House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(59)

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?”

“Two would be perfect.”

“I’ll need to stop by first to have a look around.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Monsieur Antonov is careful about his security.”

“I assure you, my gallery is quite safe.”

There was a silence.

“What time would you like to come?” asked Olivia, exasperated.

“I’m free now if you are.”

“Now is fine.”

“Perfect. Oh, and one more thing, Madame Watson.”

“Yes?”

“Your receptionist.”

“Monique? What about her?”

“Give her an errand to run, something that will keep her out of the gallery for a few minutes. Can you do that for me, Madame Watson?”



Five minutes elapsed before the receptionist finally emerged from the gallery. She paused in the furnace of the square, her eyes moved left and right. Then she drifted torpidly past Keller’s table at the café next door, with her arms hanging like limp long-stemmed flowers at her side. He typed a brief message into his mobile and fired it to the safe house at Ramatuelle. The reply bounced back instantly. Martel’s helicopter was east of Cannes. Proceed as planned.

Like a good field operative, Keller had paid his check in advance. Rising, he went to the gallery and placed his thumb heavily upon the bell. There was no answer. Turnabout, he thought, was fair play. He rang the bell a second time. The deadbolts opened with a snap and he went inside.



There was something different about him, Olivia was sure of it. Outwardly, he was the same slick, indifferent creature with whom she had dined at the Antonovs’ villa—the man of few words and unspecified duties—but his demeanor had changed. Suddenly, he seemed very sure of himself and the virtue of his cause. Crossing the gallery, he removed his sunglasses and propped them on his head. His smile was cordial but his blue eyes were all business. He addressed her without first offering his hand in greeting.

“I’m afraid there’s been a slight change in plan. Monsieur Antonov won’t be able to come after all.”

“Why not?”

“A small matter that required his immediate attention. Nothing urgent, mind you. No cause for alarm.” He said all this in his Corsican-accented French, through the same unthreatening smile.

“So why did you call me? And why,” asked Olivia, “are you here?”

“Because some friends of Monsieur Antonov have taken an interest in your gallery and would like to have a word in private.”

“What sort of interest?”

“It concerns several of your recent transactions. They were quite lucrative but somewhat unorthodox.”

“The transactions of this gallery,” she said coolly, “are private.”

“Not as private as you think.”

Olivia felt her face begin to burn. She walked slowly over to Monique’s desk and lifted the receiver from its cradle. Her hand trembled as she dialed.

“Don’t bother calling your husband, Olivia. He’s not going to answer.”

She looked up sharply. He had spoken these words not in French but in British-accented English.

“He’s not my husband,” she heard herself say.

“Oh, yes, I forgot. He’s still in the air,” he went on. “Somewhere between Cannes and Nice. But we’ve taken the additional precaution of blocking all his incoming calls.”

“We?”

“British intelligence,” he answered calmly. “Not to worry, Olivia, you’re in very good hands.”

She pressed the phone to her ear and heard the recording of Jean-Luc’s voice mail.

“Put the phone down, Olivia, and take a very deep breath. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m here to help. Think of me as your last chance. I’d take it if I were you.”

She returned the phone to its cradle.

“There’s a good girl,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Nicolas Carnot, and I work for Monsieur Antonov. It’s important that you remember that. Now get your handbag and your phone and the keys to that beautiful Range Rover of yours. And please hurry, Olivia. We haven’t much time.”





32





Ramatuelle, Provence



The Range Rover was in its usual place, parked illegally outside Jean-Luc’s restaurant in the Old Port. Olivia slid behind the wheel and, as directed, drove westward along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. Twice she asked him to explain why her gallery was of sufficient interest to British intelligence to warrant such an elaborate ruse. Twice he remarked about the scenery and the weather in the manner of Nicolas Carnot, friend of Monsieur Dmitri Antonov.