Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (22)
14
Le Bristol Paris
She was staying at the Crillon, in the Leonard Bernstein suite. He was one of the few conductors, she added with a laugh, with whom she had never been romantically linked.
“Are you there now?”
“Actually, I interrupted my rehearsal to take your call. The entire Orchestre de Chambre de Paris is hanging on my every word.”
“When will you be back at your hotel?”
“Not until four. But I have press interviews scheduled until six.”
“My condolences.”
“I plan on misbehaving terribly.”
“How about a drink downstairs in Les Ambassadeurs when you’re finished?”
“Let’s have dinner instead.”
“Dinner?”
“It’s a meal that most people take in the early evening. Unless one is Spanish, of course. I’ll ask the concierge to book us a quiet table for two at the most romantic restaurant in Paris. With any luck, the paparazzi will find us, and a scandale will ensue.”
Before Gabriel could object, the connection was lost. He briefly considered alerting Chiara to his new dilemma but thought it unwise. Instead, he dialed the number for Valerie Bérrangar’s missing phone. Once again the call went straight to her voice mail.
He rang off and scrolled through his contacts until he arrived at the entry for Yuval Gershon. Yuval was the director-general of Unit 8200, Israel’s formidable signals intelligence service. Gabriel had not spoken to him—or any of his old colleagues, for that matter—since leaving Israel. It was a momentous step, one that would invite future contact, perhaps unwanted. Still, Gabriel reckoned it was worth the risk. If anyone could locate Madame Bérrangar’s phone, it was Yuval and his hackers at the Unit.
He answered instantly, as though he had been anticipating Gabriel’s call. Given the Unit’s extraordinary capabilities, it was not beyond the realm of possibility.
“You miss me, don’t you?”
“Almost as much as the hole in my chest.”
“So why are you calling?”
“I have a problem only you can solve.”
Yuval exhaled heavily into the phone. “What’s the number?”
Gabriel recited it.
“And the problem?”
“The owner was murdered a few days ago. I have a feeling the killers were dumb enough to take her phone. I’d like you to find it for me.”
“It won’t be a problem if the device is still intact. But if they smashed it to pieces or dropped it into the Seine—”
“Why did you mention the Seine, Yuval?”
“Because you’re calling from Paris.”
“Bastard.”
“I’ll send up a flare when I have something. And have fun at dinner tonight.”
“How did you know about dinner?”
“Anna Rolfe just sent you a text message. Shall I read it to you?”
“Why not?”
“Your reservation is at eight fifteen.”
“Where?”
“She doesn’t say. But it must be close to the Bristol, because she’s picking you up at eight.”
“I never mentioned that I was staying at the Bristol.”
“It looks to me as though your room is on the third floor.”
“The fourth,” said Gabriel. “But who’s counting?”
The first time Gabriel saw Anna Rolfe, she was standing on a stage in Brussels, delivering an electrifying performance of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. He left the concert hall that night never imagining they might one day meet. But several years later—after the murder of Anna’s father, the immensely wealthy Swiss banker Augustus Rolfe—they were formally introduced. On that occasion, Anna had offered her hand in greeting. Now, as Gabriel joined her in the back of a courtesy Mercedes-Maybach limousine, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his cheek.
“Consider yourself my hostage,” she said as the car drew away from the hotel. “This time escape is impossible.”
“Where are you planning to take me?”
“Back to my suite at the Crillon, of course.”
“I was promised dinner.”
“A clever ruse on my part.” Anna was casually attired in jeans, a cashmere sweater, and a car-length leather coat. Even so, there was no mistaking her for anyone other than the world’s most famous violinist. “Did my publicist send you the new CD?”
“It arrived the day before yesterday.”
“And?”
“A triumph.”
“The reviewer from the Times said it displayed a newfound maturity.” Anna frowned. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“It’s a polite way of saying you’re getting older.”
“You wouldn’t know it from the cover photograph. It’s amazing what they can do with the click of a mouse these days. I look younger than Nicola Benedetti.”
“You can be sure she idolized you when she was a child.”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s idol. I just want to be thirty-three again.”
“Whatever for?” Gabriel gazed out his window at the graceful Haussmann buildings lining the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. “Where are we having dinner?”