31 Rue d’Antibes

31 Rue d'Antibes

Ingrid was waiting on the landing outside the hacker's apartment. On Gabriel's signal, she unlocked the door with her bump

key and screwdriver. Then she stepped aside and gave the hacker a beguiling smile.

" Après vous ."

The hacker looked to Gabriel for an explanation and, receiving only a blank stare, went hesitantly into the darkened entrance

hall. Ingrid silenced the bleating alarm by entering the disarm code into the control panel. Gabriel closed the door and switched

on the lights.

The display had its intended effect. The hacker looked at Gabriel and asked, "Who are you?"

"You may refer to me as Monsieur Klemp."

"You're German?"

"When the mood strikes me."

The hacker's gaze shifted to Ingrid. "And her?"

"My associate."

"Does she have a name?"

"I'm more interested in yours," replied Gabriel.

"I told you, it's Philippe."

"Philippe what?"

"Lambert."

"Are you carrying a weapon, Philippe Lambert?"

" Non ."

Gabriel pushed the hacker face-first against the wall and subjected him to a thorough search. He found nothing but a second

phone and a billfold. The driver's permit and credit cards all bore the name Philippe Lambert.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

Gabriel handed over the billfold. "What sort of work do you do, Philippe?"

"Digital marketing and advertising. I'm a freelance consultant."

"That would explain why a man on a motorcycle was about to kill you."

"He must have mistaken me for someone else." Lambert paused, then added, "As have you, Monsieur Klemp."

"I think you hacked the Geneva Freeport a few days ago. In fact, my associate is quite certain that you were the one who did

the job."

"Your associate doesn't know what she's talking about."

"She traced the source of the hack to your IP address. She also had a look at your computers while you were out this morning.

She can show you the photos, if you like."

Lambert managed to smile. "Breaking and entering is a crime in France, Monsieur Klemp."

"So is computer hacking and digital theft."

"Are you a police officer?"

"Fortunately for you, I'm not." Gabriel attempted to slip past Lambert, but the hacker blocked his path. "I would advise you,

Philippe, to choose another course of action."

"Or what?"

"My associate and I will leave, and the man on the motorcycle will kill you the next time you set foot outside this apartment."

Gabriel went into the sitting room and deliberately surveyed his surroundings. "I really love what you've done with the place.

Did you hire a decorator, or did you do this yourself?"

"I don't live in the physical world." Lambert pointed to the computers and monitors arrayed on the trestle table. "I live

in that one. It's a perfect world. No disease or wars, no floods or famines. Just ones and zeros." He looked at Ingrid and

asked, "Isn't that right?"

She walked over to the trestle table and raised the volume on one of the laptops. The same two men were conversing in British-accented

English.

"Macedonian malware," said Lambert. "Cheap but quite effective."

"Who are they?"

"I cannot answer that question, Monsieur Klemp. Not unless you tell me who you really are."

Gabriel exchanged a look with Ingrid, and she sat down at Lambert's computers. A few seconds later Gabriel's image appeared

on three of the large monitors. The hacker did not seem terribly surprised by the revelation. In fact, he appeared relieved.

"What are you doing in Cannes, Monsieur Allon?"

"I want to know who hired you to hack the Geneva Freeport."

"And if I tell you?"

"I will intercede with the relevant authorities on your behalf."

"What I need, Monsieur Allon, is your protection from the man on the motorcycle."

"Who sent him?"

Lambert pointed toward the laptop. "They did."

***

Lambert's possessions, such as they were, were already crammed into an overnight bag. A couple of changes of clothing, toiletries,

a passport, several thousand euros in cash. He added the phones, the laptops, four external hard drives, and the steno pad.

The two Lenovo desktops he wiped clean.

Gabriel kept watch at the window, phone in hand, Ingrid's voice in his ear. She was across the street at the hotel, hastily

clearing out their rooms. Shortly before eleven she rang the clerk at the front desk and informed him that she and her Canadian

colleague would be checking out earlier than anticipated. The clerk dispatched a bellman to collect their luggage. The valet

fetched their rental car.

Ten minutes later it was waiting in the rue d'Antibes, engine running, luggage in the trunk.

Gabriel looked at Lambert and said, "Let's go."

They headed down the stairs to the foyer. Gabriel opened the door and peered into the street. Ingrid, having settled the bill,

was waiting at the entrance of the hotel.

"Shall we?" she asked.

