The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(25)
“Because His Royal Highness is a one-man economic stimulus program. And because, like it or not, he is going to be the ruler of Saudi Arabia for a long time.” Quietly, Rousseau added, “If you can find his daughter.”
Gabriel made no reply.
The room filled with smoke as Rousseau considered his options. “For the record,” he said finally, “the government of France will not tolerate your involvement in the search for Prince Khalid’s daughter. That said, your participation might prove useful to the Alpha Group. Provided, of course, we establish certain ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“You will share information with me, as I have shared it with you.”
“Agreed.”
“You will not bug, blackmail, or brutalize any citizen of the Republic.”
“Unless he deserves it.”
“And you will undertake no attempt to rescue Princess Reema on French soil. If you discover her whereabouts, you will tell me, and our tactical police units will free her.”
“Inshallah,” muttered Gabriel.
“So we have a deal?”
“It seems we do. I will find Princess Reema, and you will receive all the credit.”
Rousseau smiled. “By my calculation, you now have approximately five days before the deadline. How do you intend to proceed?”
Gabriel pointed to the photograph of the man sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice. “I’m going to find him. And then I’m going to ask him where he’s hiding the princess.”
“As your clandestine partner, I’d like to offer one piece of advice.” Rousseau pointed toward the photograph of the woman climbing into the van. “Ask her instead.”
17
Paris–Annecy
The Israeli Embassy was located on the opposite bank of the Seine, on the rue Rabelais. Gabriel and Sarah remained there for nearly an hour—Gabriel in the station’s secure communications vault, Sarah in the ambassador’s antechamber. Leaving, they purchased sandwiches and coffee from a carryout around the corner, then made their way through the southern districts of Paris to the A6, the Autoroute du Soleil. The evening rush was long over, and the road before Gabriel was nearly empty of traffic. He pressed the accelerator of the Passat to the floor and felt a small rebellious thrill as the engine responded with a roar.
“You’ve proven your point about the damn car. Now please slow down.” Sarah unwrapped one of the sandwiches and ate ravenously. “Why does everything taste better in France?”
“It doesn’t, actually. That sandwich will taste exactly the same when we cross the Swiss border.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“Eventually.”
“Where’s our first stop?”
“I thought we should have a look at the crime scene.”
Sarah took another bite of the sandwich. “Are you sure you won’t have one?”
“Maybe later.”
“The sun has set, Gabriel. You’re allowed to eat.”
She switched on her overhead reading lamp and opened the dossier that Paul Rousseau had slipped into Gabriel’s attaché case as they were leaving Alpha Group headquarters. It contained a surveillance photo of Khalid and Rafiq al-Madani aboard Tranquillity. Gabriel gave it a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the road.
“When was it taken?”
Sarah turned over the photo and read the DGSI caption on the back. “The twenty-second of August on the Baie de Cannes.” She scrutinized the image carefully. “I know that expression on Khalid’s face. It’s the one he adopts when someone is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear. I saw it for the first time when I told him I didn’t want to be his art adviser.”
“And the second?”
“When I said he would be a fool to spend a half billion dollars on a suspect Leonardo.”
“Have you ever been aboard the yacht?”
Sarah shook her head. “Too many bad memories. Every time Khalid invited me, I always made up some excuse to turn him down.” She looked at the photograph again. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”
“Maybe they’re discussing the best way to get rid of a meddlesome journalist named Omar Nawwaf.”
Sarah returned the photograph to the file. “I thought Khalid was going to cut off the flow of money to the radicals.”
“So did I.”
“So why is he hanging out with a Wahhabi true believer like al-Madani?”
“Good question.”
“If I were you, I’d put him under surveillance.”
“What do you think I was doing downstairs at the embassy?”
“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t invited.” Sarah drew another photograph from Rousseau’s dossier. A man and a woman sitting at separate tables at Brasserie Saint-Maurice in Annecy, each holding a mobile phone. “And what do you suppose they were talking about?”
“It can’t be good.”
“They’re obviously not Saudi.”
“Obviously.”
Sarah studied the passport photo. “He doesn’t look British to me.”
“What do British people look like?”
Sarah unwrapped another sandwich. “Eat something. You’ll be less surly.”