“You’re not.”
“Have a card, by any chance?”
Robinson reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed one over. Christopher scrutinized it at considerable length by the yellow light of a streetlamp.
“I have a client who requires a firm with your particular expertise.”
“We’d be happy to be of assistance, if we can.”
“I’d love to discuss it further. Is there any chance you’re free for a drink tomorrow?”
“I’m not, actually.”
“Next time I’m in town?”
“By all means.” Robinson turned to leave, then hesitated. “Tell me something, Mr. Marlowe. What was the name of your client who introduced us?”
“I believe it was George Anderson.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”
“Could’ve been Martin Elliott,” suggested Christopher.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Robinson, and set off down the boulevard. Christopher waited until he had disappeared from view, then descended the steps to the Avenue de Grande Bretagne. He was relieved to find Ingrid and René Monjean waiting for him in the Place du Casino.
“I hope it was worth it,” he said.
“It was,” replied Ingrid.
“All of it?”
She smiled. “Every last byte.”
They headed down the Avenue de Monte-Carlo to the port and boarded Mistral. René quickly untied the lines and clambered up the ladder to the flybridge. Ingrid and Christopher went into the galley and found Gabriel staring at his laptop.
“Where’s Trevor?” asked Christopher.
“A few minutes ago he made a call from the landline phone in his office. I wasn’t able to monitor his end of the conversation because for some reason he switched off his mobile.”
“And now?”
“He’s standing in front of the safe.”
“Doing what?”
“Filling an attaché case with cash.” Gabriel looked up at Ingrid. “Do you have something for me?”
Smiling, she surrendered the external hard drive. Gabriel connected the device to his laptop and a single folder appeared on his screen. Inside the folder were thousands more, each bearing the name of a client. Moguls and monarchs, kleptocrats and criminals. The richest of the rich, the worst of the worst.
“Oh dear,” said Gabriel. “This is going to be ugly.”
Part Three
The Contest
43
Queen’s Gate Terrace
Ingrid made a backup copy of Harris Weber’s files during the overnight voyage from Monaco to Marseilles. She gave one to Gabriel and entrusted the other to Christopher. Together they boarded a midday train to Paris, then caught the 4:10 Eurostar to London. A taxi delivered them to a tony address in Kensington.
“Where are we?” asked Ingrid.
“Home,” replied Christopher.
“How lovely.”
“Wait until you get a look at his wife,” remarked Gabriel.
She was mixing a martini for herself in the kitchen, an attractive woman, stylishly attired, with wide blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. She kissed Christopher and greeted Gabriel with obvious affection. Their attractive female traveling companion she regarded with suspicion.
“I’m Sarah,” she said at length. “And who might you be?”
“I might be Ingrid.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Sarah smiled coolly and turned to Gabriel. “Mind telling me where you boys have been?”
“Monaco.”
