House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(67)

“It was inevitable. When one is attempting to penetrate a European drug network, all roads lead to Marseilles.” Keller watched the pedestrians, too. “Do you suppose Rousseau was true to his word?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because he’s a spy. Which means he lies as a matter of course.”

“You’re a spy, too.”

“But not long ago, I was employed by Don Anton Orsati. The same Anton Orsati,” added Keller, “who’s about to help us with a little dirty work tonight. And if Rousseau and his friends from the Alpha Group happen to be watching, it will place the don, peace be upon him, in a rather ticklish position.”

“Rousseau wants nothing to do with what’s about to happen here. As for the don,” Gabriel went on, “helping us with this little piece of dirty work, as you so callously refer to it, is the best decision he’s made since hiring you.”

“How so?”

“Because after tonight no one will be able to lay a finger on him. He’ll be immune.”

“You think like a criminal.”

“One has to in our line of work.”

The waiter delivered the second glass. Keller filled it with pastis while Gabriel consulted his mobile phone.

“Any problems?”

“Madame Sophie and Monsieur Antonov are quarreling over where to hang the new paintings.”

“And they were doing so well.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel vaguely as he returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

“Think they’re going to make it?”

“I have my doubts.”

Keller drank some of the pastis. “So what do you intend to do with all those paintings when the operation is over?”

“I have a feeling Monsieur Antonov will discover his Jewish roots and make a rather high-profile donation to the Israel Museum.”

“And the fifty million euros you gave to Olivia?”

“I didn’t give her anything. I purchased two paintings from her gallery.”

“That,” said Keller, “is a distinction without a difference.”

“It’s a rather small price to pay if it leads us to Saladin.”

“If,” said Keller.

“Is it my imagination,” said Gabriel, “or is there something between you and—”

“It’s your imagination.”

“She’s a very pretty girl. And when this is all over, she’s going to be quite well off.”

“I try to stay away from girls who latch onto rich French drug dealers.”

“Are you forgetting what you used to do for a living?”

Frowning, Keller drank more of the pastis. “So Monsieur Antonov is Jewish?”

“Apparently so.”

“I would have never guessed.”

Gabriel shrugged indifferently.

“I’m a little Jewish. Did I ever mention that?”

“You might have.”

A silence fell between them. Gabriel stared morosely into the street.

“I can’t believe we’re back here again.”

“It won’t be much longer.”

Keller watched two men climb from the back of the van and enter the electronics shop owned by René Devereaux. Then he glanced at his watch.

“About five minutes. Maybe less.”



From their exterior table at Au Petit Nice, Keller and Gabriel had only an obstructed view of what came next. A few seconds after the two men entered the shop, several flashes of light spilled from the display window into the street. They were faint—in fact, they might have been mistaken for the flicker of a television—and there was no sound at all. At least none that reached the noisy café. After that, the shop went entirely dark, with the exception of a small neon sign in the door that read fermé. Pedestrians flowed past along the pavement as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

Keller’s eyes returned to the van, where Giancomo was removing a large rectangular cardboard box from the rear compartment. It was an oddly shaped box, manufactured to Don Orsati’s exacting standards by a paper-products factory on Corsica. It was quite obviously empty, for Giancomo had no trouble conveying it across the street and through the front door of the shop. But a few minutes later, when the box reappeared, it was borne by the two men who had entered the shop first, with Giancomo holding one side like a pallbearer. The two men inserted the box into the back of the van and crawled in after it while Giancomo reclaimed his place behind the wheel. Then the van slid away from the curb, rounded the corner, and was gone. From inside Au Petit Nice there arose a loud cheer. Marseilles had scored a goal against Lyon.

“Not bad,” said Gabriel.

Keller checked the time. “Four minutes, twelve seconds.”

“Unacceptable by Office standards, but more than adequate for tonight.”

“You sure you don’t want to join in the fun?”

“I’ve had enough to last a lifetime. But do send the don my best,” said Gabriel. “And tell him the check is in the mail.”

With that, Keller departed. A moment later, straddling the Peugeot Satelis, he flashed past Au Petit Nice, where a man with dense silver hair and thick black spectacles sat alone, wondering how long it would be before Jean-Luc Martel discovered that the chief of his illicit narcotics division was missing.