“Drop your handbag to the floor and push it to me with your foot.”
Again, the woman obeyed. With his left hand still wrapped around her wrist, Gabriel reached down and emptied the contents of the handbag onto the floor. It was the usual detritus one would expect to find in the purse of a French female, with two notable exceptions: a jeweler’s loupe and a handheld infrared lamp. Gabriel removed the chain from the door and, twisting the wrist to the point of breaking, drew the woman inside. With his foot, he closed the door. Then he pushed her face-first against the wall and, as promised, searched her thoroughly, confident in the belief he was going where many men had gone before.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gabriel said dully. “In fact, I haven’t had this much fun since the last time I had a bullet removed.”
“I hope it hurt.”
He removed the dark wig and ran his hand through the woman’s boyishly short blond hair.
“Finished?” she asked.
“Turn around.”
She did, facing him for the first time. She was tall and thin, with the long limbs and small breasts of a Degas dancer. Her heart-shaped face was impish and innocent, and on her lips was the faintest trace of an ironic smile. The Office loved faces like hers. Gabriel wondered how many fortunes had been lost to it.
“How are we going to do this?” she asked.
“The usual way,” answered Gabriel. “You’re going to examine the money, and I’m going to hold a gun to your head. And if you do anything to make me nervous, I’m going to blow your brains out.”
“Are you always this charming?”
“Only with girls I really like.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Under the bed.”
“Are you going to get it for me?”
“Not a chance.”
The woman exhaled heavily, knelt at the foot of the bed, and heaved the first bag into view. Opening it, she counted the number of stacks in each direction, first vertically, then horizontally. Then she pulled a stack from the center, like a climatologist drilling an ice core, and counted those, too.
“Finished?” asked Gabriel, mocking her.
“We’re just getting started.”
She selected six bundles of notes from six different parts of the bag at six different depths and counted the notes, setting one note aside from each bundle. She counted quickly, like someone who had worked in a bank or a casino. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, she simply spent a lot of time counting stolen money.
“I need my things,” she said.
“You don’t really think I’m going to turn my back on you?”
She left the six hundred-euro notes on the bed and went to the entrance hall to collect her loupe and infrared lamp. Returning, she sat on the edge of the bed and used the loupe to examine each bill carefully, looking for any clue that it might be counterfeit—a poorly printed image, a missing number or character, a hologram or watermark that didn’t look genuine. The examination of each bill took more than a minute. When she was finally finished, she set down the loupe and picked up the infrared lamp.
“I need to turn off the room lights.”
“Turn that on first,” said Gabriel, nodding toward the infrared lamp.
She did. Gabriel walked around the room switching off the lights until only the purplish glow of the infrared remained. She used it to examine each of the six bills. The security strips glowed lime green, proving the bills were genuine.
“Very good,” she said.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re pleased.” Gabriel switched on the room lights. “Now I have a demand,” he said. “Tell Paul to call me within the hour, or the deal’s off.”
“He’s not going to like it.”
“Tell him about the money,” said Gabriel. “He’ll get over it.”
The woman returned the wig to her head, collected her things, and departed without another word. Gabriel watched her drive away from his outpost in the window. Then he remained there, staring into the wet street, and waited for the phone to ring. The call came through at 9:15 p.m., one hour to the minute. After enduring a computer-generated tirade, Gabriel calmly issued his demand. There was a silence, a burst of typing, and then the voice. Thin, lifeless, and stressing all the wrong words.
“I’m in charge,” it said, “not you.”
“I understand,” Gabriel responded, calmer still. “But this is a business transaction, nothing more. Money for merchandise. And I would be remiss if I didn’t do my due diligence before completing the sale.”
Another pause, more typing, then the voice.
“This call has lasted too long. Hang up and wait for us to call back.”
Gabriel did as he was told. A minute later a call came through from a different device. The voice issued a detailed set of instructions, which Gabriel copied onto a page of Hotel de la Mer stationery.
“When?” he asked.
“One hour,” said the voice.
And then it was gone. Gabriel severed the connection and reread the instructions to make certain he had written them down correctly. There was only one problem.
The money.