Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (43)
Ménard nodded.
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Twelve million euros. The Quai des Orfèvres is of the opinion the bomber wanted it all for himself.”
“Clean and simple,” said Gabriel. “And much more palatable than a scandal involving several million euros’ worth of forgeries hanging on the walls of the world’s most famous museum.”
“Thirty-four million euros, to be exact. All of which had to be raised from outside sources. If it were to become public, the reputation of one of France’s most treasured institutions would be severely tarnished.”
“And we can’t have that,” said Gabriel.
“Non,” agreed Ménard.
“But how do Sarah and I fit into this theory of theirs?”
“You and Madame Bancroft were never there, remember?”
Gabriel displayed the photograph of their arrival at the gallery. “And what happens if this becomes public?”
“Don’t worry, Allon. No chance of that.”
Gabriel placed the photograph atop the others. “How high does it go?”
“What’s that?”
“The cover-up.”
“Cover-up is an ugly word, Allon. So américain.”
“La conspiration du silence.”
“Much better.”
“The director of the Police Nationale? The prefect?”
“Oh, no,” said Ménard. “Much higher than that. The ministers of interior and culture are involved. Perhaps even le Palais.”
“You disapprove?”
“I am a loyal servant of the French Republic. But I have a conscience as well.”
“I’d listen to your conscience.”
“You never violated yours?”
“I was an intelligence operative,” said Gabriel without elaboration.
“And I am a senior Police Nationale officer who is obligated to follow the orders of my superiors to the letter.”
“And if you were to disobey?”
“I would be terminated. Avec la guillotine.” Ménard inclined his head toward the west. “A la Place de la Concorde.”
“How about a leak to a friendly reporter at Le Monde?”
“A leak of what, exactly? A story about a London art dealer who purchased a forged Van Dyck portrait from a Parisian art gallery and then sold it to an American investor?”
“Perhaps the leak could be a bit narrower in scope.”
“How narrow?”
“A Cranach, a Hals, a Gentileschi, and the most delicious Van der Weyden you’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“The scandal would be immense.” Ménard paused. “And it wouldn’t accomplish our shared goal.”
“What might that be?” asked Gabriel warily.
“Putting the forger out of business.” Ménard nudged the photographs a few millimeters closer to Gabriel. “And while you’re at it, you might want to track down the man who tried to kill you and Madame Bancroft.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Ménard smiled. “You’re the former intelligence operative, Allon. I’m sure you’ll be able to find him if you put your mind to it.”
What Jacques Ménard proposed next was une petite collaboration, the terms of which he outlined for Gabriel while walking along the footpaths of the Jardin des Tuileries. Theirs was to be an entirely secret relationship, with Ménard playing the role of case officer and Gabriel acting as his informant and asset. It would be up to Ménard, and only Ménard, to determine how best to act upon their findings. If possible, he would resolve the situation quietly, without inflicting undue damage to the reputations of those who had been taken in.
“But if a few eggs need to be broken, well, so be it.”
Gabriel made only a single demand in return, that Ménard make no attempt to observe his activities or monitor his movements. The Frenchman readily agreed to avert his eyes. He asked only that Gabriel avoid unnecessary violence, especially within the borders of the Republic.
“What if I’m able to find the man who tried to kill me?”
Ménard pulled his lips into a Gallic expression of indifference. “Do with him what you will. I’m not going to cry over a little spilled blood. Just make certain none of it splashes on me.”
With that, the newfound partners went their separate ways—Ménard to the Quai des Orfèvres, Gabriel to the Gare de Lyon. As his train slithered from the station shortly after 5:00 p.m., he made two phone calls, one to his wife in Venice, the other to Sarah. Neither was pleased by his news or by his travel plans, Sarah especially. Nevertheless, after consulting with her husband on a separate line, she reluctantly agreed to Gabriel’s request.
“How are you making the crossing?” she asked.
“The morning ferry from Marseilles.”
“Peasant,” she hissed, and rang off.
29
Ajaccio
At seven fifteen the following evening, Christopher Keller was seated at a waterfront café in the Corsican port of Ajaccio, an empty wineglass on the table before him, a freshly lit Marlboro burning between the first and second fingers of his sledgehammer right hand. He wore a pale gray suit by Richard Anderson of Savile Row, an open-neck white dress shirt, and handmade oxford shoes. His hair was sun-bleached, his skin was taut and dark, his eyes were bright blue. The notch in the center of his thick chin looked as though it had been cleaved with a chisel. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in an ironic half-smile.