They walked through the shadows of the rue Pavée and turned into the rue des Rosiers. Once the heart of Jewish life in Paris, it was now one of the most fashionable streets in the arrondissement. Chic clothing boutiques lined the pavements. Gabriel pointed out the apartments on the upper floors.

“The French police went door to door on the morning of July 16, 1942. They had a list of names. A few were shown mercy and allowed to escape, but not many. Just five days later, three hundred and seventy-five of them were murdered at Auschwitz. Nearly all the others would be dead by the end of the summer.”

“What about the children?”

“There were about four thousand in all. They were separated from their parents and loaded into cattle cars. The number who perished during the journey to Auschwitz is not known. Those who somehow survived were gassed upon arrival.”

Gabriel slowed to a stop outside a boutique that specialized in designer jeans. It had once been a famous kosher restaurant called Jo Goldenberg. Gabriel had dined there a single time, on a dark and rainy afternoon, with a colleague from his service. They had been discussing a woman whose grandparents were arrested on jeudi noir. Her name was Hannah Weinberg.

Gabriel’s phone disturbed the memory. He drew it from his coat pocket and stared at the screen.

“Your wife?” asked Ingrid.

“No,” said Gabriel. “Inspector Clouseau.”

*  *  *

Gabriel dropped Ingrid at the Cheval Blanc, then headed across the Seine to the Île de la Cité. This time he met Jacques Ménard in a café in the Place Dauphine. The French detective had brought along a manila envelope filled with photographs. He laid the first on the table. It depicted a fire-blackened Peugeot 508.

“They ditched it off the D30 in the Haute-Savoie. There were no traffic cameras nearby. They must have switched to another vehicle.”

“I don’t suppose the forensic team found the charred remnants of a Picasso in the boot.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Ménard reclaimed the photograph and laid another in its place. It was the man from the Freeport navigating passport control at Charles de Gaulle Airport. The time stamp read 11:52 a.m. The date was Tuesday, January 17.

“How did you know?” asked Ménard.

“He murdered an Oxford professor named Charlotte Blake in Cornwall the day before. The safest escape route, in my humble opinion, is a ferry to the Irish Republic.”

“He caught the eight forty Air France flight at Dublin Airport. German passport.”

“Name?”

“Klaus Müller.”

“I assume you had a look at his prior travel.”

Ménard nodded. “He spends a lot of time on airplanes.”

“Where does he make his home?”

“Leipzig. Or so he says.”

The next photo Ménard laid on the table was of lesser quality. It showed the same man walking over the paving stones of the rue Lepic in Montmartre. The time was 7:32 p.m., about an hour before Emanuel Cohen’s murder.

“Is there video of the fall itself?” asked Gabriel.

“Non,” replied Ménard. “Which is the only reason why I didn’t immediately report this matter to the Police Judiciaire. They are, however, looking into the burned-out car in the Haute-Savoie. It’s only a matter of time before they make the connection to the art dealer’s murder in Geneva.” He paused, then added, “And to your Picasso.”

“The only way they’ll find out about that painting is if you tell them.”

“Good point.” Ménard returned the photographs to the envelope and handed it over. “Try not to kill anyone, Allon. And call me the minute you have a lead on the whereabouts of either the Picasso or the man who pushed Dr. Cohen down those steps.”

“That would be a violation of my agreement with my friend from Swiss intelligence.”

Jacques Ménard smiled. “C’est la vie.”

*  *  *

The sun had set by the time Gabriel returned to the Cheval Blanc. Upstairs, he found Ingrid tossing her clothing into her suitcase.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Cannes.”

Gabriel went into his room and began to pack. “I’m quite fond of the Carlton, you know.”

“So am I. But I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

“How about the Hôtel Martinez?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“The Majestic?”

“Not a chance, Mr. Allon.”

28

Rue d’Antibes

Ingrid had traced the hack of the Geneva Freeport to an apartment building on the rue d’Antibes, the exclusive shopping street that flows through the heart of Cannes’s centre ville. The small hotel located opposite the hacker’s dwelling did not live up to the splendor suggested by its name. Gabriel requested adjoining rooms on an upper floor and in short order was handed a pair of keys and a brochure describing the hotel’s amenities, of which there were few. He told the clerk he was a resident of Montreal and showed him a false Canadian passport to prove it. His Danish colleague supplied the required credit card. They planned to stay for three nights, they explained. Perhaps a night or two longer if circumstances required it. The clerk did not foresee a problem, as vacancy was not an issue.

Upstairs, they unlocked the communicating door between their rooms and opened the blinds to the fading afternoon light. Three floors beneath them was the rue d’Antibes. It was one way and scarcely wide enough for a single vehicle. Perhaps fifteen meters separated their rooms from the windows of the opposing apartment building.

“This won’t do,” said Ingrid.

“I shouldn’t think so,” agreed Gabriel.

They headed downstairs and went into the shadowed street. Ingrid threaded her arm through Gabriel’s as they walked past a parade of luxury boutiques.

“Office doctrine, Mr. Allon. A fancy hotel and a pretty girl.”

“I’m afraid we don’t make a terribly convincing couple. And our hotel is quite possibly the worst in the centre ville.”

“But conveniently located, wouldn’t you say?”