The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(27)

“And?”

“Nothing. Same for the passport.”

Gabriel went to the window and peered around the edge of the blinds. “Which building is Villard’s?”

“Number twenty-one.” Mikhail handed Gabriel a Zeiss monocular. “Third floor, right side of the building.”

Gabriel scanned the two street-facing windows of Lucien Villard’s flat. He saw a sparsely furnished bachelor’s sitting room but no sign of Villard himself. “Are you sure he’s there?”

Mikhail raised the volume on the laptop. A few seconds later Gabriel heard the opening phrase of Coltrane’s “I Want to Talk About You.”

“What’s the source of the audio?”

“His mobile phone. The Unit got the number from the school’s internal directory. By the time I’d landed this morning, the phone was hot and we were reading his e-mails and texts.”

“Anything interesting?”

“He’s leaving for Marrakesh tomorrow afternoon.”

Gabriel aimed the monocular at Mikhail. “Is he really?”

“He’s booked on Lufthansa with a brief stopover in Munich. First class all the way.”

Gabriel lowered the glass. “When is he coming back?”

“The ticket is open ended. He hasn’t booked the return yet.”

“Now that he’s no longer working, I suppose he has a lot of time on his hands.”

“And Morocco is lovely this time of year.”

“I remember,” said Gabriel distantly. “Was the Unit able to see his file?”

“They grabbed a copy on their way out the door.”

“Was there any mention of the fact he was run out of the SDLP for having an affair with the wife of the French president?”

“He seems to have neglected to mention it when he interviewed for the job.”

“Any black marks?”

Mikhail shook his head.

“How much were they paying him?”

“Enough to rent a flat in a chic Geneva neighborhood, but not enough for the little things.”

“Like a long trip to Morocco?”

“Don’t forget the first-class air travel.”

“I haven’t.” Lucien Villard’s music filled the silence. “What about his private life?”

“He was married once a hundred years ago.”

“Kids?”

“A daughter. They exchange the odd e-mail.”

“Nice.”

“I’d reserve judgment until you read the e-mails.”

Gabriel raised the monocular to his eye again and trained it on Villard’s apartment. “Is there a woman over there?”

“If there is, she isn’t awake yet. But he’s having drinks with someone named Isabelle Jeanneret at five o’clock.”

“Who is she?”

“For now, she’s an e-mail address. The Unit is working on it.”

“Where are they meeting?”

“Café Remor on the Place du Cirque.”

“Who chose the venue?”

“She did.” A silence fell between them. Then Mikhail asked, “You think he knows something?”

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“How do you intend to play it?”

“I’d like to have a word with him in private.”

“A friendly word?”

“That depends entirely on Lucien.”

“When are we going to make our move?”

“After he’s finished having drinks with Madame Jeanneret at Café Remor. You and Sarah will be sitting at the next table.” Gabriel smiled. “Just like old times.”

The Coltrane piece ended, and the next began.

“What’s that one called?” asked Sarah.

“‘You Say You Care.’”

Sarah shook her head slowly. “Couldn’t you have found someone else to send to Geneva?”

“He volunteered.”



They saw Villard for the first time at half past one, standing in the window of his sitting room, stripped to the waist, his compromised mobile phone to his ear. He was speaking in French to a woman whom the device identified only as Monique. They were obviously well acquainted. Indeed, for some ten minutes, the woman explained in excruciating detail all the things she would do to Villard’s body if only he would agree to see her that evening. Villard, citing a scheduling conflict, declined. He made no mention of the fact he was having drinks with someone named Isabelle Jeanneret at five o’clock. Nor did he make reference to his pending trip to Marrakesh. Gabriel found much to admire in the performance. Lucien Villard, he surmised, was a man who lied often and well.

The woman ended the call abruptly, and Villard disappeared from their view. They glimpsed him occasionally when he passed within range of the phone’s camera, but mainly they listened to drawers opening and closing—a sound that Gabriel, a veteran of many surveillance operations, associated with the packing of a suitcase. There were two, actually, a duffel bag and a rolling rectangular behemoth the size of a steamer trunk. Villard left them both in the entrance hall before heading downstairs.

When they saw him next he was stepping into the busy street, dressed in a mid-length leather coat, dark jeans, and suede chukka boots. He paused on the pavement briefly, his eyes moved left and right—perhaps out of habit, thought Gabriel, or perhaps because he feared someone might be watching. A cigarette found its way to his lips, a lighter flared, an exhalation of smoke was carried away by a cold winter’s wind. Then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and set off toward the center of Geneva.