“We are professionals.”
“So is Jean-Luc,” she said darkly.
“Have you ever asked him?”
“Whether he’s a drug dealer?”
“Yes.”
“Just once. He laughed. And then he told me never to ask him about his business again.”
“Did you?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d heard other rumors,” she said. “Rumors about what happened to people who crossed him.”
“And yet you stayed,” he pointed out.
“I stayed,” she retorted, “because I was afraid to leave.”
“Afraid to leave, or afraid you would lose your gallery?”
“Both,” she admitted.
A flicker of a smile appeared on his lips and then vanished. “I admire your honesty, Olivia.”
“If nothing else?”
“Like Nicolas Carnot, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments. Especially when there’s valuable intelligence at stake.”
“What sort of intelligence?”
“The organization of Jean-Luc’s business, for example. You must have managed to collect a fair amount of information about how the company is structured. It’s rather opaque, to say the least. Looking at it from the outside, we’ve managed to identify some of the players. There’s a chief for each division—the restaurants, the hotels, the retail end of things—but try as we might, we haven’t been able to identify the chief of JLM’s illicit narcotics unit.”
“You’re joking.”
“Only a little. Is he one man or two? Is it Jean-Luc himself?”
She said nothing.
“Time, Olivia. We haven’t much time. We need to know how Jean-Luc manages his drug business. How he gives his orders. How he insulates himself so the police can’t touch him. It doesn’t happen by osmosis or telekinesis. Somewhere there’s a trusted figure who handles his interests. Someone who can move in and out of his orbit without attracting suspicion. Someone he communicates with only in person, in a quiet voice, in a room where no phones are present. Surely you know who this man is, Olivia. Perhaps you’re acquainted. Perhaps you’re a friend of his.”
“Not a friend,” she said after a moment. “But I do know who he is. And I know what would happen to me if I were to tell you his name. He would kill me. And not even Jean-Luc would be able to stop him.”
“No one’s going to harm you, Olivia.”
She regarded him skeptically. He feigned moderate offense.
“Think about the extraordinary lengths we went to in order to bring you here today. Haven’t we demonstrated our professionalism? Haven’t we proven ourselves worthy of your trust?”
“And when you’re gone? Who will protect me then?”
“You won’t need protection,” he responded, “because you’ll be gone, too.”
“Where will I be?”
“That’s up to you and your countryman to decide,” he said with an inclination of his head toward the chief of British intelligence. “Oh, I suppose I could offer you a nice flat overlooking the sea in Tel Aviv, but I suspect you’d be more comfortable in England.”
“What will I do for money?”
“Run an art gallery, of course.”
“Which one?”
“Galerie Olivia Watson.” He smiled. “Despite the fact that your professional inventory was purchased with drug money, we’re prepared to let you keep it. With two exceptions,” he added.
“Which ones?”
“The Guston and the Basquiat. Monsieur Antonov would like to write you a check for fifty million for both, which should allay any concerns Jean-Luc might have about how you spent this afternoon. And don’t worry,” he added. “Unlike Monsieur Antonov, the money is quite real.”
“How generous of you,” she said. “But you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“It’s about Paris,” he answered. “And London. And Antwerp. And Amsterdam. And Stuttgart. And Washington. And it’s about a hundred other attacks you’ve never heard about.”
“Jean-Luc is no angel, but he’s not a terrorist, either.”
“True. But we believe he’s in business with one, which means he’s helping to finance his attacks. But I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. The less you know, the better. That’s the way it works in our trade. And all you need to know is that you’re being given the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s a chance to start over. Think of it as a blank canvas upon which you can paint any picture you want. And all it will cost you is a name.” He smiled and asked, “Do we have a deal, Ms. Wilson?”
“Watson. My name is Olivia Watson. And, yes,” she said after a moment, “I believe we have a deal.”
They talked late into the afternoon, as the heat relented and the shadows grew long and thin in the garden and in the grove of silvery olive trees that climbed the next hillside. The circumstances of her repatriation to the United Kingdom. The manner in which she should conduct herself in Jean-Luc’s presence during the days to come. The procedures she should follow in the case of some unforeseen emergency. The green-eyed Israeli referred to this as the break-the-glass plan and warned Olivia that it was to be engaged only in the event of extreme danger, for it would necessarily wipe out a great deal of time and effort and waste untold millions in operational expenses.
Only then did he ask Olivia for the name. The name of the man whom Jean-Luc trusted to run his multibillion-euro narcotics empire. The dirty side of JLM Enterprises, as the Israeli called it. The side that made everything else—the restaurants, the hotels, the boutiques and shops, the art gallery in the Place de l’Ormeau—possible. The first time Olivia uttered it, she did so softly, as though a hand were squeezing her throat. The Israeli asked her to repeat the name and, hearing it clearly, exchanged a long, speculative glance with Paul Rousseau. At length, Rousseau nodded slowly and then resumed contemplating his dormant pipe while on the other side of the room Nicolas Carnot returned the volume of Bowles to its original place on the shelf.
After that, there was no more discussion of drugs or terror or the real reason why Olivia had been brought to the modest villa outside Ramatuelle. Monsieur Antonov materialized, all smiles and Russian-accented bonhomie, and together they arranged the transfer of fifty million euros from his accounts to the gallery’s. A bottle of champagne was opened to celebrate the sale. Olivia did not drink from the glass that was placed in her hand. The Israeli did not touch his glass, either. He was, thought Olivia, a man of admirable discipline.
Shortly after six o’clock, Nicolas Carnot returned her mobile phone. Precisely when he had taken it Olivia did not know. She reckoned he had plucked it from her handbag during the drive from Saint-Tropez. Glancing at the screen, she saw several text messages that had come through during her interrogation. The last was from Jean-Luc. It had arrived only a moment earlier. It said he was about to board his helicopter and would be home within the hour.
Olivia looked up, alarmed. “What should I say to him?”
“What would you usually say?” asked the Israeli.