“But you were rich,” said the Israeli.
“Hardly.”
“What about all the money you made?”
“Money comes and money goes.”
“Drugs?”
“And other things.”
“You liked the drugs?”
“I needed them, there’s a difference. I’m afraid Freddie left me with a few expensive habits.”
“So what did you do?”
“I did what any woman in my position would have done. I packed my bags and went to Saint-Tropez.”
With what remained of her money she took a villa in the hills—“It was a shack, really, not far from here”—and purchased a motor scooter secondhand. She spent her days on the beach at Pampelonne and her nights in the clubs and discos of the village. Naturally, she encountered many men there—Arabs, Russians, silver-haired Eurotrash. She allowed a few to take her to bed in exchange for gifts and money, which made her feel very much like a prostitute. Mainly, she searched for a suitable mate, someone to keep her in the style to which she had become accustomed. Someone who wasn’t too repulsive. In short order, she concluded that she had come to the wrong place, and with her money dwindling she took a job working in a small art gallery owned by an expatriate Brit. Then, quite by chance, she met the man who would change her life.
“Jean-Luc Martel?”
She smiled in spite of herself.
“Where did you meet him?”
“At a party—where else? Jean-Luc was always at a party. Jean-Luc was the party.”
In point of fact, she explained, it was not the first time they had met. The first time had been at Fashion Week in Milan, but Jean-Luc had been with his wife then and had barely looked Olivia in the eye when shaking her hand. But by the time of their second meeting, he was a recovering widower and very much in play. And Olivia fell madly and instantly in love with him.
“I was Rosemary and he was Dick. I was absolutely helpless with love.”
“Rosemary and Dick?”
“Rosemary Hoyt and Dick Diver. They’re the characters in—”
“I know who they are, Olivia. And you flatter yourself with the comparison.”
His words were like a slap to her face. Her cheeks flamed with color.
“Did he give you gifts and money like the others?”
“Jean-Luc didn’t have to pay for his girls. He was incredibly good-looking and fabulously successful. He was . . . Jean-Luc.”
“And what do you suppose he saw in you?”
“I used to ask him the same thing.”
“What was his answer?”
“He thought we made a good team.”
“So it was a partnership from the beginning?”
“More or less.”
“Did you ever discuss marriage?”
“I did, but Jean-Luc wasn’t interested. We used to have the most terrible arguments about it. I told him that I wasn’t going to waste the best years of my life being his concubine, that I wanted to marry him and have children. In the end we reached a compromise.”
“What sort of compromise?”
“He gave me something in lieu of marriage and children.”
“What was that?”
“Galerie Olivia Watson.”
34
Ramatuelle, Provence
Olivia was used to men staring at her. Breathless men. Panting men. Men with damp, desirous eyes. Men who would do anything, pay almost any price, to have her in their beds. The three men arrayed before her now—the British spymaster, the French secret policeman, and the Israeli with no stated affiliation but a vaguely familiar face—were staring at her, too, but for a decidedly different reason. They seemed impervious to the spell of her looks. For them, she was not an object to be admired; she was a means to an end. An end they had not yet seen fit to reveal. She was not at all sure they liked her. All the same, she was relieved that such men still existed. A career in the modeling industry, and ten years in the make-believe world of Saint-Tropez, had left her with a rather low opinion of the species.
Galerie Olivia Watson . . .
The name, she told them, was Jean-Luc’s idea, not hers. She had wanted to hang the proven moniker of JLM over the gallery’s door, but Jean-Luc had insisted it bear her name rather than his. He gave her the money to purchase the fine old building on the Place de l’Ormeau and then financed the acquisition of a world-class collection of contemporary art. Olivia had wanted to acquire her inventory slowly and modestly, with a special emphasis on Mediterranean artists. But Jean-Luc wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t do slow and modest, she explained. Only big and flashy. The gallery opened with a degree of glitz and glamour only JLM could provide. After that, he stepped aside and gave Olivia complete artistic and financial control.
“But only to a point,” she said.
“What does that mean?” asked the Israeli. “One has complete control, or one doesn’t. There’s no middle ground.”
“There is where Jean-Luc is involved.”
He invited her to elaborate.
“Jean-Luc handled the gallery’s books.”
“You didn’t find that odd?”
“Actually, I was relieved. I was a former fashion model, and he was a wildly successful businessman.”
“How long did it take you to discover that something wasn’t right?”
“Two years. Maybe a little longer.”
“What happened?”
“I started looking at the gallery’s records without Jean-Luc standing over my shoulder.”
“And what did you find?”
“That I was acquiring and selling more works than I ever imagined possible.”
“Your gallery was doing a brisk business?”
“That’s putting it mildly. In fact, in only its second year in operation, Galerie Olivia Watson earned more than three hundred million euros in profit. Most of the sales were totally private and involved paintings I’d never seen.”
“What did you do?”
“I confronted him.”
“And how did he respond?”
“He told me to mind my own business.” She paused, then added, “No pun intended.”
“Did you?”
She hesitated before nodding slowly.
“Why?”
