Ingrid looked at the screen of Gabriel’s computer. “Or the lovely Fiona Ashworth.”

The British estate agent was returning home from her office on the Croisette. She punched in the passcode—five, one, seven, nine, zero, two, eight, six—and went inside. A moment later the lights came on in her second-floor apartment. The windows of Madame Martineau’s unit were likewise illuminated. The apartment above hers, however, was in darkness.

“Does he ever turn on the lights?” asked Gabriel.

“Blackout shades. A trick of the trade.”

“We can’t prove that he’s the hacker. Not yet, at least.”

“And if he is?”

“I’m going to have a word with him.”

“You’re not going to lose your temper, are you?”

“Not me,” said Gabriel. “I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

Ingrid smiled. “That makes two of us.”

*  *  *

Shortly before eleven o’clock, with the occupants of the apartment building apparently bedded down for the night, they walked to the Vieux Port for a quick pizza at Cresci. This time they sat in a darkened corner of the dining room so Ingrid could keep an eye on the feed from the camera.

“Who was the other gunman that night?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“The other assassin who helped you kill Zizi al-Bakari.”

“You met him once.”

“Really? Where?”

“In Russia. He was the one who helped me get you out of the Range Rover and across the border into Finland.”

It was after midnight when they returned to the hotel. Ingrid wrapped the grip of the screwdriver with several layers of gaffer tape and practiced bumping the lock on the door between their rooms. Her brief retirement had done nothing to diminish her skills; she was able to open the door in a matter of seconds. Indeed, she was faster with a bump key than the lockpick gun—and quieter as well.

At 2:00 a.m. Gabriel insisted that she get a few hours of sleep. She stretched out on the bed and wrestled with dreams of Russia until seven thirty, when she woke with a start. Gabriel poured her a cup of room service coffee. She drank some and made a sour face.

“How is it possible to get bad coffee in France?”

“You should have tasted the sludge they brought me a couple of hours ago.”

She looked at the shot from the camera. “Anything?”

“Not yet.”

She carried her coffee into the bathroom and showered and dressed in a businesslike black pantsuit.

“How do I look?”

“Like the thief who robbed several guests at the Carlton and the Martinez a few years ago.”

Gabriel rang room service and ordered another pot of coffee and a pitcher of steamed milk. It arrived twenty minutes later as matronly Madame Martineau emerged from the door of the apartment building, her wicker shopping basket in hand. The Schmidts appeared shortly after nine, followed twenty minutes later by Fiona Ashworth.

“I’m thinking about buying a little pied-à-terre along the Côte d’Azur,” said Ingrid. “You didn’t keep her card by any chance, did you?”

“Office doctrine dictated that I burn it.”

Ingrid, annoyed, tapped her fingernail on the desktop.

“Perhaps you should practice bumping the lock a few hundred more times.”

Before she could reply, the shutters of Apartment 3B swung open, and the occupant appeared in the window. As usual he spent a moment searching the street below.

“He’s a hacker,” said Ingrid. “And he’s afraid someone is watching him.”

“Someone is.”

At length the man withdrew and the shutters closed. Ingrid placed the bump keys and screwdriver in her handbag and shoved a pair of Bose Ultras into her ears. Gabriel dialed her phone on his secure Solaris and established a connection. He could hear the sound of her breathing. Her respiration rate was elevated.

“Where the hell is he?” she asked.

“Right there,” said Gabriel as the street-level door opened. The man hesitated in the threshold for a long moment, then set off on an easterly heading. Gabriel opened the blinds and peered into the street. “You may proceed.”

Ingrid connected her computer to the man’s Wi-Fi network and went after the alarm system while Gabriel kept watch at the window. Two minutes was all it took.

“We’re good, Mr. Allon. The alarm is disabled.”

Gabriel drew the blinds. “I think I’ll go downstairs for a proper café crème.”

“Mind if join you?”

“Not at all,” said Gabriel, and followed her out the door.

30

Rue d’Antibes

Downstairs, they bade the clerk a pleasant morning and walked out. Gabriel went to the café next door, and Ingrid crossed the street to the entrance of the apartment building. She punched the eight-digit passcode into the keypad on the intercom panel, and the dead bolt opened with a thud.

Entering, she was relieved to find the foyer deserted. She stood stock-still for a second or two, listening, then headed toward the staircase. Her ascent to the third floor was swift and soundless. Apartment 3B was on the left side of the landing. She slid her bump key into the lock and gave it two firm taps with the grip of the screwdriver. The lock surrendered at once.

She turned the latch and slipped into the apartment. The air was stale and reeked of tobacco and curry. Closing the door behind her, she once again stood motionless and listened. The only sound she heard was Gabriel’s voice in her Bose earbuds.

“Checking in.”

“I’m still here.”