René Brossard was a foot soldier in an up-and-coming Marseilles crime family with international connections. He specialized in muscle work—debt collection, enforcement, security. In his spare time, he worked as a bouncer in a nightclub near the Old Port, mainly because he liked the girls who came there. Lacroix knew him from the neighborhood. He also knew his phone number.
“When did you call him?” asked Gabriel.
“A few days after I read the first story in the newspaper about the English girl who vanished while on holiday in Corsica. I put two and two together and realized she was the girl I’d dropped at the marina in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.”
“You’re something of a math genius?”
“I can add,” Lacroix quipped.
“You realized that Paul stood to get a lot of ransom money from someone, and you wanted a piece of the action.”
“He misled me about the kind of job it was,” said Lacroix. “I would have never agreed to take part in a high-profile kidnapping for a mere fifty thousand.”
“How much were you after?”
“I try not to make a habit of negotiating with myself.”
“Wise man,” said Gabriel. Then he asked Lacroix how long Brossard waited to return his call.
“Two days.”
“How much detail did you go into on the phone?”
“Enough to make it clear what I was after. Brossard called me back a few hours later and told me to come to Bar du Haut the next afternoon at four.”
“That was a very foolish thing to do, Marcel.”
“Why?”
“Because Paul might have been there instead of Brossard. And he might have put a bullet between your eyes for having the temerity to ask for more money.”
“I can look after myself.”
“If that were true,” said Gabriel, “you wouldn’t be taped to a chair on your own boat. But you were telling me about your conversation with René Brossard.”
“He told me Paul wanted to be reasonable. After that, we entered into a period of negotiations.”
“Negotiations?”
“Over the price of my settlement. Paul made an offer, I made a counteroffer. We went back and forth several times.”
“All by phone?”
Lacroix nodded.
“What’s Brossard’s role in the operation?”
“He’s staying in the house where they’re keeping the girl.”
“Is Paul there with him?”
“I never asked.”
“How many others are there?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that another woman is also staying there so they look like a family.”
“Has Brossard ever mentioned the English girl?”
“He said she’s alive.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“What’s the current state of your negotiations with Paul and Brossard?”
“We reached an agreement this morning.”
“How much were you able to chisel out of them?”
“Another hundred thousand.”
“When are you supposed to take delivery of the money?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where?”
“Aix.”
“Where in Aix?”
“A café near the Place du General de Gaulle.”
“What’s the place called?”
“Le Provence—what else?”
“How’s it supposed to go down?”
“Brossard is supposed to arrive first, at ten minutes past five. I’m supposed to join him at twenty past.”
“Where will he be sitting?”
“At a table outside.”
“And the money?”
“Brossard told me it would be in a metal attaché case.”
“How inconspicuous.”
“It was his choice, not mine.”
“Is there a fallback if either one of you fails to show?”
“Le Cézanne, just up the street.”
“How long will he wait there?”
“Ten minutes.”
“And if you don’t show?”
“The deal’s off.”
“Were there any other instructions?”
“No more phone calls,” said Lacroix. “Paul’s getting nervous about all the phone calls.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Gabriel looked up toward the flying bridge, but this time Keller was standing stock-still, a black figure against a black sky, a gun balanced in outstretched hands. The single shot, muted by a suppressor, opened a hole above Lacroix’s left eye. Gabriel held the Frenchman’s shoulders as he died. Then he spun around in a rage and leveled his own weapon at Keller.
“You’d better put that away before someone gets hurt,” the Englishman said calmly.
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“He got on my bad side. Besides,” Keller added as he slipped his gun into the waistband of his trousers, “we didn’t need him anymore.”
13