“A Corsican.”
“My Auntie Beatrice was from Corsica. You’re about to miss your turn.”
“Which way?”
He pointed toward the turnoff for Gassin and Ramatuelle. She lurched the wheel hard to the left and a moment later they were headed south, into the rugged countryside separating the gulf and the Baie de Cavalaire.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To see some friends of Monsieur Antonov, of course.”
She surrendered and drove in silence. Neither of them spoke again until after they had passed Ramatuelle. He directed her onto a smaller side road and eventually to the entrance of a villa. The gate was open to receive them. She parked in the forecourt and switched off the engine.
“It’s not as nice as Villa Soleil,” he said, “but you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
Suddenly, a man was standing at Olivia’s door. She recognized him; she had seen him that morning in the Place de l’Ormeau. He helped her from the Range Rover and with only a movement of his hand guided her toward the entrance of the villa. The man she knew only as Nicolas Carnot—the man who spoke French like a Corsican and English with a posh West End accent—walked beside her.
“Is he from British intelligence, too?”
“Who?”
“The one who opened my door.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
Olivia turned around, but the man was gone. Perhaps he had been a hallucination. It was the heat, she thought. She was positively faint with it.
As she approached the villa, the door drew back and Dmitri Antonov stepped into the breach. “Olivia!” he exclaimed as though she were his oldest friend in the world. “So sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. Come inside and make yourself at home. Everyone’s here. They’re quite anxious to finally meet you in the flesh.”
He said all this in his Russian-accented English. Olivia wasn’t sure if it was real or performance. Indeed, at that moment, she wasn’t sure of the ground beneath her feet.
She followed him across the entrance hall and beneath an archway that gave onto the sitting room. It was comfortably furnished and hung with many canvases.
All were blank.
Olivia’s legs seemed to liquefy. Monsieur Antonov steadied her and nudged her forward.
There were three other men present. One was tall and handsome and distinguished and undeniably English. He was saying something quietly in French to a crumpled figure in a tweed coat who looked as though he had been plucked from an antiquarian bookshop. Their conversation fell silent as Olivia made her entry, and their faces turned to her like sunflowers to the dawn. The third man, however, seemed entirely oblivious to her arrival. He was staring at one of the blank canvases, a hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. The canvas was identical in dimensions to all the others but was propped upon an easel. The man looked comfortable before it, observed Olivia. He was of medium height and build. His hair was cropped short and gray at the temples. His eyes, which were fixed resolutely on the canvas, were an unnatural shade of green.
“I think,” he said at last, “this one is my favorite. The draftsmanship is quite extraordinary, and the use of color and light are second to none. I envy his palette.”
He blurted all this without pause in French, in an accent that Olivia couldn’t quite place. It was a peculiar mixture, a bit of German, a dash of Italian. He was still gazing at the painting. His pose was unchanged.
“The first time I saw it,” he went on, “I thought it was truly one of a kind. But I was mistaken. Paintings like this seem to be the specialty of your gallery. In fact, as far as I can tell, you’ve cornered the market on blank canvases.” The green eyes finally turned to her. “Congratulations, Olivia. That’s quite an achievement.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Monsieur Antonov.”
“Are you from British intelligence, too?”
“Heavens no! But he is,” he said, pointing toward the distinguished-looking Englishman. “In fact, he’s the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, which is sometimes referred to as MI6. His name used to be a state secret, but times have changed. Occasionally, he grants an interview and allows his photograph to be taken. Once upon a time that would have been heresy, but no more.”
“And him?” she asked, nodding toward the crumpled figure in tweed.
“French,” explained the green-eyed man. “He’s the chief of something called the Alpha Group. Perhaps you’ve heard the name. Its headquarters in Paris were bombed not long ago, and several of his officers lost their lives. As you might expect, he’s interested in finding the man who did it. And he’d like you to help him.”
“Me?” she asked, incredulous. “How?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. As for my affiliation,” he said, “I’m the odd man out. I’m from the place we don’t like to talk about.”
It was then she was finally able to place his peculiar accent. “You’re from Israel.”
“I’m afraid so. But back to the matter at hand,” he added quickly, “and that’s you and your gallery. It’s not a real gallery, is it, Olivia? Oh, you sell the occasional painting, like that Guston you were trying to foist on poor Herr Müller this morning for the obscene price of twenty million euros. But mainly it serves as a washing machine that launders the profits of Jean-Luc Martel’s real business, which is drugs.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
“This is the point,” said the green-eyed man, “where you tell me that your—” He stopped himself. “Excuse me, but I’m a stickler for details. How do you refer to Jean-Luc?”
“He’s my partner.”
“Partner? How unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because the word partner implies a business relationship.”
“I think I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“If you do, you’ll lose the one and only chance you have to save yourself.” He paused as if to assess the impact of his words. “Your gallery is a small but important part of a far-flung criminal enterprise. Its business is drugs. Drugs that come mainly from North Africa. Drugs that flow through the hands of the terrorist group that calls itself the Islamic State. Jean-Luc Martel is the distributor of those drugs here in Western Europe. He’s in business with ISIS. Wittingly or unwittingly, he’s helping to finance their operations. Which means you are, too.”
“Good luck proving that in a French courtroom.”
He smiled for the first time. It was cold and quick. “A show of bravery,” he said with mock admiration, “but still no denial about your husband’s business.”
“He’s not my husband.”
“Oh, yes,” he said scornfully, “I forgot.”