House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(69)

“You can’t be serious.”

“Consider your current circumstances. They are as serious as it gets. So is our mission. You’re going to help me find the man who’s been orchestrating all the terrorist attacks here in Europe and in America.”

“How am I going to do that? I’m a drug dealer, for God’s sake.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up. But you’re no ordinary drug dealer, are you? Dealer is too small a word for what you do. You run an entire global network from that dump on the Place Jean Jaurès. And you do it,” said Keller, “for Jean-Luc Martel.”

“Who?” asked Devereaux.

“Jean-Luc Martel. The one with all the restaurants and the hotels and the hair.”

“And the pretty English girlfriend,” said Devereaux.

“So you do know him.”

“Sure. I used to go to his first restaurant in Marseilles. He was a nobody then. Now he’s a big star.”

“Because of drugs,” said Keller. “Hashish, to be specific. Hashish that comes from Morocco. Hashish that you distribute throughout Europe. Martel’s empire would collapse if it wasn’t for the hashish. But you would never dream of cutting him out, because that would mean finding a new method of laundering five or ten billion a year in drug profits. Your so-called legitimate businesses might be enough to make you look reasonably respectable to the French tax authorities, but there’s no way they could handle all the profits from a global narcotics network. For that, you need a real business conglomerate. A conglomerate that takes in hundreds of millions of dollars a year in cash receipts. A conglomerate that acquires and develops large tracts of real estate.”

“And buys and sells paintings.” After a silence, Devereaux added, “I knew she was trouble the first time I met her.”

“Who?”

“That English bitch.”

Keller balled his right hand into a fist and drove it with all his strength into Devereaux’s blood-soaked shoulder.

“But back to the matter at hand,” he said while the Frenchman writhed on the bed in agony. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about Jean-Luc Martel. The names of your suppliers in Morocco. The routes by which you bring the drugs into Europe. The methods you use for inserting the money into the financial bloodstream of JLM Enterprises. All of it, René.”

“And if I do?”

“We’re going to make a video,” said Keller.

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re going to get the JLM treatment. And I’m not talking about a nice dinner or a night in a luxury hotel suite.”

Devereaux managed a smile. Then, from deep within his throat, he produced a rich, gelatinous ball of phlegm and spat it into Keller’s face. With a corner of the bedding, Keller calmly wiped away the mess before going out to retrieve the hammer from the Corsican. He struck Devereaux with it several times, concentrating his efforts on the right shoulder and avoiding the head and face entirely. Then he went up the companionway to the main salon, where he found Don Orsati watching the football match.

“Was it something he said or didn’t say?”

“It was something he did,” answered Keller.

“Was there blood?”

“A little.”

“I’m glad you waited until I left. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

A thunderous cheer spilled from the television.

“It’s a rout,” said the don gloomily.

“Yes,” answered Keller. “Let us hope.”





37





The Mediterranean Sea



Christopher Keller made three more trips to the smallest of Celine’s cabins—one at eleven, a second shortly after midnight, and a lengthy visit beginning at half past one that left René Devereaux, a hardened Marseilles criminal with much blood on his hands, weeping uncontrollably and begging for mercy. Keller bestowed it, but only on one condition. Devereaux was going to tell him everything, on camera. Otherwise, Keller was going to break every bone in Devereaux’s body, slowly, with care and forethought and pauses for refreshment and reflection.

He had made a great deal of progress toward that eventuality already. Devereaux’s right shoulder, in which a bullet was lodged, had suffered numerous fractures. Additionally, the right elbow was fractured, as was the left. Both hands were in deplorable condition, and the injury to the right knee, were it allowed to heal properly, would likely have left Devereaux with a permanent limp to match Saladin’s.

Moving him to the salon, where a camera had been mounted atop a tripod, proved to be a challenge. Giancomo pulled him up the companionway while Keller pushed from beneath, giving much-needed support to the ruined leg. Cognac was provided, along with a powerful over-the-counter French pain medication that could make one forget a missing limb. Keller helped Devereaux into a bright yellow watch jacket and with a comb tidied up his lank, thinning hair. Then he switched on the camera and, after scrutinizing the shot carefully, posed his first question.

“What is your name?”

“René Devereaux.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I own an electronics shop on the Place Jean Jaurès.”

“What is the real nature of your work?”