“Philippe what?”

“Lambert.”

“Are you carrying a weapon, Philippe Lambert?”

“Non.”

Gabriel pushed the hacker face-first against the wall and subjected him to a thorough search. He found nothing but a second phone and a billfold. The driver’s permit and credit cards all bore the name Philippe Lambert.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

Gabriel handed over the billfold. “What sort of work do you do, Philippe?”

“Digital marketing and advertising. I’m a freelance consultant.”

“That would explain why a man on a motorcycle was about to kill you.”

“He must have mistaken me for someone else.” Lambert paused, then added, “As have you, Monsieur Klemp.”

“I think you hacked the Geneva Freeport a few days ago. In fact, my associate is quite certain that you were the one who did the job.”

“Your associate doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“She traced the source of the hack to your IP address. She also had a look at your computers while you were out this morning. She can show you the photos, if you like.”

Lambert managed to smile. “Breaking and entering is a crime in France, Monsieur Klemp.”

“So is computer hacking and digital theft.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“Fortunately for you, I’m not.” Gabriel attempted to slip past Lambert, but the hacker blocked his path. “I would advise you, Philippe, to choose another course of action.”

“Or what?”

“My associate and I will leave, and the man on the motorcycle will kill you the next time you set foot outside this apartment.” Gabriel went into the sitting room and deliberately surveyed his surroundings. “I really love what you’ve done with the place. Did you hire a decorator, or did you do this yourself?”

“I don’t live in the physical world.” Lambert pointed to the computers and monitors arrayed on the trestle table. “I live in that one. It’s a perfect world. No disease or wars, no floods or famines. Just ones and zeros.” He looked at Ingrid and asked, “Isn’t that right?”

She walked over to the trestle table and raised the volume on one of the laptops. The same two men were conversing in British-accented English.

“Macedonian malware,” said Lambert. “Cheap but quite effective.”

“Who are they?”

“I cannot answer that question, Monsieur Klemp. Not unless you tell me who you really are.”

Gabriel exchanged a look with Ingrid, and she sat down at Lambert’s computers. A few seconds later Gabriel’s image appeared on three of the large monitors. The hacker did not seem terribly surprised by the revelation. In fact, he appeared relieved.

“What are you doing in Cannes, Monsieur Allon?”

“I want to know who hired you to hack the Geneva Freeport.”

“And if I tell you?”

“I will intercede with the relevant authorities on your behalf.”

“What I need, Monsieur Allon, is your protection from the man on the motorcycle.”

“Who sent him?”

Lambert pointed toward the laptop. “They did.”

*  *  *

Lambert’s possessions, such as they were, were already crammed into an overnight bag. A couple of changes of clothing, toiletries, a passport, several thousand euros in cash. He added the phones, the laptops, four external hard drives, and the steno pad. The two Lenovo desktops he wiped clean.

Gabriel kept watch at the window, phone in hand, Ingrid’s voice in his ear. She was across the street at the hotel, hastily clearing out their rooms. Shortly before eleven she rang the clerk at the front desk and informed him that she and her Canadian colleague would be checking out earlier than anticipated. The clerk dispatched a bellman to collect their luggage. The valet fetched their rental car.

Ten minutes later it was waiting in the rue d’Antibes, engine running, luggage in the trunk.

Gabriel looked at Lambert and said, “Let’s go.”

They headed down the stairs to the foyer. Gabriel opened the door and peered into the street. Ingrid, having settled the bill, was waiting at the entrance of the hotel.

“Shall we?” she asked.

They all three stepped into the rue d’Antibes at the same instant and climbed into the waiting car—Lambert in back, Ingrid in the passenger seat, Gabriel behind the wheel. He waited until the car was rolling before closing his door. Ingrid removed the Bose Ultras from her ears and took a long look over her shoulder.

“No sign of him.”

“For the moment,” said Gabriel, and headed for the Vieux Port. They shot past La Pizza Cresci in a blur, then raced westward along the crescent of golden sand rimming the Baie de Cannes. Gabriel glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a motorcyclist following about fifty meters behind them.

“You were saying,” he remarked.

Ingrid turned to have a look for herself. “Could be a different motorcyclist.”

“It isn’t,” said Gabriel. “Same motorcyclist.”

*  *  *

During the short drive to the Autoroute, Gabriel performed a series of time-tested maneuvers designed to expose vehicle-borne surveillance, just to make certain there were no misunderstandings. The man on the motorcycle matched him turn for turn.

“Doesn’t that idiot know who I am?”

“Perhaps he’s heard about this new leaf of yours.”

“Rest assured, it’s now old and dry and lying on the ground.”