“Two would be perfect.”
“I’ll need to stop by first to have a look around.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Monsieur Antonov is careful about his security.”
“I assure you, my gallery is quite safe.”
There was a silence.
“What time would you like to come?” asked Olivia, exasperated.
“I’m free now if you are.”
“Now is fine.”
“Perfect. Oh, and one more thing, Madame Watson.”
“Yes?”
“Your receptionist.”
“Monique? What about her?”
“Give her an errand to run, something that will keep her out of the gallery for a few minutes. Can you do that for me, Madame Watson?”
Five minutes elapsed before the receptionist finally emerged from the gallery. She paused in the furnace of the square, her eyes moved left and right. Then she drifted torpidly past Keller’s table at the café next door, with her arms hanging like limp long-stemmed flowers at her side. He typed a brief message into his mobile and fired it to the safe house at Ramatuelle. The reply bounced back instantly. Martel’s helicopter was east of Cannes. Proceed as planned.
Like a good field operative, Keller had paid his check in advance. Rising, he went to the gallery and placed his thumb heavily upon the bell. There was no answer. Turnabout, he thought, was fair play. He rang the bell a second time. The deadbolts opened with a snap and he went inside.
There was something different about him, Olivia was sure of it. Outwardly, he was the same slick, indifferent creature with whom she had dined at the Antonovs’ villa—the man of few words and unspecified duties—but his demeanor had changed. Suddenly, he seemed very sure of himself and the virtue of his cause. Crossing the gallery, he removed his sunglasses and propped them on his head. His smile was cordial but his blue eyes were all business. He addressed her without first offering his hand in greeting.
“I’m afraid there’s been a slight change in plan. Monsieur Antonov won’t be able to come after all.”
“Why not?”
“A small matter that required his immediate attention. Nothing urgent, mind you. No cause for alarm.” He said all this in his Corsican-accented French, through the same unthreatening smile.
“So why did you call me? And why,” asked Olivia, “are you here?”
“Because some friends of Monsieur Antonov have taken an interest in your gallery and would like to have a word in private.”
“What sort of interest?”
“It concerns several of your recent transactions. They were quite lucrative but somewhat unorthodox.”
“The transactions of this gallery,” she said coolly, “are private.”
“Not as private as you think.”
Olivia felt her face begin to burn. She walked slowly over to Monique’s desk and lifted the receiver from its cradle. Her hand trembled as she dialed.
“Don’t bother calling your husband, Olivia. He’s not going to answer.”
She looked up sharply. He had spoken these words not in French but in British-accented English.
“He’s not my husband,” she heard herself say.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. He’s still in the air,” he went on. “Somewhere between Cannes and Nice. But we’ve taken the additional precaution of blocking all his incoming calls.”
“We?”
“British intelligence,” he answered calmly. “Not to worry, Olivia, you’re in very good hands.”
She pressed the phone to her ear and heard the recording of Jean-Luc’s voice mail.
“Put the phone down, Olivia, and take a very deep breath. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m here to help. Think of me as your last chance. I’d take it if I were you.”
She returned the phone to its cradle.
“There’s a good girl,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Nicolas Carnot, and I work for Monsieur Antonov. It’s important that you remember that. Now get your handbag and your phone and the keys to that beautiful Range Rover of yours. And please hurry, Olivia. We haven’t much time.”
32
Ramatuelle, Provence
The Range Rover was in its usual place, parked illegally outside Jean-Luc’s restaurant in the Old Port. Olivia slid behind the wheel and, as directed, drove westward along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. Twice she asked him to explain why her gallery was of sufficient interest to British intelligence to warrant such an elaborate ruse. Twice he remarked about the scenery and the weather in the manner of Nicolas Carnot, friend of Monsieur Dmitri Antonov.
“How did you learn to speak like that?”
“Like what?”
“A Corsican.”
“My Auntie Beatrice was from Corsica. You’re about to miss your turn.”
“Which way?”
He pointed toward the turnoff for Gassin and Ramatuelle. She lurched the wheel hard to the left and a moment later they were headed south, into the rugged countryside separating the gulf and the Baie de Cavalaire.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To see some friends of Monsieur Antonov, of course.”
She surrendered and drove in silence. Neither of them spoke again until after they had passed Ramatuelle. He directed her onto a smaller side road and eventually to the entrance of a villa. The gate was open to receive them. She parked in the forecourt and switched off the engine.
“It’s not as nice as Villa Soleil,” he said, “but you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
Suddenly, a man was standing at Olivia’s door. She recognized him; she had seen him that morning in the Place de l’Ormeau. He helped her from the Range Rover and with only a movement of his hand guided her toward the entrance of the villa. The man she knew only as Nicolas Carnot—the man who spoke French like a Corsican and English with a posh West End accent—walked beside her.
“Is he from British intelligence, too?”
“Who?”
