With that, they adjourned to the table for lunch. Here again, Gabriel had spared no expense and left nothing to chance. Indeed, he had hired the executive chef from a prominent Paris restaurant and flown him privately to Provence for the occasion. Madame Sophie had chosen the menu. Warm glazed potatoes with caviar, tapioca, and herbs; yellowfin tuna ribbons with avocado, spicy radish, and ginger marinade; diver scallops with caramelized cauliflower and a caper-raisin emulsion; black sea bass crusted with nuts and seeds, with a sweet-and-sour jus. Impressed, Martel asked to meet the chef. Madame Sophie, lighting another Gitane, demurred. The chef and his staff, she explained, were never permitted to leave the kitchen.
Over dessert the talk turned to politics. The election in America, the war in Syria, the ISIS terrorist attacks in Europe. At the mention of Islam, Martel suddenly became animated. France as they once knew it was gone, he snarled. Soon it would be just another outpost in the Islamic Maghreb. Gabriel found it to be a rather convincing performance, though Olivia appeared to think otherwise. Bored, she asked Madame Sophie whether she might have one of her Gitanes.
“Jean-Luc has very strong opinions when it comes to the question of minorities in France,” she confided. “I like to remind him that were it not for Arabs and Africans, he would have no one to wash the dishes in his restaurants or change the beds in his hotels.”
Madame Sophie, with her expression, made it clear she found the topic distasteful. She asked the Alpha Group servants to bring the coffee. By then, it was approaching five o’clock. Everyone agreed a tour of the paintings would have to wait for another occasion, though they saw several as they made their way slowly through the vast sitting rooms and rose-colored halls, observed by the surveillance cameras.
“Are you really interested in coming to the gallery tomorrow?” asked Olivia as she paused to admire the pair of Venetian canal scenes by Guardi.
“Absolutely,” answered Dmitri Antonov.
“I’m free at eleven.”
“Afternoon is better,” said Gabriel to the video screens, and Dmitri Antonov then explained that he had several important phone calls to make in the morning and would prefer to visit the gallery after lunch. “If that would be convenient.”
“It would.”
“Monsieur Carnot will make the necessary arrangements. I believe he has your number.”
The Antonovs bid farewell to their guests on the portico, which by then was no longer in shadow but ablaze with a fine orange light. A moment later they were standing once more on the terrace, watching the black Range Rovers racing toward the villa on the other side of the Baie de Cavalaire. Presently, Madame Sophie’s mobile purred.
“What does it say?” asked her husband.
“It says we were perfect.”
“Did they enjoy themselves?”
“Martel is convinced you’re an arms dealer masquerading as a legitimate businessman.”
“And Olivia?”
“She’s looking forward to tomorrow.”
Smiling, Dmitri Antonov stripped off his suit and went down to the pool for a swim. Madame Sophie and Monsieur Carnot watched him from the terrace while they finished the last of the rosé. Madame Sophie’s phone shivered with another incoming message.
“What now?” asked Monsieur Carnot.
“Apparently, Martel thinks I look like a Jew.” She lit another Gitane and smiled. “Saladin said the same thing.”
31
Saint-Tropez, France
At ten the following morning the Place de l’Ormeau was deserted, save for a man of late middle age washing his hands in a thread of water from the wellhead. Olivia thought she had seen him in the village once or twice before but on closer inspection decided she was mistaken. The paving stones warmed her sandaled feet as she crossed the square to the gallery. Fishing her keys from her handbag, she unlocked the outer wooden door and stepped into the stifling vestibule. Next she opened the high-security glass door and, entering, disabled the alarm. She closed the door behind her. It locked automatically.
The interior of the gallery was dim and cool, a respite from the out-of-doors. In her private office Olivia threw a switch that opened the blinds and security grills. Then, as was her habit, she went upstairs to the exhibition rooms to make certain nothing was missing. The Lichtenstein, Basquiat, and Dubuffet displayed in her window were but the tip of the gallery’s inventory. Olivia’s substantial professional collection included works by Warhol, Twombly, de Kooning, Gerhard Richter, and Pollock, along with numerous French and Spanish contemporary artists. She had acquired wisely and developed a reliable clientele among the megarich of the C?te d’Azur—men like Dmitri Antonov, she thought. It was an extraordinary achievement for a woman with no university degree and no formal artistic training. And to think that a few short years earlier she had been managing a little gallery that dispensed the scribblings of local artists to the sweaty tourists who staggered off the cruise ships and motor coaches. Sometimes she allowed herself to think she had arrived at this place as a result of her determination and business acumen, but in truth she knew better than that. It was all Jean-Luc’s doing. Olivia was the public face of the gallery and it bore her name, but it was bought and paid for by Jean-Luc Martel. So, for that matter, was she.
After determining that her collection had survived the night intact, she went downstairs and found Monique, her receptionist, preparing a café crème at the automatic maker. She was a skinny, small-breasted girl of twenty-four, a Degas dancer come to life. Evenings, she worked as a hostess in one of Jean-Luc’s restaurants. She looked as though she’d had a late night. Where Monique was concerned, that was more often than not the case.
“You?” she asked as the last of the steaming milk gurgled and spat into her cup.
“Please.”
Monique handed Olivia the coffee and prepared another for herself. “Any appointments this morning?”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”
Monique made a face.
“Who was it this time?”
“An American. So adorable. He’s from somewhere called Virginia.” Spoken by Monique, it sounded like the most exotic and sensual place in the world. “He raises horses.”
“I thought you hated Americans.”
“Of course. But this one is very rich.”
“Will you ever see him again?”
“Maybe tonight.”
Or maybe not, thought Olivia. She had once been a girl like Monique. Perhaps she still was.
“If you consult your calendar,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll discover that Herr Müller is coming at eleven.”
Monique frowned. “Herr Müller likes to look at my tits.”
“Mine, too.”