Greeted by a professional silence, she walked on, swinging her handbag like a spoiled schoolgirl. Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern were walking toward them along the narrow street, hands clasped, laughing at a private joke. Dina Sarid was evaluating a pair of sandals in the window of Minelli, and a little farther along the street Natalie spotted Eli Lavon rushing into a pharmacy with the urgency of a man whose bowels were in a state of rebellion.
At last, they arrived in the Place de l’Ormeau. It was not a proper square like the Place des Lices, but a tiny triangle at the intersection of three streets. In the center was an old wellhead, shaded by a single tree. On one side was a dress shop, on the other a café. And next to the café was the handsome four-story building—large by Saint-Tropez standards, pale gray instead of tan—occupied by Galerie Olivia Watson.
The heavy wooden door was closed and locked. Next to it was a brass placard, which stated in both French and English that viewing of the gallery’s inventory was by appointment only. In the display window were three paintings—a Lichtenstein, a Basquiat, and a work by the French painter and sculptor Jean Dubuffet. Natalie wandered over to have a closer look at the Basquiat while Keller checked his mobile. After a moment she became aware of a presence at her back. The intoxicating scent of lilac made it clear it was not Roland Girard.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a female voice in French.
“The Basquiat?”
“Yes.”
“Actually,” said Natalie to the glass, “I prefer the Dubuffet.”
“You have good taste.”
Natalie turned slowly and appraised the fourth work of art standing a few inches away, in the Place de l’Ormeau. She was shockingly tall, so tall in fact that Natalie had to lift her gaze to meet hers. She was not beautiful, she was professionally beautiful. Until that moment, Natalie had not realized there was a difference.
“Would you like to have a closer look?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the Dubuffet. I have a few minutes before my next appointment.” She smiled and extended a hand. “Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Olivia. Olivia Watson,” she added. “This is my gallery.”
Natalie accepted the proffered hand. It was unusually long, as was the bare arm, smooth and golden, to which it was attached. Luminous blue eyes stared out from a face so flawless it scarcely seemed real. It was set in an expression of mild curiosity.
“You’re Sophie Antonov, are you not?”
“Have we met?”
“No. But Saint-Tropez is a small town.”
“Very small,” said Natalie coolly.
“We live across the bay from you and your husband,” Olivia Watson explained. “In fact, we can see your villa from ours. Perhaps you’d like to come over some time.”
“I’m afraid my husband is extremely busy.”
“He sounds like Jean-Luc.”
“Jean-Luc is your husband?”
“Partner,” said Olivia Watson. “His name is Jean-Luc Martel. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. You and your husband had dinner at his new brasserie in Paris a couple of weeks ago. He sent you a bottle of champagne.” She glanced at Keller, who appeared to be engrossed by something he was reading on his mobile. “He was there, too.”
“He works for my husband.”
“And that one?” Olivia Watson nodded toward Roland Girard.
“He works for me.”
The luminous blue eyes settled on Natalie once more. She had studied hundreds of photographs of Olivia Watson in preparation for their first encounter, and yet the impact of her beauty was still a shock to the system. She was smiling slightly now. It was a sly smile, seductive, superior. She was well aware of the effect her appearance had on other women.
“Your husband is an art collector,” she said.
“My husband is a businessman who appreciates art,” said Natalie carefully.
“Perhaps he’d like to visit the gallery.”
“My husband prefers Old Master paintings to contemporary works.”
“Yes, I know. He made quite a splash in London and New York this spring.” She delved into her handbag and produced a business card, which she offered to Natalie. “My private number is on the back. I have some special pieces I think might be of interest to your husband. And please come to our villa for lunch this weekend. Jean-Luc is eager to meet you both.”
“My husband and I have other plans this weekend,” said Natalie briskly. “Good day, Madame Wilson. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Watson,” she called out as Natalie walked away. “My name is Olivia Watson.”
She was still holding the business card between her thumb and forefinger. Keller walked over and plucked it from her grasp. “Madame Sophie can be a bit on the moody side. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the boss on your behalf.” He offered his hand. “I’m Nicolas, by the way. Nicolas Carnot.”
Keller walked with Natalie and Roland Girard back to the Place des Lices and saw them into the waiting Maybach. It departed the centre ville a few seconds later in a black blur, observed enviously by tourists and natives alike. Alone, Keller cut through the stalls of the market to the opposite side of the square and mounted the Peugeot Satelis motorbike he had left there. He headed west along the edge of the Golfe de Saint-Tropez, then south into the hills of the Var, until he came to the village of Ramatuelle. It was not unlike the village of the Orsatis in central Corsica, a cluster of small dun-colored houses with red-tile roofs, perched defensively atop a hill. There were larger villas hidden away in the wooded lowlands. One was called La Pastorale. Keller made certain he was not being followed before presenting himself at the iron security gate. It was painted green and quite formidable. He thumbed the intercom button and then turned to watch a delivery truck pass in the road.
“Oui?” came a thin metallic voice a moment later.
“C’est moi,” said Keller. “Open the fucking gate.”
The drive was long and winding and shaded by pine and poplar. It terminated in the gravel forecourt of a large stone villa with yellow shutters. Keller made his way to the sitting room, which had been converted into a makeshift op center. Gabriel and Paul Rousseau were hunched over a laptop computer. Rousseau acknowledged Keller’s arrival with a guarded nod—he was still deeply suspicious of this talented MI6 officer who spoke French like a Corsican and was comfortable in the presence of criminals—but Gabriel was smiling broadly.
“Well played, Monsieur Carnot. Taking the business card was a nice touch.”
“First impressions matter.”
“They do, indeed. Listen to this.”
Gabriel tapped the keyboard of the laptop and a few seconds later came the voice of a woman shouting in anger in French. It was fluent and profane but marked by an unmistakable English accent.
“Who’s she talking to?”
“Jean-Luc Martel, of course.”
“How did he take it?”
“You’ll hear in a minute.”
Keller winced as Martel’s voice boomed from the speakers.
“Clearly,” said Gabriel, “he’s not used to people telling him no.”
“What’s your next move?”