In fact, Herr Müller liked looking at Olivia more than at her paintings. He was not alone. Her looks were a professional asset, but on occasion they were a distraction and a waste of time. Rich men—and some not so rich—made appointments at the gallery just to spend a few minutes in her presence. Some screwed up the nerve to proposition her. Others fled without ever making their true intentions known. She had learned long ago how to project an air of unavailability. While technically single, she was JLM’s girl. Everyone in France knew it. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.
Monique sat down at the glass receptionist’s desk. It had only a phone and the appointment calendar. Olivia didn’t trust her with much else. All of the gallery’s business and administrative affairs she saw to herself, with help from Jean-Luc. Monique was but another work of art, one that if so moved was capable of answering the phone. It was Jean-Luc, not Olivia, who had given her the job at the gallery. Olivia was all but certain they were lovers. She did not resent Monique. In fact, she pitied her a little. It would not end well. It never did.
Herr Müller was ten minutes late in arriving, which was not like him. He was fat and florid and smelled of last night’s wine. A recent confrontation with a plastic surgeon in Zurich had left him with an expression of perpetual astonishment. He was interested in a painting by the American artist Philip Guston. A similar work had recently fetched twenty-five million in America. Herr Müller was hoping to acquire Olivia’s for fifteen. Olivia turned him down.
“But I must have it!” he exclaimed while staring unabashedly at the front of Olivia’s blouse.
“Then you’ll have to find another five million.”
“Let me sleep on it. In the meantime, don’t let anyone else see it.”
“Actually, I’m planning to show it this afternoon.”
“Demon! Who?”
“Come now, Herr Müller, that would be indiscreet.”
“Is it that Antonov character?”
She was silent.
“I went to a party at his villa recently. I barely survived. Others were not so fortunate.” He chewed at the inside of his lip. “Sixteen. But that’s my final offer.”
“I’ll take my chances with Monsieur Antonov.”
“I knew it!”
At half past twelve Olivia dispatched him into the midday heat. When she returned to her desk she saw that she had received a text message from Jean-Luc. He was boarding his helicopter for a flight to Nice, where he had meetings all afternoon. She tried to text him back but received no reply. She supposed he was already airborne.
She returned the phone to her desk. A few seconds later it rang with an incoming voice call. Olivia didn’t recognize the number. Even so, she accepted the call and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Bonjour.”
“Madame Watson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Nicolas Carnot. We had lunch yesterday at—”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
“I was wondering whether you still had time to show Monsieur Antonov your collection.”
“I’ve cleared my calendar,” she lied. “What time would he like to come?”
“Would two o’clock work?”
“Two would be perfect.”
“I’ll need to stop by first to have a look around.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Monsieur Antonov is careful about his security.”
“I assure you, my gallery is quite safe.”
There was a silence.
“What time would you like to come?” asked Olivia, exasperated.
“I’m free now if you are.”
“Now is fine.”
“Perfect. Oh, and one more thing, Madame Watson.”
“Yes?”
“Your receptionist.”
“Monique? What about her?”
“Give her an errand to run, something that will keep her out of the gallery for a few minutes. Can you do that for me, Madame Watson?”
Five minutes elapsed before the receptionist finally emerged from the gallery. She paused in the furnace of the square, her eyes moved left and right. Then she drifted torpidly past Keller’s table at the café next door, with her arms hanging like limp long-stemmed flowers at her side. He typed a brief message into his mobile and fired it to the safe house at Ramatuelle. The reply bounced back instantly. Martel’s helicopter was east of Cannes. Proceed as planned.
Like a good field operative, Keller had paid his check in advance. Rising, he went to the gallery and placed his thumb heavily upon the bell. There was no answer. Turnabout, he thought, was fair play. He rang the bell a second time. The deadbolts opened with a snap and he went inside.
There was something different about him, Olivia was sure of it. Outwardly, he was the same slick, indifferent creature with whom she had dined at the Antonovs’ villa—the man of few words and unspecified duties—but his demeanor had changed. Suddenly, he seemed very sure of himself and the virtue of his cause. Crossing the gallery, he removed his sunglasses and propped them on his head. His smile was cordial but his blue eyes were all business. He addressed her without first offering his hand in greeting.
“I’m afraid there’s been a slight change in plan. Monsieur Antonov won’t be able to come after all.”
“Why not?”
“A small matter that required his immediate attention. Nothing urgent, mind you. No cause for alarm.” He said all this in his Corsican-accented French, through the same unthreatening smile.
“So why did you call me? And why,” asked Olivia, “are you here?”
“Because some friends of Monsieur Antonov have taken an interest in your gallery and would like to have a word in private.”
“What sort of interest?”
“It concerns several of your recent transactions. They were quite lucrative but somewhat unorthodox.”
“The transactions of this gallery,” she said coolly, “are private.”
“Not as private as you think.”
Olivia felt her face begin to burn. She walked slowly over to Monique’s desk and lifted the receiver from its cradle. Her hand trembled as she dialed.
“Don’t bother calling your husband, Olivia. He’s not going to answer.”
She looked up sharply. He had spoken these words not in French but in British-accented English.
“He’s not my husband,” she heard herself say.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. He’s still in the air,” he went on. “Somewhere between Cannes and Nice. But we’ve taken the additional precaution of blocking all his incoming calls.”
“We?”
“British intelligence,” he answered calmly. “Not to worry, Olivia, you’re in very good hands.”
She pressed the phone to her ear and heard the recording of Jean-Luc’s voice mail.
“Put the phone down, Olivia, and take a very deep breath. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m here to help. Think of me as your last chance. I’d take it if I were you.”
She returned the phone to its cradle.
“There’s a good girl,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Nicolas Carnot, and I work for Monsieur Antonov. It’s important that you remember that. Now get your handbag and your phone and the keys to that beautiful Range Rover of yours. And please hurry, Olivia. We haven’t much time.”
32
Ramatuelle, Provence
The Range Rover was in its usual place, parked illegally outside Jean-Luc’s restaurant in the Old Port. Olivia slid behind the wheel and, as directed, drove westward along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. Twice she asked him to explain why her gallery was of sufficient interest to British intelligence to warrant such an elaborate ruse. Twice he remarked about the scenery and the weather in the manner of Nicolas Carnot, friend of Monsieur Dmitri Antonov.
“How did you learn to speak like that?”
“Like what?”