* * *
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?”
At the opposite end of the street was an upscale electronics store. Ingrid went inside alone and emerged a few minutes later with a compact high-resolution webcam. They killed an hour strolling the Croisette before returning to the hotel. Ingrid placed the camera in the window of her room and attached it to her computer with a USB cable. Then she drew the blinds and switched off the lights.
Gabriel inspected the image on the screen. “Can you record the feed?”
“Yes, of course. And better yet, I can forward it to my phone.”
“Good,” said Gabriel. “Because under no circumstances are we eating in this hotel.”
“Office doctrine?”
“It is now.”
* * *
The building was five floors in height, with a pair of boutiques on the ground level. The residential entrance was sandwiched between the two shops. The intercom panel listed eight apartments. The accompanying nameplates suggested that only two of the dwellings were occupied by Frenchmen. Three of the names were English-language in origin, one was Spanish, and one was German. The nameplate for Apartment 3B was empty.
By half past seven that evening, lights were burning up and down the length of the rue d’Antibes. Only four of the eight apartments showed signs of life—two on the second floor and two on the fourth. At 7:42 p.m. the lights in one of the fourth-floor apartments were extinguished, and a moment later a man and woman of retirement age emerged from the street-level door. The rigidness of their bearing suggested they were the Schmidts of 4A. Their attire suggested they were heading out to dinner.
Gabriel and Ingrid waited until nearly nine o’clock before doing the same. They left the privacy signs hanging on their doors and informed the clerk that they did not require turndown service—unnecessarily, as it was not being offered. Outside, they debated where to eat.
“One of my favorite restaurants in the world is in Cannes,” said Ingrid. “It doesn’t take reservations, and the wait for a table is terrible during the summer. But it’s perfect in the off season.”
“Am I allowed to know the name of the restaurant?”
“It’s a surprise.”
The restaurant, La Pizza Cresci, was located on the western flank of the Vieux Port, on the Quai Saint-Pierre. Inside, they were shown to a window table in the main dining room. Ingrid immediately sensed Gabriel’s discomfort.
“We can go somewhere else, if you like.”
“Why?”
“Because you look as though you’ve just seen a ghost.”
He stared silently out the window.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Search the words Abdul Aziz al-Bakari and Cannes.”
