Upstairs in the galley, Ingrid poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos flask. Gabriel was seated at the table, a phone at his elbow, laptop open. From the speakers came the sound of Trevor Robinson’s voice. In the background was a low multilingual murmur.

“Where is he?”

“The Crystal Bar at the Hôtel Hermitage. Brendan Taylor is minding the store.”

“Did anyone open the safe this afternoon?”

“Ian Harris. He returned the storage device when he was finished.”

“Did you happen to see the passcode?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “But I’m guessing it’s nine, two, eight, seven, four, six.”

Christopher and René Monjean were outside on the afterdeck. Monjean looked faintly ridiculous in his blazer and trousers—like a thief pretending to be a businessman. Christopher, in his tailored Savile Row suit, looked like the real thing. Ingrid helped herself to one of his Marlboros. The combination of caffeine and nicotine raised her heart rate and blood pressure, but she still felt unusually serene. There was no tingling in her fingertips, no fever.

She smoked the last of the cigarette and then returned to the salon. Trevor Robinson had left the Crystal Bar and was walking along the Avenue Princesse Grace toward his apartment. Brendan Taylor was playing solitaire on his computer at Harris Weber. The two men spoke at 9:05 p.m. Robinson asked Taylor whether the file room was locked. Taylor told Robinson that it was.

The young associate left the office at 9:09 p.m., but Gabriel waited until nine thirty to dispatch his operational team. Christopher departed Mistral first, followed ten minutes later by Ingrid and René Monjean. As they walked along the Avenue de Monte-Carlo, Ingrid allowed her eyes to wander over the costly goods displayed in the shop windows. Once the very sight of such luxuries would have set her ablaze. Now, strangely, she felt nothing at all.

41

Boulevard des Moulins

The two outdoor tables at La Royale were both unoccupied. Christopher sat down at one, ordered coffee and a cognac, struck his Dunhill lighter, leaned a Marlboro into the flame. Only then did he ring Gabriel.

“Comfortable?” inquired his old friend.

“Never better.”

“Our associates are headed your way.”

Christopher looked to the left and saw Ingrid and René Monjean walking along the pavement on the opposite side of the boulevard. There was not another pedestrian in sight—and no officers of the Sûreté Publique de Monaco, either.

“Are we a go?” asked Gabriel.

“I believe we are.”

Ingrid and Monjean paused at the entrance of Number 41. So quiet was the boulevard that Christopher, from his observation post at the café, could hear the thud of the dead bolt. Only then did he take a first nip of the cognac.

They were off to a fine start.

*  *  *

Ingrid and Monjean crossed the half-lit lobby to the building’s only lift. There was no need to press the call button; Philippe Lambert, a hundred miles to the south in the mountains of Corsica, had already summoned the carriage. Ingrid gazed directly into the surveillance camera during the slow ascent to the fourth floor.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Just fine,” replied Gabriel. “But who’s that unsavory-looking fellow standing next to you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

The doors slid open and Ingrid followed Monjean into the foyer. A single overhead light shone dimly. On the wall directly before them was Harris Weber & Company’s understated logo. Next to it was a glass door and card reader.

“Open sesame,” said Ingrid.

A buzzer groaned, a lock snapped.

They were in.

Nothing about Harris Weber’s stylish workplace suggested that the firm was involved in the practice of law. Ingrid followed a corridor past a row of empty glass-enclosed offices, then turned to the left. A locked door halted her progress.

“Ready when you are,” she said, and the lock gave way.

The room they entered was in darkness. With the flashlight function of her phone, Ingrid illuminated several rows of metal file cabinets. At the opposite end of the room was yet another door.

“Would you mind terribly?” she asked.

Lambert unlocked the door remotely, and Ingrid and Monjean went inside. A table, a swivel chair, a desktop computer, a printer, and a double-doored executive safe with an electronic lock.

Ingrid entered the combination.

“Shit,” she whispered.

“Don’t tell me,” said Gabriel.

Ingrid opened the door of the safe. “Works every time.”

She illuminated the interior.

“Merde,” said René Monjean.

“What’s the problem now?” asked Gabriel.

“Several million euros in cash,” replied Ingrid.

“Is there anything else?”

“A rather large pile of physical documents and a twenty-terabyte SanDisk external hard drive.”

Ingrid removed the SanDisk and connected it to her laptop.

“How much data is there?” asked Gabriel.

“Three point two terabytes.”

“How long will it take?”

“One moment, please. Your question is very important to us.” Ingrid connected one of the storage devices she had purchased that morning and initiated the transfer. “According to the little window on my screen, it will take four hours and twelve minutes.”