Ingrid lowered her window and with a few soothing words persuaded the goat to move aside. Gabriel followed the road to the entrance of Villa Orsati and asked the guards whether they had seen Christopher. They informed him that the Englishman had dined alone with Don Orsati after a difficult ascent up Monte Cinto but was no longer at the estate.

“When did he leave?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Does he ever?”

Gabriel was tempted to ask Sarah Bancroft if she knew her husband’s whereabouts, but such a course of action would have violated the most basic precepts of his former trade. And so he drove down the treacherous western slope of the mountains by the light of a single headlamp and rolled into the tiny marina in Porto a few minutes after midnight. Which was when he spotted Christopher, still in his Gore-Tex climbing gear, sitting on the afterdeck of Mistral, a cigarette between his lips, a nylon overnight bag at his side. He pondered the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then looked at Gabriel and smiled.

“You’re late.”

“I thought you weren’t coming with us.”

“And miss all the fun? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Christopher flicked his cigarette into the oily waters of the marina. “Leave the key in that rental car of yours. And don’t worry about the smashed headlamp. His Holiness will take care of everything.”

*  *  *

They stowed their bags belowdecks and locked the drawers and cabinets in the galley. Then Gabriel and René Monjean climbed up to the flybridge and fired the engines. They headed due west across the choppy waters of the Golfe de Porto before turning to the north. The sea state deteriorated instantly. Ingrid felt a wave of nausea wash over her and decided to take her chances outside on the afterdeck. She found Christopher relaxing in the cockpit, as though the boat beneath him were gliding across a glassy ornamental pond.

“Feeling unwell?” he asked.

“A little. You?”

“Actually, I’m feeling rather guilty.”

“You should, Mr. Keller. You gave us quite a scare.”

“I was referring to the incident this afternoon at the pool.”

“When you asked Gabriel if we were having an affair?”

Christopher nodded. “The truth is, I knew you weren’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Gabriel is madly in love with his wife and children. He also happens to be the most decent and honorable man I’ve ever met.”

“And what about you, Mr. Keller? Are you decent and honorable?”

“I am now. But I still have a naughty streak.”

“So does Gabriel.”

“That he does,” said Christopher, and lit another cigarette.

40

Monaco

A bit nicer than Marseilles, wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Allon?”

“Actually, René, I’ve always had a soft spot for your hometown.”

“Too many criminals,” replied Monjean.

“I have a soft spot for them, too.”

They were approaching the entrance of Port Hercule, the larger of Monaco’s two harbors. The luxury apartment buildings lining the waterfront sparkled in the bright morning sunlight. A monstrous superyacht, perhaps a hundred meters in length, loomed over one of the quays.

Gabriel quickly searched the vessel’s name online. “It’s owned by a member of the Qatari royal family.”

“What does he do for all that money?”

“As little as possible, I imagine.”

A harbormaster in a whaler-type craft directed them to their berth. It was along a noisy quay lined with shops and restaurants. Gabriel connected his laptop to Mistral’s satellite Wi-Fi network, then rang Philippe Lambert in Corsica. Lambert was awake and monitoring Harris Weber’s internal surveillance cameras. At half past eight the office was still deserted.

Gabriel raised the volume on the audio feed from Trevor Robinson’s mobile phone and brewed a pot of coffee in the galley. Ingrid carried a cup belowdecks, where she hosed herself down in the cramped marine shower before changing into her dark pantsuit. René Monjean emerged from the owner’s berth dressed in jeans and a black pullover. Upstairs in the salon, Gabriel advised the French thief to do a bit of shopping while he was getting to know the neighborhood around Harris Weber’s office.

“The stores in Monaco are the most expensive in the world,” Monjean protested.

“Which means you’re sure to find something appropriate to wear to this evening’s festivities.”

Monjean and Ingrid left Mistral at nine fifteen and set off along the quay. Gabriel went onto the forward deck and found Christopher lying shirtless on a cushion, beer in hand.

“It’s a bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

“I’m on holiday on my friend’s motor yacht in Monaco. The midmorning carbonated beverage is simply part of my elaborate cover.”

“Might I trouble you to run a small errand for me on the French side of the border?”

Christopher sighed. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like you to collect a parcel from a certain Monsieur Giroux. He’ll be waiting outside the tennis club in Cap-d’Ail.”

“Why can’t Monsieur Giroux bring the parcel here?”

“Because it contains a computerized automatic combination dialer and a forty-by-twenty-millimeter rare-earth magnet.”

“In that case, perhaps you should handle it, old sport.” Christopher closed his eyes. “Those rare-earth magnets are bloody dangerous.”

*  *  *

Ingrid paused beneath the white awning of the Gucci boutique on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo. “Perhaps we can find you something presentable to wear here.”

“Only if we steal it,” replied René Monjean.