Celine was a Baia Atlantica 78 with three cabins, an MTV diesel engine capable of producing speeds of fifty-four knots, and a long slender prow that could accommodate a small helicopter. Keller, however, reached the vessel by less conspicuous means—namely, a Zodiac dinghy that had been left for him at an isolated marina in the Rh?ne estuary, near the town of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. He tied the craft to the aft swim platform and climbed up to the main salon, where he found Don Orsati watching the Marseilles-Lyon match on the satellite television. Dressed as he was now, in his simple Corsican clothing and dusty sandals, he looked distinctly out of place amid the luxurious leather-and-wood fittings. Giancomo was on the bridge with the pilot.
“Marseilles scored again,” said the don, disconsolate. He pointed the remote at the screen, and it turned to black.
Keller looked around the interior of the salon. “I expected something a bit more modest.”
“I’m too old to be moving around the Mediterranean in the belly of a fishing trawler. Besides, you’ll be glad to have twenty-four meters of boat beneath you later tonight. It’s supposed to blow.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“And the pilot?”
“He’s mine.”
Keller looked down and for the first time noticed several drops of drying blood.
“He had a gun on the desk when they went in,” explained the don. “He took one in the shoulder.”
“Is he going to live?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Has he seen your face?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you bring a hammer?”
“A nice one,” said the don.
“Where’s Devereaux?”
“In the single. I didn’t want him to make a mess in one of the masters.”
Keller looked at the floor again. “Someone really should clean this up.”
“Not me,” said the don. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
One of the don’s men was standing watch outside the door of the single. There was no sound from within.
“Is he conscious?” asked Keller.
“See for yourself.”
Keller went in and closed the door behind him. The room was in darkness; it smelled of sweat and fear and faintly of blood. He switched on the built-in reading lamp and aimed the cone of light toward the figure stretched motionless upon the twin bed. Silver duct tape obscured the eyes and mouth. The hands were bound and secured to the torso, the legs and ankles were trussed. Keller scrutinized the wound to the right shoulder. There had been a substantial amount of blood loss, but for now the flow had stopped. Even so, the bedding was drenched. The friend of a friend, thought Keller, would need a new mattress when this was over.
He tore the duct tape from the eyes. René Devereaux blinked rapidly several times. Then, when Keller leaned into the light, showing Devereaux his face, the drug trafficker recoiled in fear. It seemed their acquaintance was mutual.
“Bonsoir, René. Thanks for dropping by. How’s the shoulder?”
The eyes narrowed, the fear evaporated. Devereaux was trying to send the Englishman from Corsica a message, that he was not a man to be shot, kidnapped, and bound like a game bird. Keller removed the duct tape from Devereaux’s mouth, thus allowing him to give voice to such sentiments.
“You’re a dead man. You and that fat Corsican you work for.”
“Are you referring to Don Orsati?”
“Fuck Don Orsati.”
“Those are three very unwise words. I wonder whether you would dare to say them to the don’s face.”
“I would shit on the don. And the rest of his family.”
“Would you, indeed?”
Keller went out. To the Corsican standing outside the door he said, “Ask his holiness to come down for a minute.”
“He’s watching the match.”
“I’m sure he’ll be able to tear himself away,” said Keller. “And bring me the hammer.”
The Corsican went up the companionway, and a moment later, with some difficulty, Don Orsati came down. Keller ushered him into the cabin and displayed him for René Devereaux to see. The don smiled at Devereaux’s obvious discomfort.
“Monsieur Devereaux has something he wishes to tell you,” said Keller. “Go ahead, René. Please tell Don Orsati what you said to me a moment ago.”
Greeted by silence, Keller showed the don out. Then he stood menacingly over the captive drug trafficker. “Suffice it to say, you have a narrow window of opportunity. You can tell me what I want to know, or I can explain to the don all the naughty things you said about him and his beloved family. And then . . .” Keller held up his hands to indicate the uncertainty of Devereaux’s fate under such an emotionally charged scenario.
“Since when have you been in the information business?” asked Devereaux.
“Since I made a career change. I’m working for British intelligence now. Haven’t you heard, René?”
“You? A British spy? I don’t believe it.”
“Sometimes I don’t believe it, either. But it happens to be true. And you’re going to help me. You’re going to be a confidential source, and I’m going to be your control officer.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Consider your current circumstances. They are as serious as it gets. So is our mission. You’re going to help me find the man who’s been orchestrating all the terrorist attacks here in Europe and in America.”
“How am I going to do that? I’m a drug dealer, for God’s sake.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up. But you’re no ordinary drug dealer, are you? Dealer is too small a word for what you do. You run an entire global network from that dump on the Place Jean Jaurès. And you do it,” said Keller, “for Jean-Luc Martel.”
“Who?” asked Devereaux.
“Jean-Luc Martel. The one with all the restaurants and the hotels and the hair.”
“And the pretty English girlfriend,” said Devereaux.
“So you do know him.”
“Sure. I used to go to his first restaurant in Marseilles. He was a nobody then. Now he’s a big star.”
“Because of drugs,” said Keller. “Hashish, to be specific. Hashish that comes from Morocco. Hashish that you distribute throughout Europe. Martel’s empire would collapse if it wasn’t for the hashish. But you would never dream of cutting him out, because that would mean finding a new method of laundering five or ten billion a year in drug profits. Your so-called legitimate businesses might be enough to make you look reasonably respectable to the French tax authorities, but there’s no way they could handle all the profits from a global narcotics network. For that, you need a real business conglomerate. A conglomerate that takes in hundreds of millions of dollars a year in cash receipts. A conglomerate that acquires and develops large tracts of real estate.”
“And buys and sells paintings.” After a silence, Devereaux added, “I knew she was trouble the first time I met her.”
“Who?”
“That English bitch.”