Gabriel looked at the photo again—not at Madeline but at Paul. “Who the hell is he?”
“He’s no amateur, that’s for sure. Only a professional would know about the don. And only a professional would dare to knock on the don’s door to ask for help.”
“If he’s such a professional, why did he have to rely on local talent to pull off the job?”
“You’re asking why he doesn’t have a crew of his own?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Simple economics,” Keller responded. “Maintaining a crew can be a complicated undertaking. And invariably there are personnel problems. When work is slow, the boys get unhappy. And when there’s a big score, the boys want a big cut.”
“So he uses freelancers on straight fee-for-service contracts to avoid having to share the profits.”
“In today’s competitive global business environment, everyone’s doing it.”
“Not the don.”
“The don is different. We’re a family, a clan. And you’re right about one thing,” Keller added. “Marcel Lacroix is lucky Paul didn’t have him killed. If he’d dared to ask Don Orsati for more money after completing a job, he would have ended up on the bottom of the Mediterranean in a cement coffin.”
“Which is where he is now.”
“Absent the cement, of course.”
Gabriel glared at Keller in disapproval but said nothing.
“You’re the one who ripped his earring out.”
“A torn earlobe is a temporary affliction. A bullet through the eye is forever.”
“What were we supposed to do with him?”
“We could have run him over to Corsica and left him with the don.”
“Trust me, Gabriel—he wouldn’t have lasted long. Orsati doesn’t like problems.”
“And, as Stalin liked to say, death solves all problems.”
“No man, no problem,” said Keller, finishing the quotation.
“But what if the man was lying to us?”
“The man had no reason to lie.”
“Why?”
“Because he knew he was never going to leave that boat alive.” Keller lowered his voice and added, “He was just hoping we would give him a painless death instead of letting him drown.”
“Is this another one of your theories?”
“Marseilles rules,” replied Keller. “When things start out violently down here, they always end violently.”
“And what if René Brossard isn’t sitting at Le Provence at five ten with a metal attaché case at his feet? What then?”
“He’ll be there.”
Gabriel wished he could share Keller’s confidence, but experience wouldn’t allow it. He checked his wristwatch and calculated the time they had left to find her.
“If Brossard does happen to show,” he said, “it might be better if we don’t kill him before he can lead us to the house where they’re hiding Madeline.”
“And then?”
Death solves all problems, thought Gabriel. No man, no problem.
14
AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE
The ancient city of Aix-en-Provence, founded by Romans, conquered by Visigoths, and adorned by kings, had little in common with Marseilles, its gritty neighbor to the south. Marseilles had drugs, crime, and an Arab quarter where little French was spoken; Aix had museums, shopping, and one of the country’s finest universities. The Aixois tended to look down their noses at Marseilles. They ventured there rarely, mainly to use the airport, then fled as quickly as possible, hopefully while still in possession of their valuables.
Aix’s main thoroughfare was the Cours Mirabeau, a long, broad boulevard lined with cafés and shaded by two parallel rows of leafy plane trees. Just to the north was a tangle of narrow streets and tiny squares known as the Quartier Ancien. It was mainly a pedestrian quarter, with all but the largest streets closed to motor traffic. Gabriel performed a series of time-tested Office maneuvers to see whether he was being followed. Then, after determining he was alone, he made his way to a busy little square along the rue Espariat. In the center of the square was an ancient column topped by a Roman capital; and on the southeastern corner, partially obscured by a large tree, was Le Provence. There were a few tables on the square and more along the rue Espariat, where two old men sat staring into space, a bottle of pastis between them. It was a place for locals more than tourists, thought Gabriel. A place where a man like René Brossard would feel comfortable.