“I’m busy.”
Natalie dropped her Office mobile into her handbag and headed downstairs to the forecourt, where the Antonovs’ black Maybach limousine waited next to the splashing fountain, an Alpha Group driver behind the wheel. In the backseat was a second officer of the Alpha Group. His name was Roland Girard. During the first operation he had served as the director of the small clinic in Aubervilliers where Dr. Leila Hadawi had practiced medicine. Now he was Madame Sophie’s favorite bodyguard. There were rumors they were having a torrid affair, rumors that had reached the ears of Monsieur Antonov. Several times he had tried to fire the bodyguard, but Madame Sophie would not hear of it. As the Maybach eased through the imposing security gate, she lit another Gitane and stared moodily out her window. This time she could not suppress the urge to cough.
“You know,” said Girard, “you don’t have to smoke those wretched things when it’s just the two of us.”
“It’s the only way I’ll ever get used to them.”
“What are your plans?” he asked.
“The market.”
“And then?”
“I was hoping to have lunch with my husband, but it seems he can’t be bothered.”
Girard smiled but said nothing. Just then, Natalie’s mobile pinged with an incoming message. After reading it she returned the device to her handbag and, coughing, smoked the last of the Gitane. It was nearly time for Madame Sophie to meet Madame Olivia. She needed the practice.
28
Saint-Tropez, France
As they passed the turnoff for the Plage de Pampelonne, Natalie was overcome by memories. This time they were not Leila’s memories, they were her own. It is a perfect morning in late August. Natalie and her parents have made the difficult drive from Marseilles to Saint-Tropez because no other beach in France—or the world, for that matter—will do. The year is 2011. Natalie has completed her medical training and has embarked on what promises to be a successful career in France’s state-run health care system. She is a model French citizen; she cannot imagine living anywhere else. But France is changing rapidly beneath her feet. It is no longer a place where it is safe to be a Jew. Each day, it seems, brings news of another horror. Another child beaten or spat upon, another shop window broken, another synagogue sprayed with graffiti, another gravestone toppled. And so on that day in late August, on the beach at Pampelonne, Natalie and her parents do their best to conceal their Jewishness. They cannot, and the day does not pass without scornful looks and a murmured insult by the waiter who grudgingly serves their lunch. During the drive back to Marseilles, Natalie’s parents make a fateful decision. They will leave France and settle in Israel. They ask Natalie, their only child, to join them. She agrees without hesitation. And now, she thought, gazing out the tinted window of the Maybach limousine, she was back again.
Beyond the beaches were newly planted vineyards and tiny villas shaded by cypress and umbrella pine. Once they reached the outer edges of Saint-Tropez, however, the villas were concealed by high walls covered in flowering vines. These were the homes of the merely rich, not the superrich like Dmitri Antonov or Ivan Kharkov before him. As a child Natalie had dreamed of living in a grand house surrounded by walls. Gabriel had granted her wish. Not Gabriel, she thought suddenly. It was Saladin.
The driver eased the Maybach onto the avenue Foch and followed it into the centre ville. It was only June, not yet high summer, and so the crowds were manageable, even in the Place des Lices, site of Saint-Tropez’s bustling open-air market. As Natalie made her way slowly through the stalls, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. This was her country, she thought, and yet her family had been forced to leave it because of the most ancient hatred. The presence of Roland Girard focused her attention on the task at hand. He walked not at her side, but at her back. There was no mistaking him for a husband. He was there for one reason and one reason only, to protect Madame Sophie Antonov, the new resident of the scandalous palace on the Baie de Cavalaire.
All at once she heard someone calling her name from a café along the boulevard Vasserot. “Madame Sophie, Madame Sophie! It’s me, Nicolas. Over here, Madame Sophie.” She looked up and saw Christopher Keller waving to her from a table at Le Clemenceau. Smiling, she crossed the street, with Roland Girard a step behind. Keller rose and offered her a chair. When Natalie sat down, Roland Girard returned to the Place des Lices and stood in the dappled shade of a plane tree.
“What a pleasant surprise,” said Keller when they were alone.
“Yes, it is.” Natalie’s tone was cool. It was the voice Madame Sophie used when addressing men who worked for her husband. “What brings you into the village?”
“An errand. You?”
“A bit of shopping.” She glanced around the market. “Anyone watching?”
“Of course, Madame Sophie. You caused quite a stir.”
“That was the point, wasn’t it?”
Keller was drinking Campari. “Have you had a chance to visit any of the art galleries?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“There’s a rather good one near the Old Port. I’d be happy to show it to you. It’s a five-minute walk at most.”
“Will the owner be there?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“How does our friend want me to play it?”
“He seems to think a good snub is in order.”
Natalie smiled. “I think Madame Sophie can manage that quite nicely.”
They walked toward the Old Port past the parade of shops lining the rue Gambetta. Keller wore white pants, black moccasins, and a formfitting black pullover. With his dark tan and gelled hair, he looked thoroughly disreputable. Natalie, playing the role of Madame Sophie, affected a deep and profound boredom. She loitered in several of the shop windows, including a boutique that bore the name Olivia Watson. Roland Girard, her ersatz bodyguard, stood vigilantly at her shoulder.
“What do you think of that one?” she asked, pointing toward a sheer dress that hung from a headless mannequin like a negligee. “Do you think Dmitri would notice me if I wore that? Or how about that one? That might get his attention.”