House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(46)

“That’s the idea, Paul.”

“How soon do you intend to go operational?”

“As soon as I’ve acquired the necessary funding,” said Gabriel.

“Is there anything else you require of us?”

“A property near Saint-Tropez.”

“There’s plenty to rent, especially at this time of year.”

“Actually, I’m not in the market for a rental.”

“You wish to buy?”

Gabriel nodded. “In fact,” he said, “I already have a property in mind.”

“Which one?”

Gabriel answered. Rousseau appeared incredulous.

“The one that was owned by—”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“It’s frozen.”

“So unfreeze it. Trust me, I’ll make it well worth your while. The taxpayers of France will be grateful.”

“How much are you prepared to offer?”

Gabriel lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “Twelve million feels about right.”

“Apparently, it’s fallen into quite a state of disrepair.”

“We intend to renovate.”

“In Provence?” Rousseau shook his head. “I wish you the best of luck.”

Five minutes later, having checked a few more mundane operational boxes, Gabriel was once more in the passenger seat of Bouchard’s Citro?n. This time they drove from the twentieth arrondissement to the twelfth and stopped on the boulevard Diderot outside the Gare de Lyon. It looked as though it were under military occupation. It was the same at every train station in France.

“Sure you want to go in there?” asked Bouchard. “I can arrange a car if you prefer.”

“I’ll manage.”

Long lines stretched from the station’s entrance, where heavily armed police were searching handbags and suitcases and questioning anyone, especially young men, remotely Arab in appearance. The new normal, thought Gabriel as he was admitted into the soaring departure hall. The famous clock read five minutes past three, his train was boarding on Track D. Track Dalet, he thought. Why did it have to be that one? Couldn’t they have chosen another?

He made his way along the platform, entered one of the first-class carriages, and settled into his assigned seat. Only when the memories had subsided did he draw his mobile. The number he dialed was in Bern. A man answered in Swiss German. Gabriel addressed him in the Berlin-accented German of his mother.

“I’m on my way to your beautiful country, and I was wondering whether you might show me a good time.”

There was a silence, followed by a lengthy exhalation of breath.

“When are you getting in?”

“Six fifteen.”

“How?”

“The TGV from Paris.”

“What is it this time?”

“Same as the last. A quick peek, that’s all.”

“Nothing is going to explode, is it?”

Gabriel killed the connection and watched the platform sliding slowly past his window. Once again the memories arose. He saw a woman, scarred and prematurely gray, sitting in a wheelchair, and a man running wildly toward her, a gun in his hand. He closed his eyes and gripped the armrest to stop his hand from shaking. I’ll manage, he thought.



The NDB, like Switzerland itself, was small but efficient. Headquartered in a drab office block in Bern, the service was responsible for keeping the many problems of a disorderly world from crossing the borders of the Swiss Confederation. It spied on the spies who plied their trade on Swiss soil, watched over the foreigners who hid their money in Swiss banks, and monitored the activities of the growing number of Muslims who made Switzerland their home. Thus far, the country had been spared a major terrorist attack by the likes of al-Qaeda or ISIS. It was no accident. Christoph Bittel, the chief of the NDB’s counterterrorism division, was very good at his job.

He was also punctual as a Swiss watch. Tall and thin, he was leaning against the hood of a German sedan when Gabriel emerged from the Gare de Cornavin in Geneva at half past six. The Swiss secret policeman frowned. In Switzerland, six fifteen meant six fifteen.

“Do you know the address for the vault?”

“Building Three, Corridor Eight, Vault Nineteen.”

“Who’s renting it?”

“Something called TXM Capital. But I suspect the real owner is JLM.”

“Jean-Luc Martel?”

“One and the same.”

Bittel swore softly. “I don’t want any trouble with the French. I need the DGSI to protect my western flank.”

“Don’t worry about the French. As for your western flank, I’d be very afraid.”

“Is it true what they say about Martel? That his real business is drugs?”

“We’ll know in a few minutes.”

They crossed the Rh?ne and then, a moment later, the mucus-green waters of the Arne. To the south lay a quartier of Geneva where tourists and diplomats rarely ventured. It was a land of tidy warehouses and low-slung office blocks. It was also the home of the secretive Geneva Freeport, a secure tax-free repository where the global superrich stashed away treasures of every kind: gold bars, jewelry, vintage wine, automobiles, and, of course, art. It was not art to be viewed and cherished. It was art as a commodity, art as a hedge against uncertain times.