She pointed toward a small landscape by Claude Monet. “And how do you explain that?”
“The owner is a successful business consultant.”
“But why did the business consultant with a Monet hanging on his wall forget to lock his front door?”
“Because he used to work for the man who lives in the large estate in the next valley. Therefore, no one on Corsica, least of all a professional criminal, would ever be so foolish as to even think about robbing this place.”
Gabriel went into the kitchen and opened the door to the pantry. It was empty save for an unopened bag of Carte Noire and two containers of shelf milk. He prepared the coffee in the French press and warmed the milk in a saucepan on the stove while Ingrid and Lambert freshened up in their rooms. By half past twelve they were all gathered around the kitchen table. Lambert fired up a Winston and his laptops. And then he told them everything.
* * *
He began his account with an abbreviated version of his unexpectedly sparkling curriculum vitae. Born in an upscale arrondissement of Paris, he was the son of a senior executive from the French financial services giant Société Générale and a graduate of the prestigious École Polytechnique, where he studied advanced computer science. Upon graduation, he chose to postpone a lucrative career in the private sector and instead joined the DGSE, France’s foreign intelligence service.
“I worked in the Technical Directorate. Electronic surveillance and other special tasks. We were nowhere near as good as you Israelis, but we weren’t half bad, either. I spent much of my time targeting the Islamic State. In fact, I provided technical support for that joint French-Israeli operation you ran after the attack on the Weinberg Center. It was a thing of beauty, Monsieur Allon. Truly.”
Lambert left the DGSE after ten years and went to work in the Paris office of SK4, the Swedish-owned corporate security firm. He specialized in network security and monitoring systems for offices and physical infrastructure, and his clients included some of the biggest names in French business. His base compensation package was a half million euros a year, a fivefold increase over his old salary at the DGSE.
“Life was good,” said Gabriel.
“No complaints.”
“What happened?”
“Trevor Robinson.”
It was Robinson, with a call to Lambert’s personal mobile phone, who made the initial approach. He said he wanted to discuss a business proposition of considerable sensitivity. He implied that it would be well worth Lambert’s while to listen to what he had to say.
“Did he happen to mention the name of the company where he worked?”
“He said next to nothing.”
“And you, of course, told him you weren’t interested.”
“I tried, Monsieur Allon. But he was quite persistent.”
Robinson acknowledged that his firm had an office in Monaco and suggested they meet there. Lambert flew down on a Friday evening and checked into the exclusive Hôtel de Paris, where Robinson had reserved a suite in his name. They met for coffee the next morning, continued their discussions over lunch at Le Louis XV, and came to terms while cruising the Mediterranean on the firm’s yacht.
“Yacht have a name?”
“Discretion.”
“Catchy. What about the firm?”
“Harris Weber & Company.”
Ingrid opened her laptop.
“Don’t,” said Lambert. “I installed the tracking software on the firm’s website. It’s the best there is.”
Gabriel opened his own laptop and found a reference to Harris Weber & Company in a directory of Monaco law firms. There was a street address on the boulevard des Moulins and a phone number, but nothing else. Lambert filled in the rest of the picture, beginning with the full names of the firm’s founding partners, Ian Harris and Konrad Weber.
“Harris is British and Weber is from Zurich. They met in the early nineties while working on behalf of the same client and decided to start their own firm. Neither one of them has ever seen the inside of a courtroom. They’re in the business of helping companies and wealthy individuals reduce their tax burdens by moving their assets to offshore financial centers.”
“And Robinson?”
“He joined the firm in 2009.”
“From where?”
“The counterintelligence division of MI5.”
“Why did a garden-variety law firm specializing in offshore financial services feel the need to hire a former MI5 officer to handle its security?”
“Because Harris Weber is anything but a garden-variety firm. Its clients include some of the richest and most powerful people in the world. Some of the most dangerous as well. When dealing with such people, it pays to have a man like Trevor Robinson on the payroll.”
“Not to mention Philippe Lambert.”
“For the record, I am not an employee of Harris Weber. I am an independent contractor with a single client, a company called Antioch Holdings. It’s a limited liability entity based in the British Virgin Islands. Antioch pays me several million dollars a year, the vast majority of which remains hidden in offshore accounts. I also have use of an apartment in Monaco and a luxury villa on Virgin Gorda.”
“And what sort of services do you provide this client?”
“Nominally?” Lambert shrugged. “Network security.”
“And in reality?”
“The same job I did for the DGSE.”
“Electronic intelligence collection?”
