboard his new yacht.”

“I take it al-Madani is a target of DGSI surveillance,” said Gabriel.

“Intermittent.”

“Do you suppose he knew Khalid’s daughter was going to school across the border in Geneva?”

Rousseau shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The crown prince told almost no one, and security at the school was very tight. It was handled by a man named Lucien Villard. He’s French, not Swiss. He used to work for the Service de la Protection.”

“Why was a veteran of an elite unit like the SDLP running security at a private school in Geneva?”

“Villard didn’t leave the service on the best of terms. There were rumors he was having an affair with the president’s wife. When the president found out about it, he had him fired. Apparently, Villard took the girl’s abduction quite hard. He resigned his post a few days later.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still in Geneva, I suppose. I can get you an address if you—”

“Don’t bother.” Gabriel contemplated the three photographs arrayed on the table.

“What are you thinking?” asked Rousseau.

“I’m wondering how many operatives it took to pull off something like this.”

“And?”

“Eight to ten for the kidnapping itself, not to mention the support agents. And yet somehow the DGSI, which is confronting the worst terrorism threat in the Western world, missed them all.”

Rousseau removed a fourth photo from his file. “No, my friend. Not all of them.”

16

Paris

Brasserie Saint-Mauricewas located in the heart of medieval Annecy, on the ground floor of a teetering old building that was a riot of mismatched windows, shutters, and balustrades. Several square tables stood along the pavement beneath the shelter of three modern retractable awnings. At one, a man was drinking coffee and contemplating a mobile device. His hair was fair and straight and neatly arranged. So was his face. He wore a woolen peacoat, a stylishly knotted silk scarf, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The time code in the bottom right corner of the photo read 16:07:46. The date was the thirteenth of December, the day of Princess Reema’s abduction.

“As you can see from the resolution,” said Rousseau, “the image has been magnified. Here’s the original.”

Rousseau slid another photograph across the conference table. The perspective was wide enough so that the street was visible. Several cars lined the curb. Gabriel’s eye was drawn instantly toward a Citroën estate car.

“Our national traffic surveillance system isn’t as Orwellian as yours or Britain’s, but the threat of terrorism has compelled us to improve our capabilities substantially. It didn’t take long to find the car. Or the man who was driving it.”

“How much do you know about him?”

“He rented a holiday villa outside Annecy two weeks before the abduction. He paid for a one-month stay entirely in cash, which the estate agent and the owner of the villa were more than happy to accept.”

“I don’t suppose he had a passport.”

“A British one, actually. The estate agent made a photocopy.”

Rousseau slid a sheet of paper across the tabletop. It was a photocopy of a photocopy, but the resolution was clear. The name on the passport was Ronald Burke. It claimed he had been born in Manchester in 1969. The photograph bore a vague resemblance to the man who had been sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice a few hours before Princess Reema had been kidnapped.