The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(48)

“Absolutely.”

“How do you know?”

“Check your phone.”

Khalid looked down. He had an incoming call. No name. No number.

Gabriel tapped accept and lifted the device to his ear. The voice that addressed him was female and vaguely erotic. It was not, however, a recording.

The voice was real.





34

Carcassonne, France


“You couldn’t resist, could you?”

“I suppose not. After all, how often does one get to speak to a man like you?”

“And what kind of man is that?”

“A war criminal. A murderer of those who struggle for dignity and self-determination.”

Her English was flawless. The accent was German but there was a trace of something else. Something farther to the east, thought Gabriel. “Are you a freedom fighter?” he asked.

“I am a professional, Allon. Like you.”

“Really? And what kind of work do you do when you’re not kidnapping and torturing children?”

“The child,” she replied, “has been well cared for.”

“I saw the room in Areatza where you kept her. It wasn’t fit for a dog, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.”

“A girl who has spent her entire life surrounded by unimaginable luxury. At least now she has some sense of how the vast majority of the people in the world live.”

“Where is she?”

“Close.”

“In that case, leave her in front of the restaurant. I won’t make any attempt to follow you.”

She laughed, low and throaty. Gabriel raised the volume on the phone to full and pressed it tightly to his ear. She was in a moving car, he was certain of it.

“Are you ready for the next set of instructions?” she asked.

“They’d better be the last.”

“There’s a village north of Carcassonne called Saissac. Follow the D629 to the border of the next département. After a kilometer you’ll see a break in the fence on the right side of the road. Follow the track into the field exactly one hundred meters and then switch off your headlamps. Any deviation on your part,” said the woman, “will result in the girl’s death.”

“If you harm a hair on her head, I’m going to put a bullet in yours.”

“Like this?”

At once, the café’s sliding glass door shattered, and a superheated round split the air between Gabriel and Khalid and embedded in the wall.

“You have thirty minutes,” said the woman calmly. “Otherwise, the next one is for her.”



Gabriel and Khalid followed the other panicked patrons of Plein Sud into the busy avenue. The Renault was parked outside the neighboring shop. Gabriel dropped behind the wheel, started the engine, and raced along the walls of the ancient citadel. Khalid charted their course on his mobile phone. In truth, Gabriel didn’t need the help—the route to Saissac was clearly marked with signposts—but it gave Khalid something to do other than shout at Gabriel to drive faster.

It was a drive of nearly forty kilometers to Saissac alone. Gabriel covered the distance in about twenty minutes. They flashed through the town’s old center in a blur. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed a rampart overlooking a lowland, the ruins of a battlement, and a single café. The newer quarter of the town was to the northwest. There was an outpost of the gendarmerie and a traffic circle where for an instant Gabriel feared the Renault might overturn.

Beyond the circle, the town dwindled. For a mile or so the countryside was groomed and cultivated, but gradually it turned wild. The road narrowed, spanned a riverbed over a stone bridge, and narrowed again. Gabriel glanced at the dashboard clock. By his calculation they were already three or four minutes late. Then he checked the rearview mirror and saw a set of headlights. Somehow the lights were drawing nearer. He found his BlackBerry and dialed.

It was Keller who answered.

“Back off,” said Gabriel.

“Not a chance.”

“Tell Mikhail to pull over now.”

Gabriel overheard Keller reluctantly relay the instructions and watched a few seconds later as the car moved onto the verge. Then he severed the connection and returned the phone to his pocket. Khalid’s was suddenly ablaze with light. No name. No number.

“Put her on speaker.”

Khalid tapped the screen.

“You’re late,” said the woman.

“I think we’re almost there.”

“You are. And so are your men.”

“I told them to pull over. They won’t come any closer.”

“They’d better not.”

A sign appeared: département du tarn.

“I’m crossing the border,” said Gabriel.

“Keep going.”

They were in a tunnel of trees. When they emerged, Gabriel saw a line of sagging wire fencing along the right side of the road. The field beyond it was in darkness. Heavy cloud had rendered the night moonless.

“Slow down,” commanded the woman. “The break in the fence is just ahead.”

Gabriel eased off the throttle and turned through the breach. The track was unpaved, deeply rutted, and wet with a recent rain. Gabriel bumped along for what he thought was a hundred meters and braked.