When she offered no explanation, he provided one for her.
“Because your life was perfect and you didn’t want to do anything to upset it.”
“All of us make compromises in life.”
“But not all of us find refuge in the arms of a drug trafficker.” He paused for a moment to allow the words to wound her sufficiently. “You did know that Jean-Luc’s real business was narcotics, didn’t you?”
“I still don’t.”
The Israeli greeted her answer with justifiable contempt. “We haven’t much time, Olivia. It would be better not to waste it with pointless denials.”
There was a silence. Into it crept the Englishman who called himself Nicolas Carnot. He went to the bookshelf and, craning his neck sideways, removed a volume with a tattered cover. It was The Sheltering Sky by the American novelist Paul Bowles. He tucked the book beneath his arm and with a glance at Olivia slipped out of the room again. She looked at the Israeli, who returned her gaze without judgment.
“You were about to tell me,” he said at last, “when you became aware of the fact that your domestic and business partner was a drug trafficker.”
“I heard rumors, just like everyone else.”
“But unlike everyone else, you were in a unique position to know whether they were true or not. After all, you were the nominal owner of an art gallery that served as one of his most effective money-laundering fronts.”
She smiled. “How naive of you.”
“Why?”
“Because Jean-Luc is very good at keeping secrets.” Then she added, “Almost as good as you and your friends.”
“We are professionals.”
“So is Jean-Luc,” she said darkly.
“Have you ever asked him?”
“Whether he’s a drug dealer?”
“Yes.”
“Just once. He laughed. And then he told me never to ask him about his business again.”
“Did you?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d heard other rumors,” she said. “Rumors about what happened to people who crossed him.”
“And yet you stayed,” he pointed out.
“I stayed,” she retorted, “because I was afraid to leave.”
“Afraid to leave, or afraid you would lose your gallery?”
“Both,” she admitted.
A flicker of a smile appeared on his lips and then vanished. “I admire your honesty, Olivia.”
“If nothing else?”
“Like Nicolas Carnot, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments. Especially when there’s valuable intelligence at stake.”
“What sort of intelligence?”
“The organization of Jean-Luc’s business, for example. You must have managed to collect a fair amount of information about how the company is structured. It’s rather opaque, to say the least. Looking at it from the outside, we’ve managed to identify some of the players. There’s a chief for each division—the restaurants, the hotels, the retail end of things—but try as we might, we haven’t been able to identify the chief of JLM’s illicit narcotics unit.”
“You’re joking.”
“Only a little. Is he one man or two? Is it Jean-Luc himself?”
She said nothing.
“Time, Olivia. We haven’t much time. We need to know how Jean-Luc manages his drug business. How he gives his orders. How he insulates himself so the police can’t touch him. It doesn’t happen by osmosis or telekinesis. Somewhere there’s a trusted figure who handles his interests. Someone who can move in and out of his orbit without attracting suspicion. Someone he communicates with only in person, in a quiet voice, in a room where no phones are present. Surely you know who this man is, Olivia. Perhaps you’re acquainted. Perhaps you’re a friend of his.”
“Not a friend,” she said after a moment. “But I do know who he is. And I know what would happen to me if I were to tell you his name. He would kill me. And not even Jean-Luc would be able to stop him.”
“No one’s going to harm you, Olivia.”
She regarded him skeptically. He feigned moderate offense.
“Think about the extraordinary lengths we went to in order to bring you here today. Haven’t we demonstrated our professionalism? Haven’t we proven ourselves worthy of your trust?”
“And when you’re gone? Who will protect me then?”
“You won’t need protection,” he responded, “because you’ll be gone, too.”
“Where will I be?”
“That’s up to you and your countryman to decide,” he said with an inclination of his head toward the chief of British intelligence. “Oh, I suppose I could offer you a nice flat overlooking the sea in Tel Aviv, but I suspect you’d be more comfortable in England.”
“What will I do for money?”
“Run an art gallery, of course.”
“Which one?”
“Galerie Olivia Watson.” He smiled. “Despite the fact that your professional inventory was purchased with drug money, we’re prepared to let you keep it. With two exceptions,” he added.
“Which ones?”
“The Guston and the Basquiat. Monsieur Antonov would like to write you a check for fifty million for both, which should allay any concerns Jean-Luc might have about how you spent this afternoon. And don’t worry,” he added. “Unlike Monsieur Antonov, the money is quite real.”
“How generous of you,” she said. “But you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“It’s about Paris,” he answered. “And London. And Antwerp. And Amsterdam. And Stuttgart. And Washington. And it’s about a hundred other attacks you’ve never heard about.”
“Jean-Luc is no angel, but he’s not a terrorist, either.”
“True. But we believe he’s in business with one, which means he’s helping to finance his attacks. But I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. The less you know, the better. That’s the way it works in our trade. And all you need to know is that you’re being given the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s a chance to start over. Think of it as a blank canvas upon which you can paint any picture you want. And all it will cost you is a name.” He smiled and asked, “Do we have a deal, Ms. Wilson?”
