And so, with Gabriel’s help, Rousseau prepared an edited clip of the interrogation, thirty-three seconds in length. It was a teaser, an appetizer. “A love tap,” as Gabriel called it. Martel was holding court in the bar of his restaurant in the Old Port when it appeared on his phone via an anonymous text. The phone itself was thoroughly compromised, allowing Gabriel and Rousseau and the rest of the team to watch the many shades of Martel’s rising alarm as he viewed it. A second video appeared a few seconds later, just for good measure. It depicted a brief sexual encounter between Martel and Monique, Olivia’s receptionist at the gallery. It had been shot with the same phone Martel now held in his hand, which, from the team’s unique perspective, appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.
It was at this point that Rousseau dialed Martel directly. Not surprisingly, he did not answer, leaving Rousseau no option but to offer his terms in a voice message. They were the equivalent of unconditional surrender. Jean-Luc Martel was to present himself forthwith at Villa Soleil, alone, with no bodyguards. Any attempt to escape, warned Rousseau, would be thwarted. His planes and helicopters would be grounded, his 142-foot motor yacht would be stranded in port. “Obviously,” said Rousseau, “your movements and communications are being monitored. You have one opportunity to avoid arrest and ruin. I’d advise you to take it.”
With that, Rousseau terminated the call. Five minutes elapsed before Martel listened to the message. At which point the wait began. Gabriel stood before the monitors, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side, while in the garden Christopher Keller smashed his MI6 phone to bits with a hammer. Rousseau watched from the French doors. He would give Martel one chance to save himself. He only hoped he was wise enough to take it.
38
C?te d’Azur, France
This time they left the gate open for him, though at Gabriel’s suggestion they blocked the road beyond Villa Soleil, lest he have a change of heart and try to make a run for it westward along the C?te d’Azur. He arrived, alone, at nine fifteen that same night, after a series of tense phone calls with Paul Rousseau. His appearance at the villa, he claimed, was by no means an admission of anything. He did not know the man in the video, his claims were ludicrous. His business was hospitality and luxury retail, not drugs, and anyone who claimed otherwise would face serious legal consequences. In response, Rousseau made it clear that this was not a legal question but a matter involving French national security. Martel, during a final tense exchange, actually sounded intrigued. He demanded to bring a lawyer. “No lawyers,” said Rousseau. “They only get in the way.”
Once again it was Roland Girard of Alpha Group who awaited him in the forecourt. His greeting was decidedly less cordial.
“Are you carrying a weapon?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Raise your arms.”
Reluctantly, Martel complied. Girard searched him thoroughly, beginning with the back of the neck and ending with the ankles. Rising, the Alpha Group operative found himself staring into a pair of furious dark eyes.
“Is there something you wish to say to me, Jean-Luc?”
Martel was silent, a first.
“This way,” said Girard.
He took Martel by the elbow and led him into the villa. Christopher Keller waited in the entrance hall.
“Jean-Luc! So sorry about the circumstances of the invitation, but we needed to get your attention.” They were the last French words Keller spoke. The rest flowed in British-accented English. “Lives are at stake, you see, and we haven’t much time. This way, please.”
Martel remained frozen in place.
“Something wrong, Jean-Luc?”
“You’re—”
“Not French,” interjected Keller. “And I’m not from the island of Corsica, either. All that was for your benefit. I’m afraid you’ve been the target of a rather elaborate deception.”
Dazed, Martel followed Keller into the grandest of Villa Soleil’s sitting rooms, where long white curtains billowed and snapped like mainsails in the night wind. Natalie sat at one end of a couch, dressed in a tracksuit and her neon-green trainers. Mikhail sat opposite in a pair of jeans and a V-neck cotton pullover. Paul Rousseau was scrutinizing one of the paintings. And in the far corner of the room, alone on his own private island, Gabriel was scrutinizing Jean-Luc Martel.
It was Rousseau, turning, who spoke next.
“I wish we could say it is a pleasure to meet you, but it is not. When we look at you, we wonder why it is we do what we do. Why we make the sacrifices. Why we take the risks. Quite honestly, your life is not worth protecting. But that’s neither here nor there. We need your help, and so we have no choice but to welcome you, however grudgingly, into our midst.”
Martel’s eyes moved from face to face—the man he knew as Monsieur Carnot, the Antonovs, the silent figure watching him from his lonely outpost in the corner of the room—before settling once more on Rousseau.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name,” replied Rousseau, “is not important. Indeed, in our line of work, names don’t really mean much, as I’m sure you realize by now.”
“Who do you work for?”
“A department of the Interior Ministry.”
“The DGSI?”
“It’s not relevant. In fact,” Rousseau added, “the only salient aspect of my employment is that I’m not a police officer.”
“And the rest?” asked Martel, glancing around the room.
“They are associates of mine.”
He looked at Gabriel. “What about him?”
“Think of him as an observer.”
Martel frowned. “Why am I here? What is this about?”
“Drugs,” answered Rousseau.
“I told you, I’m not involved in drugs.”
Rousseau exhaled slowly. “Let’s skip this part, shall we? You know what you do for a living, and so do we. In a perfect world, you would be in handcuffs right now. But needless to say, this world of ours is far from perfect. It’s a chaotic, dangerous mess. But your work,” said Rousseau disdainfully, “has left you uniquely positioned to do something about it. We’re prepared to be generous if you help us. And equally unforgiving if you refuse.”
Martel squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. “That video,” he said, “proves nothing.”
“You’ve only heard a small portion of it. The entire video is nearly two hours in length and quite extraordinary in detail. In short, it lays bare all your dirty secrets. Were such a document to fall into the hands of the police, you would certainly spend your remaining years behind bars. Which is where,” Rousseau added pointedly, “you belong. And if the tape were given to an enterprising reporter who’s never bought into the JLM fairy tale, the impact on your business empire would be catastrophic. All your powerful friends, the ones you bribe with food and drink and luxury accommodations, would abandon you like rats fleeing a sinking ship. No one would protect you.”
Martel opened his mouth to answer, but Rousseau plowed on.
“And then there is the matter of Galerie Olivia Watson. We’ve had the opportunity to review several of its transactions. They’re questionable, to say the least. Especially those forty-eight blank canvases that were shipped to the Geneva Freeport. You’ve placed Madame Watson in an untenable situation. Her art gallery, like the rest of your empire, is a criminal enterprise. Oh, I suppose it’s possible you might wriggle out of the noose, but your wife—”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Oh, yes, forgive me,” said Rousseau. “How should I refer to her?”