“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.”
“And you, of course, told her to leave immediately.”
“To no avail.”
Christopher set off across the gaming floor toward the exit. “Time remaining?”
“Thirteen minutes.”
“Where is he?”
“Headed west on the boulevard d’Italie.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Improvise.”
42
Boulevard d’Italie
Christopher waited until he had reached the Avenue de Grande Bretagne before breaking into a run. He headed east, past slumbering apartment houses, then scaled a flight of steps that delivered him to the boulevard d’Italie. At half past one in the morning, it was deserted save for a single pedestrian, a fit-looking specimen with gray-blond hair, marching in a westerly direction at a determined clip. Christopher bade the man a pleasant evening in French as they passed one another on the darkened pavement. Then he stopped in his tracks and in English called out, “Excuse me, but by any chance are you Trevor Robinson?”
Robinson walked a few more paces before stopping and turning around. A retired intelligence officer who knew all the tricks, he regarded Christopher with suspicion.
“I am, actually,” he said at last. “And who might you be?”
“Peter Marlowe’s the name. We met about a hundred years ago in the bar of the Connaught. Or perhaps it was the Dorchester. I was with a client at the time, and he was good enough to introduce us.” Christopher thrust out a hand and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Fancy meeting you here, of all places.”
* * *
Approximately three hundred meters separated the offices of Harris Weber & Company from the spot where the firm’s director of security stood chatting with a man who claimed to be a business consultant called Peter Marlowe. A pedestrian moving at a normal pace could be expected to cover the distance in three and a half minutes, less if he was in a rush. Which meant that Gabriel, in his makeshift op center aboard Mistral, had little margin for error.
He checked the shot from the surveillance camera and saw Ingrid hunched over her laptop. “Time remaining?”
“Five minutes,” she answered.
“There’s no way Christopher can keep him occupied for that long.”
“I’m sure he’ll think of something. He strikes me as the resourceful type.”
A moment passed.
“Time remaining?” inquired Gabriel.
“Four minutes and seven seconds. But who’s counting?”
“I am.”
“Rest assured,” said Ingrid, “so am I.”
* * *
He claimed that he was an independent wealth manager who had come to Monaco to meet with a client, a fabulously rich British expat who dwelled in the Odeon Tower, the principality’s tallest building. Professional discretion did not allow him to identify the client, and Trevor Robinson, who was clearly anxious to be on his way, did not pursue the matter.
“Forgive me,” said Christopher, hoping to prolong the encounter a moment or two longer, “but I can’t seem to recall the name of your firm.”
“Harris Weber & Company.”
“Yes, of course. Offshore financial services, if I’m not mistaken.”