“Watson. My name is Olivia Watson. And, yes,” she said after a moment, “I believe we have a deal.”
They talked late into the afternoon, as the heat relented and the shadows grew long and thin in the garden and in the grove of silvery olive trees that climbed the next hillside. The circumstances of her repatriation to the United Kingdom. The manner in which she should conduct herself in Jean-Luc’s presence during the days to come. The procedures she should follow in the case of some unforeseen emergency. The green-eyed Israeli referred to this as the break-the-glass plan and warned Olivia that it was to be engaged only in the event of extreme danger, for it would necessarily wipe out a great deal of time and effort and waste untold millions in operational expenses.
Only then did he ask Olivia for the name. The name of the man whom Jean-Luc trusted to run his multibillion-euro narcotics empire. The dirty side of JLM Enterprises, as the Israeli called it. The side that made everything else—the restaurants, the hotels, the boutiques and shops, the art gallery in the Place de l’Ormeau—possible. The first time Olivia uttered it, she did so softly, as though a hand were squeezing her throat. The Israeli asked her to repeat the name and, hearing it clearly, exchanged a long, speculative glance with Paul Rousseau. At length, Rousseau nodded slowly and then resumed contemplating his dormant pipe while on the other side of the room Nicolas Carnot returned the volume of Bowles to its original place on the shelf.
After that, there was no more discussion of drugs or terror or the real reason why Olivia had been brought to the modest villa outside Ramatuelle. Monsieur Antonov materialized, all smiles and Russian-accented bonhomie, and together they arranged the transfer of fifty million euros from his accounts to the gallery’s. A bottle of champagne was opened to celebrate the sale. Olivia did not drink from the glass that was placed in her hand. The Israeli did not touch his glass, either. He was, thought Olivia, a man of admirable discipline.
Shortly after six o’clock, Nicolas Carnot returned her mobile phone. Precisely when he had taken it Olivia did not know. She reckoned he had plucked it from her handbag during the drive from Saint-Tropez. Glancing at the screen, she saw several text messages that had come through during her interrogation. The last was from Jean-Luc. It had arrived only a moment earlier. It said he was about to board his helicopter and would be home within the hour.
Olivia looked up, alarmed. “What should I say to him?”
“What would you usually say?” asked the Israeli.
“I’d tell him to have a safe trip.”
“Then please do so. And you might want to mention that you have a fifty-million-euro surprise for him. That should brighten his mood. But don’t give away too much. We wouldn’t want to spoil it.”
Olivia thumbed a response into the text box and held it up for him to see.
“Nicely done.”
She tapped it into the ether.
“Time for you to be leaving,” said the Israeli. “We wouldn’t want your carriage to turn into a pumpkin, would we?”
Outside, a few windblown clouds were moving swiftly across the evening sky. Nicolas Carnot spoke only French during the drive south to the Baie de Cavalaire, and only of Monsieur Antonov and the paintings. They were to be delivered to Villa Soleil immediately upon receipt of the money. Madame Sophie, he said, had already chosen the spot where they would hang.
“She loathes me,” said Olivia.
“She’s not so bad once you get to know her.”
&nb
sp; “Is she French?”
“What else would she be?”
The Antonovs lived on the western side of the bay, Jean-Luc and Olivia in the east. As they were nearing the little Spar market on the corner of the boulevard Saint-Michel, Monsieur Carnot instructed her to stop. He squeezed her hand tightly and in English assured her that she had nothing to fear, that she was doing the right thing. Then he bade her a pleasant evening and, smiling as though nothing unusual had occurred that afternoon, climbed out. When she saw him last it was in the rearview mirror, speeding in the opposite direction atop a small motorcycle. Fleeing the scene of a crime, she thought.
Olivia continued eastward along the rim of the bay and a few minutes later entered the luxurious villa she shared with the man whom she had just betrayed. In the kitchen she poured herself a large glass of rosé and carried it outside onto the terrace. Through the sharp glare of the setting sun she could make out the faint outlines of Monsieur Antonov’s monstrous villa. Presently, her mobile phone trembled. She stared at the screen. home in five . . . what’s the surprise? “The surprise,” she said aloud, “is that your Russian friend and his bitch of a wife just wrote me a check for fifty million euros.” She said it again and again, until even she believed it was true.
35
Marseilles, France
At 11:45 the following morning, the sum of fifty million euros appeared in the account of Galerie Olivia Watson, 9 Place de l’Ormeau, Saint-Tropez, France. The money did not have to travel far, as both sender and recipient did their banking at HSBC on the boulevard Haussmann in Paris. By midafternoon it was resting comfortably in a renowned Swiss bank in Geneva, in an account controlled by JLM Enterprises. And at five o’clock, two paintings—one by Guston, the other by Basquiat—were delivered by unmarked van to Villa Soleil. Olivia Watson followed in her black Range Rover. In the entrance hall she passed Christopher Keller, who was on his way out. He kissed her lavishly on both cheeks, commented on her appearance, which was dazzling, and then climbed onto his Peugeot Satelis motorbike. A moment later he was racing westward along the shore of the Mediterranean.