“The one who opened my door.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
Olivia turned around, but the man was gone. Perhaps he had been a hallucination. It was the heat, she thought. She was positively faint with it.
As she approached the villa, the door drew back and Dmitri Antonov stepped into the breach. “Olivia!” he exclaimed as though she were his oldest friend in the world. “So sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. Come inside and make yourself at home. Everyone’s here. They’re quite anxious to finally meet you in the flesh.”
He said all this in his Russian-accented English. Olivia wasn’t sure if it was real or performance. Indeed, at that moment, she wasn’t sure of the ground beneath her feet.
She followed him across the entrance hall and beneath an archway that gave onto the sitting room. It was comfortably furnished and hung with many canvases.
All were blank.
Olivia’s legs seemed to liquefy. Monsieur Antonov steadied her and nudged her forward.
There were three other men present. One was tall and handsome and distinguished and undeniably English. He was saying something quietly in French to a crumpled figure in a tweed coat who looked as though he had been plucked from an antiquarian bookshop. Their conversation fell silent as Olivia made her entry, and their faces turned to her like sunflowers to the dawn. The third man, however, seemed entirely oblivious to her arrival. He was staring at one of the blank canvases, a hand pressed to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. The canvas was identical in dimensions to all the others but was propped upon an easel. The man looked comfortable before it, observed Olivia. He was of medium height and build. His hair was cropped short and gray at the temples. His eyes, which were fixed resolutely on the canvas, were an unnatural shade of green.
“I think,” he said at last, “this one is my favorite. The draftsmanship is quite extraordinary, and the use of color and light are second to none. I envy his palette.”
He blurted all t
his without pause in French, in an accent that Olivia couldn’t quite place. It was a peculiar mixture, a bit of German, a dash of Italian. He was still gazing at the painting. His pose was unchanged.
“The first time I saw it,” he went on, “I thought it was truly one of a kind. But I was mistaken. Paintings like this seem to be the specialty of your gallery. In fact, as far as I can tell, you’ve cornered the market on blank canvases.” The green eyes finally turned to her. “Congratulations, Olivia. That’s quite an achievement.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Monsieur Antonov.”
“Are you from British intelligence, too?”
“Heavens no! But he is,” he said, pointing toward the distinguished-looking Englishman. “In fact, he’s the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, which is sometimes referred to as MI6. His name used to be a state secret, but times have changed. Occasionally, he grants an interview and allows his photograph to be taken. Once upon a time that would have been heresy, but no more.”
“And him?” she asked, nodding toward the crumpled figure in tweed.
“French,” explained the green-eyed man. “He’s the chief of something called the Alpha Group. Perhaps you’ve heard the name. Its headquarters in Paris were bombed not long ago, and several of his officers lost their lives. As you might expect, he’s interested in finding the man who did it. And he’d like you to help him.”
“Me?” she asked, incredulous. “How?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. As for my affiliation,” he said, “I’m the odd man out. I’m from the place we don’t like to talk about.”
It was then she was finally able to place his peculiar accent. “You’re from Israel.”
“I’m afraid so. But back to the matter at hand,” he added quickly, “and that’s you and your gallery. It’s not a real gallery, is it, Olivia? Oh, you sell the occasional painting, like that Guston you were trying to foist on poor Herr Müller this morning for the obscene price of twenty million euros. But mainly it serves as a washing machine that launders the profits of Jean-Luc Martel’s real business, which is drugs.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
“This is the point,” said the green-eyed man, “where you tell me that your—” He stopped himself. “Excuse me, but I’m a stickler for details. How do you refer to Jean-Luc?”
“He’s my partner.”
“Partner? How unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“Because the word partner implies a business relationship.”
“I think I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“If you do, you’ll lose the one and only chance you have to save yourself.” He paused as if to assess the impact of his words. “Your gallery is a small but important part of a far-flung criminal enterprise. Its business is drugs. Drugs that come mainly from North Africa. Drugs that flow through the hands of the terrorist group that calls itself the Islamic State. Jean-Luc Martel is the distributor of those drugs here in Western Europe. He’s in business with ISIS. Wittingly or unwittingly, he’s helping to finance their operations. Which means you are, too.”
“Good luck proving that in a French courtroom.”
He smiled for the first time. It was cold and quick. “A show of bravery,” he said with mock admiration, “but still no denial about your husband’s business.”
“He’s not my husband.”
“Oh, yes,” he said scornfully, “I forgot.”
They were the same words the man called Nicolas Carnot had spoken at the art gallery.
“As for calling your lawyer,” the Israeli continued, “that won’t be necessary. At least not yet. You see, Olivia, there are no police officers in this room. We are intelligence officers. We have nothing against the police, mind you. They have their job to do and we have ours. They solve crimes and make arrests, but our trade is information. You have it, we need it. This is your opening, Olivia. This is your one and only chance. If I were your lawyer, I’d advise you to take it. It’s the best deal you’re ever going to get.”
