“For what?”
Gabriel indicated the fishmongers plying their trade in the esplanade on the port’s eastern flank. “A thousand should do.”
“For fish?” The Frenchman removed a bundle of twenty-euro banknotes from his suitcase and handed it over. “It had better be the finest fish in all of France, Monsieur Allon.”
“Trust me, Philippe. You won’t be disappointed.”
Ingrid watched as Gabriel climbed out of the car and walked over to one of the fishmongers, a gray-haired man in a tattered wool sweater and a rubber apron. A brief conversation ensued and the money changed hands. Then Gabriel returned to the car and dropped behind the wheel.
“Who is that man?” asked Ingrid.
“His name is Pascal Rameau.”
“Is he an actual fisherman?”
“Yes, of course. But he has other business interests as well, all of them criminal in nature.”
“Such as?”
“Theft, for one. With all due respect, Pascal and his crew are without question the finest thieves in Europe. They pulled a couple of jobs for me back in the day.”
“Why did you just give him a thousand euros?”
“Transport.”
Rameau was now holding a phone to his ear. He caught Gabriel’s eye and pointed to a spot along the quay. Gabriel hit the trunk release and opened his door.
“What about the car?” asked Ingrid.
“One of Pascal’s men will drop it at Hertz.”
“How thoughtful of him.”
Luggage in hand, they set off along the quay. Gabriel purchased a dozen sandwiches at a boulangerie, then ducked into the pharmacy next door for scopolamine patches and tablets.
“I don’t suffer from seasickness,” protested Ingrid.
“You will if the seas are running two to three meters.”
“What about you?”
“I never get seasick.”
He led Ingrid and Lambert across the street and onto a jetty stretching toward the center of the harbor. Near the end of the dock was a twelve-meter motor yacht called Mistral. The owner of the vessel, a man named René Monjean, was standing on the afterdeck in a Helly Hansen offshore jacket.
“Long time, no see, Monsieur Allon.” He shook Gabriel’s hand warmly. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Someone is trying to kill my friend. I need to get him off the mainland as quietly as possible.”
Monjean smiled. “You’ve come to the right place.”
Gabriel made the introductions, first names only, then asked about the marine forecast.
“The wind is starting to blow,” said Monjean. “But it shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll have you there in ten hours, twelve at the most.”
“Twelve hours?” asked Lambert. “Where are you taking me?”
“Libya,” said Gabriel, and went into the boat’s small but comfortable salon.
Monjean gave them a quick briefing. “There’s a head down below and two berths.” He tapped the stainless-steel door of the fridge. “And plenty of beer and wine.”
With that, Monjean headed up to the flybridge. As the boat eased away from the jetty, Gabriel offered Ingrid the scopolamine. She opened the fridge instead and pried the cap from a bottle of Kronenbourg.
“What sort of jobs did Pascal Rameau do for you back in the day?”
“The kind I couldn’t do for myself.”
“Did our captain take part in these robberies?”
“Absolutely. There’s nobody better than René Monjean.”
“Has he ever pulled a heist in Moscow?” Ingrid drank her beer and smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
* * *
Monjean rounded Île Pomègues, the largest of the four islands at the entrance of the Port of Marseilles, and made for Planier Light. There he turned to the southeast and brought their speed up to a comfortable twenty-five knots. The wind was steady from the north, the seas were moderate. Gabriel and Ingrid drank Kronenbourg on the afterdeck and watched the setting sun while Lambert chain-smoked Winstons. Three times he asked Gabriel to reveal their destination, only to receive three different replies. Gabriel in turn pressed Lambert for additional information on the man he had referred to as Monsieur Robinson. Lambert, cupping his hand over the flame of a plastic lighter, revealed that Robinson’s first name was Trevor and that he was the head of security at a small law firm with offices in Monaco and the British Virgin Islands.
“Firm have a name?”
