27
Cheval Blanc
When Gabriel returned to the Cheval Blanc, there was no sign of Ingrid in her room. Ninety minutes went by before she finally reappeared, clad in sweat-drenched spandex. She had been working out in the hotel’s fitness center.
“How was your meeting?” she asked.
“It went about as well as could be expected. The only way I was able to get what I needed was to offer him your head. Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow in the Place de la Concorde.”
Frowning, she closed the communicating door between their rooms and worked late into the night. She was back at it early the next morning, when she hacked into the Freeport’s network to run a few diagnostic programs. By one o’clock she was ready for a lunch break, so they walked along the Seine to Chez Julien. Gabriel’s phone vibrated the minute they sat down at their table.
“Your friend Inspector Clouseau?” asked Ingrid.
“My wife.”
“Does she know where you are?”
Gabriel typed a brief message and tapped the send icon. “She does now.”
“She doesn’t mind the fact that you’re staying in a fancy Paris hotel with a beautiful young woman?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because fancy hotels and beautiful women were always part of my job.”
“Care to explain?”
“Office doctrine,” said Gabriel. “I never operated alone in a city like Paris or Rome or Zurich. I was always accompanied by a female escort officer.”
“And they were always pretty?”
“The prettier, the better. My wife was one of those officers. That’s how I met her.”
A waitress appeared and Gabriel ordered a bottle of Chablis.
“Speaking of pretty girls,” said Ingrid quietly.
“Was she? I didn’t notice.”
“You notice everything, Mr. Allon.” Ingrid lowered her eyes toward the menu. “Have you figured it out yet?”
“I’m leaning toward the risotto with truffles.”
“I was talking about the Picasso. How did the killer know it was going to be in Ricard’s gallery on Thursday afternoon?”
“Ricard must have mentioned it to the wrong person.”
“Who?”
“I’m guessing it was the owner of the Picasso.”
“But the owner agreed to the trade.”
“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.”
“Are you saying Ricard made the deal with Anna without telling his client?”
“Stranger things have happened, Ingrid. The art world is a murky swamp. And with a few notable exceptions, dealers are the slimy green scum that floats on the surface.”
The waitress returned with the wine, and they placed their orders. An hour later, after finishing their coffee, they went into the cloudy afternoon. The Cheval Blanc was to the right. Ingrid turned to the left instead. She made another left into the rue Geoffroy l’Asnier and slowed to a stop outside the entrance of the Mémorial de la Shoah.
“I’d like you to take me inside,” she announced.
“Why?”
“Because I want to know what happened to the man who owned that Picasso.”
“He was murdered at Auschwitz along with more than a million other innocent Jews, including my grandparents.”
“Please, Mr. Allon.”
They entered the memorial along a luminous white passageway inscribed with the names of more than seventy-six thousand men, women, and children. The exhibition rooms told the story of their detention, deportation, and murder. In the crypt, where a flame burned in their memory, Ingrid clung to Gabriel’s arm and wept.
“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine,” she sobbed.