There was another silence, longer than the last.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, “but I can’t help you.”
“You can’t help us, Olivia, or you won’t?”
“I don’t know anything about Jean-Luc’s business.”
“The forty-eight blank canvases I found in the Geneva Freeport say you do. They were shipped there by Galerie Olivia Watson. Which means you will be the one to face charges, not him. And what do you think your partner will do then? Will he ride to your rescue? Will he step in front of the bullet for you?” He shook his head slowly. “No, Olivia, he won’t. From everything I’ve learned about Jean-Luc Martel, he isn’t that sort of man.”
She made no response.
“So what will it be, Olivia? Will you help us?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because if I do,” she said evenly, “Jean-Luc will kill me.”
Again he smiled. This time it appeared genuine.
“Did I say something funny?” she asked.
“No, Olivia, you told me the truth.” The green eyes left her face and settled once more on the blank canvas. “What do you see when you look at it?”
“I see something Jean-Luc made me do in order to keep my gallery.”
“Interesting interpretation. Do you know what I see?”
“What?”
“I see you without Jean-Luc.”
“How do I look?”
“Come here, Olivia.” He stepped away from the canvas. “See for yourself.”
33
Ramatuelle, Provence
The blank canvases were removed from the walls and the easel, and a dark-haired woman of perhaps thirty-five silently served cold drinks. Olivia was invited to sit. In turn, the dapper Englishman and his crumpled French associate were properly introduced. Their names were familiar enough. So was the sharply angled face of the green-eyed Israeli. Olivia was all but certain she had seen it somewhere before, but couldn’t decide where it had been. He introduced himself only as Gideon and paced the perimeter of the room slowly while everyone else sat perspiring in the unremitting heat. A rotating fan beat monotonously and to no effect in the corner; enormous flies moved like buzzards in and out of the open French doors. Suddenly, the Israeli ceased pacing and with a lightning movement of his left hand snatched one from the air. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“Seeing your face in magazines and on billboards.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“It’s not glamorous?”
“Not always.”
“What about the parties and the fashion shows?”
“For me, the fashion shows were work. And the parties,” she said, “got rather boring after a while.”
He flung the corpse of the fly into the glare of the garden and, turning, appraised Olivia at length. “So why did you choose such a life?”
“I didn’t. It chose me.”
“You were discovered?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“It happened when you were sixteen, did it not?”
“You’ve obviously read my clippings.”
“With great interest,” he admitted. “You auditioned to be an extra in a period film that was being shot along the Norfolk Coast. You didn’t get the part, but someone on the production staff suggested you should consider modeling. And so you decided to forsake your studies and go to New York to pursue a career. By the time you were eighteen, you were one of the hottest models in Europe.” He paused, then asked, “Did I leave anything out?”
“A great deal, actually.”
“Such as?”
“New York.”
“So why don’t you pick up the story there,” he said. “In New York.”
It was hell, she told him. After signing on with a well-known agency, she was put up in an apartment on the West Side of Manhattan wit
h eight other girls who slept in rotating shifts on bunk beds. During the day she was sent out on “go-sees” with potential clients and young photographers who were trying to break into the business. If she was lucky, the photographer would agree to take a few test shots that she could place in her portfolio. If not, she would leave empty-handed and return to the cramped apartment to fend off the roaches and the ants. At night she and the other girls hired themselves out to nightclubs to earn a bit of spending money. Twice Olivia was sexually assaulted. The second attack left her with a black eye that prevented her from working for nearly a month.
“But you persevered,” said the Israeli.
“I suppose I did.”
“What happened after New York?”
“Freddie happened.”
Freddie, she explained, was Freddie Mansur, the hottest agent in the business and one of its most notorious predators. Freddie brought Olivia to Paris and into his bed. He also gave her drugs—weed, cocaine, barbiturates to help her sleep. As her caloric intake fell to near-starvation levels, her weight plummeted. Soon she was skin and bones. When she was hungry, she smoked a cigarette or blew a line. Coke and tobacco: Freddie called it the model diet.
“And the funny thing is, it worked. The thinner I got, the better I looked. Inside I was slowly dying, but the camera loved me. And so did the advertisers.”
“You were a supermodel?”
“Not even close, but I did quite well. And so did Freddie. He took one-third of my earnings. And one-third of the salaries of all the other girls he was handling at the time.”
“And sleeping with?”
“Let’s just say our relationship wasn’t monogamous.”
By the time she was twenty-six, the cadaverous drug-addled look with which she was associated went out of fashion, and her star began to fade. Much of her work took place on the runway, where her tall frame and long limbs remained much in demand. But her thirtieth birthday was a watershed. There was before thirty and after thirty, she explained, and after thirty the work all but dried up. She hung on for three more years until even Freddie advised her it was time to leave the business. He did so gently at first, and when she resisted he severed business and romantic ties with her and threw her into the street. She was thirty-three years old, uneducated, jobless, and washed up.