“Which will leave you plenty of time to photograph the rest of those documents.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Ingrid, and rang off.

René Monjean was eyeing the stacks of newly minted euro banknotes. “How much do you suppose there is?”

“Five or six million.”

“Do you think they would miss a million or two?”

“Probably.”

“Not even tempted?”

No, thought Ingrid. Not in the least.

*  *  *

Shortly before 11:00 p.m., the waiter at La Royale informed Christopher that the establishment would soon be closing. He drank a final coffee, smoked a final cigarette, then settled his bill and was on his way. He rang Gabriel while walking along the deserted pavements of the boulevard.

“Time remaining?” he asked.

“Three hours and fifteen minutes.”

“An eternity.”

“And then some.”

“If I stay on this street any longer, the sûreté will arrest me for loitering.”

“They would be doing the rest of the world a favor.”

“Be that as it may,” said Christopher, “my detention would come as an unpleasant surprise to my superiors in London. It would also leave us with no one in close proximity to our two colleagues.”

“In that case, you should probably find somewhere to spend the next three hours and fourteen minutes.”

Christopher walked down the gentle slope of the hill to the Place du Casino and obtained an outdoor table at Café de Paris, the celebrated Monaco eatery that remained open until 3:00 a.m. For the sake of his not-so-elaborate cover, he ordered pasta with truffles and a bottle of pricey Montrachet, then watched as a million-euro Lamborghini, bright red in color, pulled up outside the ornate entrance of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. The cameras of the assembled paparazzi flashed as the owner of the motorcar, a celebrity Spanish fashion designer, entered the casino with an underfed model on his arm.

The waiter appeared with the Montrachet. Christopher, with nothing but time on his hands, was slow in signaling his approval. When he was alone again, he rang Gabriel with an update on his whereabouts.

“Hanging by a thread, are you?”

“Bored senseless, if you must know. Can I bring you anything?”

“Ingrid and René Monjean.”

The connection died as another seven-figure supercar rolled up outside the entrance of the casino. This time it was a Bugatti. A silver-haired man, a beautiful young girl. Christopher glanced at his watch. Nothing but time.

*  *  *

It was after midnight when Ingrid finally finished photographing all of the physical documents stored in the safe. She returned the files to their original positions, then checked the progress bar on her computer. The original time estimate, as it turned out, had been too pessimistic. The operating software now predicted the data transfer would be complete in one hour and thirty-nine minutes, which would have them out the door by 1:45 a.m. at the latest. As far as Ingrid was concerned, their departure could not come soon enough. She was no stranger to lengthy jobs—her last theft had involved weeks of planning and observation—but the take itself nearly always occurred in the blink of an eye.

René Monjean, who was peering over her shoulder, was growing restless as well. “Is there nothing you can do to make it go faster?” he asked.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

Monjean turned away from the computer and stared at the money.

“You’re not thinking about doing something stupid, are you?”

“Have you ever seen that much money before?”

“Twice.”

“Really? When?”

“My last job. I got five up front and five on delivery.”

“What did you steal?”

“Something I shouldn’t have.”

Monjean closed the door of the safe.

“Wise move, René.”

*  *  *

By 12:45 a.m. Christopher had worn out his welcome at Café de Paris, so he paid his bill and headed across the square toward his last remaining refuge, the Casino de Monte-Carlo. Inside, he handed over the required twenty-euro admission fee and purchased five hundred euros in chips, which he promptly lost at the English roulette table. He purchased another five hundred and dropped most of that playing blackjack. Finally, at half past one in the morning, the dealer presented him with a pair of queens. At the instant Christopher split his hand, his mobile phone pulsed, leaving him no choice but to step away from the table and abandon the last of his money.

“As usual,” he said, “your timing is impeccable.”

“Sorry to put a damper on your evening, but Trevor Robinson just left his apartment.”

“Where is he going?”

“It looks as though he’s headed to the office.”

“At one thirty in the morning?”

“One thirty-two, actually.”

“Does he know they’re inside?”

“If he does, he hasn’t called the sûreté yet.”

Christopher watched the dealer sweep away the last of his chips. “I assume you’ve instructed our friends to vacate the premises.”

“Not surprisingly, Ingrid would like to finish copying the files.”