“You’re asking me to explain the inexplicable.”
“She knows about our plans for tomorrow night, by the way. My God, she even knows the code for the bloody safe.”
“I guess we won’t need that rare-earth magnet and automatic dialer, after all.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Probably,” agreed Gabriel. “But she’s never wrong.”
A blast of wind rattled the French doors. “Maybe we should wait another day,” said Ingrid.
“The rain is forecast to end around eight o’clock. By midnight the skies will be clear.”
“What about the sea state?”
“Two to three.”
“Is that all?” Ingrid peered into the kitchen. Philippe Lambert was monitoring the late-afternoon activity at Harris Weber, and René Monjean was watching a football match on the television. “Where’s your friend?”
“Climbing the highest mountain on Corsica.”
“In weather like this?”
“It amuses him.”
“It’s funny,” said Ingrid, “but he doesn’t look like a business consultant to me.”
“That’s because he isn’t one.”
“Is he coming with us to Monaco?”
“He says not.”
“What a shame.” Ingrid watched the rain in silence for a moment. “There was a young girl in the village. The one who brought me the note from the signadora.”
“Danielle?”
“How did you know?”
“We’ve met,” said Gabriel.
“Do you remember what she looks like?”
“The last time I saw her, she bore a shocking resemblance to my daughter.”
“Really? But tell me something, Mr. Allon. What does your daughter look like?”
* * *
They spent the remainder of the afternoon working their way through the documents that Philippe Lambert had stolen from his former employer. In all, Harris Weber & Company had given birth to more than twenty-five thousand anonymous offshore shell corporations. Most had been created at the behest of wealth managers or the private banking divisions of major financial services firms. Harris Weber used code names to conceal the identities of its partners, all of whom received enormous finders’ fees and kickbacks in return for their business. Its largest customers were called Bluebird and Heron, which Lambert believed were probably Credit Suisse and Société Générale. A company designated Nightingale had asked Harris Weber to create and manage more than five thousand shell companies. Lambert suspected the firm was British.
Missing from the data were the names of the superrich individuals behind the anonymous companies, the so-called beneficial owners. Those could be found in the safe at Harris Weber’s office in Monaco. Konrad Weber opened it at half past five that afternoon and, after attaching the offline storage device to the air-gapped computer, printed several documents. He placed them in his attaché case, then returned the storage device to the safe and locked the door.
The Swiss lawyer left the office, as usual, at the stroke of six o’clock. Ian Harris was gone by six fifteen, as were most of the senior associates and secretarial staff, but Trevor Robinson hung around until nearly seven. Lambert recorded the security chief’s departure, including the thirty seconds he spent waiting for the lift. The surveillance camera in the foyer was to Robinson’s left—his good side, thought Gabriel. With his square jaw and ample head of gray-blond hair, he looked considerably younger than his sixty-four years. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest he had orchestrated the murder of three people to protect his firm and its clients. But then Gabriel had expected nothing less. A retired MI5 counterintelligence officer, Trevor Robinson was a liar and deceiver by trade.
By all appearances, however, Robinson was oblivious to the fact that his mobile phone was now infected with the Israeli malware known as Proteus. It allowed Gabriel and Lambert to listen in on two calls that Robinson placed during the short walk from the firm’s office to his apartment on the Avenue Princesse Grace. The first call was to an ex-wife in London named Ruth. The second was to their son, Alistair, who dispatched his father to voicemail. Robinson left a curt message—it expressed neither love nor affection—and cut the connection.
He received an incoming call at 9:05 p.m. while standing on his balcony overlooking the Plage du Larvotto, Monaco’s artificial beach. It was Brendan Taylor, the young associate who had drawn the short straw and was working late. Taylor informed Robinson that the Road Town office was now closed and that he was leaving for the night. Robinson asked Taylor whether the door to the file room was securely locked, and Taylor replied that it was. Then he switched off the lights and boarded the elevator. It was 9:10 p.m.
By then the wind was howling through the mountain valleys of northwestern Corsica and clawing at the tiles of Christopher’s roof. Of Christopher himself, however, there was still no sign. Gabriel placed several calls to his mobile phone, but there was no answer. A text message received no reply.
“Perhaps we should ring the signadora,” suggested Ingrid. “I’m sure she can locate him.”
“The signadora doesn’t have a phone.”
“How silly of me. But we have to tell someone that he’s missing.”
“Christopher is a world-class mountaineer and quite indestructible. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Ingrid went up to her room to shower and change and pack her bag. When she returned, Gabriel offered her a scopolamine patch. “Put it on now. You’ll thank me later.”
She adhered the patch behind her left ear and swallowed two tablets for good measure. Then she checked the time. It was ten fifteen.
“We’ll give him until ten thirty,” said Gabriel.
They waited until 10:45 instead. Gabriel placed a final call to Christopher before pulling on his coat. Then he looked at Lambert and said, “Whatever you do, don’t try to leave this villa. Otherwise, those two men outside will shoot you and bury you at sea in a concrete coffin.”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Allon. I’m not going anywhere.”
