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.”
“Do you have a gun, by any chance?”
“It’s possible I forgot to pack one.”
Gabriel followed the westbound ramp onto the Autoroute and pressed the throttle to the floor. Soon they were sailing along at 150 kilometers per hour with the man on the motorcycle in close pursuit.
“What do you suppose he’s planning to do?” asked Ingrid.
“If we’re lucky, he’ll shoot Philippe and leave us in peace.”
“And if we’re not?”
“He’ll kill us all.” Gabriel met Lambert’s anxious gaze in the rearview mirror. “Which is why I have no choice but to encourage him to shoot Philippe.”
They continued west for another forty kilometers across a rugged Provençal landscape dotted with umbrella pine. Then, at the village of Le Muy, Gabriel turned onto the D25 and headed south toward Saint-Tropez. The road was nearly empty of traffic.
“What on earth is he waiting for?” asked Ingrid.
“If I had to guess, he’s hoping I’ll make a mistake.”
