It was against regulations for passengers to remain inside their cars during the crossing. Gabriel briefly considered bringing the suitcases with him but decided the act of lugging them up and down the passageways would leave him too vulnerable. So he locked the car tightly, checking the trunk and each of the four doors twice to make sure they were secure, and headed to the passenger lounge. As the ferry eased from the terminal, he went to the snack bar and ordered tea and a scone. Outside the skies gradually darkened, and by 5:15 the sea was no longer visible. Gabriel remained in his seat for another five minutes. Then he rose and made his way to an isolated corner of the windblown observation deck. None of the other passengers followed him. Therefore no one saw him drop a mobile phone over the railing.
Gabriel neither saw nor heard the device strike the surface of the sea. He stood at the rail for two more minutes before returning to his seat in the lounge. And there he remained, committing to memory each of the faces around him, until an announcement came over the public address system, first in English, then in French, alerting passengers it was time to return to their cars. Gabriel made certain he was the first to arrive on the vehicle deck. Opening the trunk of the Passat, he saw that the two suitcases were still in place and that both were still filled with money. Then he climbed behind the wheel and watched the other passengers filing toward their cars. In the next row a woman was unlocking the door of a small Peugeot. She had short blond hair, almost like a boy’s, and a heart-shaped face. But Gabriel noticed something else. She was the only passenger on the ferry wearing gloves.
He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.
She was the one. He was certain of it.
Calais was an ugly seaside town, part English, part German, scarcely French at all. The rue Richelieu was about a half mile from the ferry terminal in the quartier known as Calais-Nord, an octagonal artificial island ringed by canals and harbors. Gabriel parked outside a terrace of stucco houses and headed toward the park, watched by a trio of Afghan men in heavy coats and traditional pakul hats. The men were probably economic migrants waiting for a chance to hitch an illegal ride across the Channel to Britain. There had once been a large encampment in the sand dunes along the beach where, on a clear day, they could see the White Cliffs of Dover sparkling on the other side of the Channel. The good citizens of Calais, a stronghold of the Socialist Party, had referred to the camp as “the jungle” and had applauded the French police when they finally shut it down.
The trash receptacle stood to the right side of a footpath leading into the park. It was four feet in height and forest green in color. Next to it was a sign asking visitors not to harm the park’s grass and flowers. It said nothing about searching for a hidden mobile phone beneath the rubbish bin, which is what Gabriel did after discarding his ferry ticket. He found it instantly; it was secured to the underside of the bin by packing tape. He tore it away and slipped it into his coat pocket before standing upright and heading back to the Passat. The phone was ringing as he started the engine. “Very good,” said the computer-generated voice. “Now listen carefully.”
It told him to go directly to the Hotel de la Mer, in the town of Grand-Fort-Philippe. A reservation had been made there under the name Annette Ricard. Gabriel was to check into the room using his own credit card and explain that a Mademoiselle Ricard would be joining him later that evening. Gabriel had never heard of the hotel, or even of the town where it was located. He found it using the Internet browser on his personal mobile phone. Grand-Fort-Philippe was just west of Dunkirk, scene of one of the greatest military humiliations in British history. In the spring of 1940, more than three hundred thousand members of the British Expeditionary Force were evacuated from Dunkirk’s beaches as France was falling to Nazi Germany. In their haste to leave, the British forces had no choice but to abandon enough materiel to equip some ten divisions. It was possible the kidnappers hadn’t realized any of this when they had chosen the hotel, but Gabriel doubted it.
The Hotel de la Mer was not actually by the sea. Compact, tidy, and covered with a fresh coat of white paint, it overlooked the tidal river that split the town in two. Gabriel intentionally drove past the entrance three times before finally easing into an angled parking space along the quay. No one from the hotel came to help him; it was not that kind of place. He waited for a lone car to pass before switching off the engine. Then, after burying the key deep in the front pocket of his jeans, he climbed quickly out. The two suitcases were surprisingly heavy. Indeed, had he not known the contents, he would have assumed that Jeremy Fallon had filled them with lead weights. Gulls circled slowly overhead, as if hoping he might collapse beneath the weight of his burden.
The hotel had no proper lobby, only a cramped vestibule where a bald, thin clerk sat somnambulantly behind a desk. Despite the fact there were only eight rooms, it took a moment for him to locate the reservation. Gabriel paid in cash, violating one of the kidnappers’ demands, and left a generous deposit for incidentals.
“Is there a second key for the room?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“May I have it, please?”
“But what about Mademoiselle Ricard?”
“I’ll let her in.”
The clerk frowned disapprovingly as he slid the extra key across the desktop.
“There are no others?” asked Gabriel. “Just this one?”
“The maid has a master key, of course. And so do I.”