House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(71)

Once again it was Roland Girard of Alpha Group who awaited him in the forecourt. His greeting was decidedly less cordial.

“Are you carrying a weapon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Raise your arms.”

Reluctantly, Martel complied. Girard searched him thoroughly, beginning with the back of the neck and ending with the ankles. Rising, the Alpha Group operative found himself staring into a pair of furious dark eyes.

“Is there something you wish to say to me, Jean-Luc?”

Martel was silent, a first.

“This way,” said Girard.

He took Martel by the elbow and led him into the villa. Christopher Keller waited in the entrance hall.

“Jean-Luc! So sorry about the circumstances of the invitation, but we needed to get your attention.” They were the last French words Keller spoke. The rest flowed in British-accented English. “Lives are at stake, you see, and we haven’t much time. This way, please.”

Martel remained frozen in place.

“Something wrong, Jean-Luc?”

“You’re—”

“Not French,” interjected Keller. “And I’m not from the island of Corsica, either. All that was for your benefit. I’m afraid you’ve been the target of a rather elaborate deception.”

Dazed, Martel followed Keller into the grandest of Villa Soleil’s sitting rooms, where long white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the night wind. Natalie sat at one end of a couch, dressed in a tracksuit and her neon-green trainers. Mikhail sat opposite in a pair of jeans and a V-neck cotton pullover. Paul Rousseau was scrutinizing one of the paintings. And in the far corner of the room, alone on his own private island, Gabriel was scrutinizing Jean-Luc Martel.

It was Rousseau, turning, who spoke next.

“I wish we could say it is a pleasure to meet you, but it is not. When we look at you, we wonder why it is we do what we do. Why we make the sacrifices. Why we take the risks. Quite honestly, your life is not worth protecting. But that’s neither here nor there. We need your help, and so we have no choice but to welcome you, however grudgingly, into our midst.”

Martel’s eyes moved from face to face—the man he knew as Monsieur Carnot, the Antonovs, the silent figure watching him from his lonely outpost in the corner of the room—before settling once more on Rousseau.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name,” replied Rousseau, “is not important. Indeed, in our line of work, names don’t really mean much, as I’m sure you realize by now.”

“Who do you work for?”

“A department of the Interior Ministry.”

“The DGSI?”

“It’s not relevant. In fact,” Rousseau added, “the only salient aspect of my employment is that I’m not a police officer.”

“And the rest?” asked Martel, glancing around the room.

“They are associates of mine.”

He looked at Gabriel. “What about him?”

“Think of him as an observer.”

Martel frowned. “Why am I here? What is this about?”

“Drugs,” answered Rousseau.

“I told you, I’m not involved in drugs.”

Rousseau exhaled slowly. “Let’s skip this part, shall we? You know what you do for a living, and so do we. In a perfect world, you would be in handcuffs right now. But needless to say, this world of ours is far from perfect. It’s a chaotic, dangerous mess. But your work,” said Rousseau disdainfully, “has left you uniquely positioned to do something about it. We’re prepared to be generous if you help us. And equally unforgiving if you refuse.”

Martel squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. “That video,” he said, “proves nothing.”

“You’ve only heard a small portion of it. The entire video is nearly two hours in length and quite extraordinary in detail. In short, it lays bare all your dirty secrets. Were such a document to fall into the hands of the police, you would certainly spend your remaining years behind bars. Which is where,” Rousseau added pointedly, “you belong. And if the tape were given to an enterprising reporter who’s never bought into the JLM fairy tale, the impact on your business empire would be catastrophic. All your powerful friends, the ones you bribe with food and drink and luxury accommodations, would abandon you like rats fleeing a sinking ship. No one would protect you.”

Martel opened his mouth to answer, but Rousseau plowed on.

“And then there is the matter of Galerie Olivia Watson. We’ve had the opportunity to review several of its transactions. They’re questionable, to say the least. Especially those forty-eight blank canvases that were shipped to the Geneva Freeport. You’ve placed Madame Watson in an untenable situation. Her art gallery, like the rest of your empire, is a criminal enterprise. Oh, I suppose it’s possible you might wriggle out of the noose, but your wife—”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Oh, yes, forgive me,” said Rousseau. “How should I refer to her?”

Martel ignored the question. “Have you involved her in this?”

“Madame Watson knows nothing, and we would prefer to keep it that way. There’s no need to drag her into this. At least not yet.” Rousseau paused, then asked, “How did you explain the fact that you were coming here tonight?”