“Of course it did, Gabriel. You’re really not as fatalistic as all that. If you were, you wouldn’t have gone to Keller’s old house in the middle of the night to stare at his father through the window.”
Gabriel said nothing. Chiara placed a bundle of fettuccine in the boiling water and stirred it once with a wooden spoon.
“What’s he like?” she asked.
“Keller?”
She nodded.
“Extremely capable, utterly ruthless, and without a shred of conscience.”
“He sounds like the perfect person to deliver ten million euros in ransom money to the kidnappers of Madeline Hart.”
“Her Majesty’s government is under the impression he’s dead. Besides,” Gabriel added, “the kidnappers specifically asked for me to deliver the money.”
“Which is precisely the reason you have no business doing it.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“How did they even know you were involved?”
“They must have spotted me in Marseilles or Aix.”
“So why would they want a professional like you to deliver the money? Why not a flunky from Downing Street who they can manipulate?”
“I suppose they’re entertaining thoughts of killing me. But that’s going to be rather hard to do.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be in possession of ten million euros that they want very badly, which means we call the shots.”
“We?”
“You don’t think I’m going to do this alone, do you? I’m going to have someone watching my back.”
“Who?”
“Someone extremely capable, utterly ruthless, and without a shred of conscience.”
“I thought he was back in Corsica.”
“He is,” said Gabriel. “But he’s about to get a wake-up call.”
“What about me?”
“Go back to the house in Cherbourg. I’ll bring Madeline there after paying the ransom. When she’s ready to be moved, we’ll bring her back to Britain. And then we’ll go home.”
Chiara was silent for a moment. “You make it sound so simple,” she said at last.
“If they play by my rules, it will be.”
Chiara placed a bowl of steaming fettuccine and mushrooms in the center of the table and sat down opposite Gabriel.
“No more questions?” he asked.
“Just one,” she said. “What did the old woman in Corsica see when you dropped the oil into the water?”
By the time they finished the dishes, it was nearly four in the morning, which meant it was nearly five on Corsica. Even so, Keller sounded awake and alert when he took Gabriel’s call. Using carefully coded language, Gabriel explained what had transpired at Downing Street and what was to happen later that day.
“Can you make the first flight to Orly?” he asked.
“No problem.”
“Pick up a car at the airport and get up to the coast. I’ll call you when I know something.”
“No problem.”
After severing the connection, Gabriel stretched out on the bed next to Chiara and tried to sleep, but it was no use. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the face of the woman who had died in his arms in the Lubéron, in the valley with three villas. So he lay very still, listening to the sound of Chiara’s breathing and the hiss of the traffic on Bayswater Road, as the gray light of a London dawn crept slowly into the room.
He woke Chiara with fresh coffee at nine o’clock and showered. When he emerged from the bathroom, Jonathan Lancaster was on the television discussing his costly new initiative to repair Britain’s troubled families. Gabriel couldn’t help but marvel at the prime minister’s performance. His career was at that moment hanging by a gossamer thread, and yet he looked as commanding and unflappable as ever. Indeed, by the end of his remarks, even Gabriel was convinced that spending a few million more pounds in taxpayer money would solve the problems facing Britain’s permanent underclass.
The next story had something to do with a Russian energy firm securing rights to drill for oil in the British territorial waters of the North Sea. Gabriel switched off the television, dressed, and extracted a 9mm Beretta pistol from the safe concealed beneath the floor of the closet. Then, after kissing Chiara one final time, he headed downstairs to the street. Waiting curbside behind the wheel of his Vauxhall Astra was Nigel Whitcombe. He made the drive to Number Ten in record time and deposited Gabriel at the back entrance along Horse Guards Road.
“Let’s hope this one doesn’t end like the last one,” he said with false cheerfulness.
“Let’s,” agreed Gabriel, and he headed inside.
23
10 DOWNING STREET
Jeremy Fallon was waiting in the rear foyer of Number Ten. He offered Gabriel a warm, damp hand and then wordlessly led him to the White Drawing Room. This time, it was empty. Gabriel sat down without waiting for an invitation, but Fallon remained standing. He reached into his pocket and removed the keys to a rental car.
“It’s a Passat saloon, as you requested. If you could return it in one piece, I would be eternally grateful. I’m not as well-to-do as the prime minister.”