The English Girl: A Novel

AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE

 

At 5:18 time seemed to stumble to a stop. The distant hum of the traffic faded; the figures in the tiny square froze, as though rendered in oil on canvas by the hand of Renoir. Gabriel, the restorer, was able to examine them at his leisure. A quartet of florid Germans examining the menu at the tapas bar. Two sandaled Scandinavian girls staring mystified at the last paper street map in all creation. A pretty woman sitting at the base of the Roman column with a boy of perhaps three on her knees. And a man seated at a café called Le Provence with no company other than a metal attaché case filled with one hundred thousand euros. One hundred thousand euros that had been supplied by a man without a country and with no name other than Paul. Gabriel looked at the woman and the child at the base of the column and in his thoughts saw a flash of fire and blood. Then he glanced again at the man sitting alone at Le Provence. It was now twenty minutes past five o’clock. At the instant Gabriel’s watch ticked over to 5:21, the man rose to his feet, snatched up the attaché, and departed.

 

“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.”

 

But why would a professional criminal fail to appear for a lucrative payday of one hundred thousand euros? Because the criminal was at that very moment lying on the seafloor of the Mediterranean eight miles south-southeast of Marseilles with a bullet in his brain. René Brossard couldn’t be allowed to know that, of course, which was why Gabriel had the dead man’s phone at the ready. He watched Brossard moving swiftly along the shadowed street, attaché case in hand. Then he looked at the florid Germans, and the sandaled Scandinavians, and the mother and child who, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his memory, were still burning. It was 5:22. Eight minutes, he thought, and then the chase would be on. One mistake was all it would take. One mistake, and Madeline Hart would die. He drank more of the beer, but in his current state it tasted of wormwood. He stared at the woman and the child and watched helplessly as the flames consumed their flesh.

 

 

 

At 5:25 he rang Keller again.

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Still driving in circles.”

 

“Maybe she’s leading you on a wild goose chase. Maybe there’s a second car.”

 

“Are you always so negative?”

 

“Only when a young woman’s life is at stake.”

 

Keller said nothing.

 

“Where is she now?”

 

“If I had to guess, heading back in your direction.”

 

Gabriel severed the connection and picked up the other phone. After speed-dialing Brossard’s number, he placed his thumb tightly over the microphone and brought the phone to his ear. Two rings. Then the sound of Brossard’s voice.

 

“Where the fuck are you?”

 

Gabriel pressed his thumb tighter against the microphone and said nothing.

 

“Marcel? Is that you? Where are you?”

 

Gabriel removed the phone from his ear and pressed the END button. Thirty seconds later he redialed. Once again he covered the microphone with his thumb and said nothing. Brossard picked up on the first ring.

 

“Marcel? Marcel? I thought I told you no more phones. You have three minutes. Then I’m gone.”

 

This time it was Brossard who rang off first. Gabriel slipped the phone into his pocket and called Keller again.

 

“How did it go?” asked the Englishman.

 

“He thinks Lacroix is alive and well and in a spot with bad cell service.”

 

“Very bad.”

 

“Where is she now?”

 

“Getting close to the Place du General de Gaulle.”

 

Gabriel killed the connection and checked the time. Three minutes, then Brossard would walk. He would be agitated, wary. It was possible he would notice a man following him on foot, especially if that man had been drinking lager in the Irish pub when Brossard had been at Le Provence. But if Brossard passed by the man on his way to the car, he might be less inclined to regard him with suspicion. It was one of Shamron’s golden rules of physical surveillance. Sometimes, he preached, it was better to follow a man from in front rather than from behind.