They all three stepped into the rue d'Antibes at the same instant and climbed into the waiting car—Lambert in back, Ingrid

in the passenger seat, Gabriel behind the wheel. He waited until the car was rolling before closing his door. Ingrid removed

the Bose Ultras from her ears and took a long look over her shoulder.

"No sign of him."

"For the moment," said Gabriel, and headed for the Vieux Port. They shot past La Pizza Cresci in a blur, then raced westward

along the crescent of golden sand rimming the Baie de Cannes. Gabriel glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a motorcyclist

following about fifty meters behind them.

"You were saying," he remarked.

Ingrid turned to have a look for herself. "Could be a different motorcyclist."

"It isn't," said Gabriel. "Same motorcyclist."

***

During the short drive to the Autoroute, Gabriel performed a series of time-tested maneuvers designed to expose vehicle-borne

surveillance, just to make certain there were no misunderstandings. The man on the motorcycle matched him turn for turn.

"Doesn't that idiot know who I am?"

"Perhaps he's heard about this new leaf of yours."

"Rest assured, it's now old and dry and lying on the ground."

"Do you have a gun, by any chance?"

"It's possible I forgot to pack one."

Gabriel followed the westbound ramp onto the Autoroute and pressed the throttle to the floor. Soon they were sailing along

at 150 kilometers per hour with the man on the motorcycle in close pursuit.

"What do you suppose he's planning to do?" asked Ingrid.

"If we're lucky, he'll shoot Philippe and leave us in peace."

"And if we're not?"

"He'll kill us all." Gabriel met Lambert's anxious gaze in the rearview mirror. "Which is why I have no choice but to encourage

him to shoot Philippe."

They continued west for another forty kilometers across a rugged Proven?al landscape dotted with umbrella pine. Then, at the

village of Le Muy, Gabriel turned onto the D25 and headed south toward Saint-Tropez. The road was nearly empty of traffic.

"What on earth is he waiting for?" asked Ingrid.

"If I had to guess, he's hoping I'll make a mistake."

"Like what?"

"This," said Gabriel, and swerved onto the D44. It was a narrow, treacherous road that snaked its way through the sparsely

inhabited hills north of Saint-Tropez. There was no centerline on the tarmac, and no verge or guardrails. On the right side

of the road rose a rocky and unstable ridge. A deep ravine fell away to the left.

Gabriel drove dangerously fast, his grip light upon the wheel, his foot never once touching the brake. Ingrid and Lambert

kept watch on the man on the motorcycle. He had no trouble matching Gabriel's speed.

They flashed past a hotel and the entrance of a winery, then scaled the slope of a hill and raced along the rim of a small

valley of vineyards and olive groves. The bike accelerated and closed to within thirty meters of the car's rear bumper.

"It looks as though he's making his move," said Ingrid.

Gabriel glanced into the rearview. For the moment, at least, the assassin had both hands on the controls. "It's not so easily

done, you know."

"What's that?"

"Firing a handgun while driving a motorcycle at an excessive rate of speed."

"Ever tried it?"

"The assassin never does the driving. Only the shooting."

"Office doctrine?"

"Absolutely."

"And what does it say about a situation like this?"

"Tell me the instant he reaches his right hand into the front of his jacket."

"Now!" shouted Ingrid.

Gabriel slammed on the brakes and expertly sent the car into a 180-degree spin. The man on the motorcycle managed to avoid a collision only by veering to the left. Airborne, he plunged into the valley below.

Gabriel eased the car into park and looked at Ingrid. "He must not have noticed my turn signal."

"Perhaps you should check on him."

Gabriel climbed out of the car and clambered down the slope of the steep hill. The mangled bike was lying in a coppice of

oak trees along with a Heckler & Koch VP9 tactical pistol. Gabriel slid the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, then

walked over to the assassin. His shattered body had come to rest in the shade of an olive tree. There were, thought Gabriel,

worse places to die.

He removed the dead man's helmet. The now-lifeless face was instantly familiar. So was the name on the German passport that

Gabriel found in his jacket pocket. His phone was of the disposable variety. It showed several missed calls, all from the

same number.

Gabriel tossed the dead man's helmet into a tangle of brush and hurried up the slope of the hill to the car. A moment later

he was speeding in the opposite direction on the D44. He gave the phone to Ingrid and the passport to Lambert.

"Do you recognize him?"

" Oui ."

"Is Klaus Müller his real name?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What do you know, Philippe?"

"He occasionally works for Monsieur Robinson."

"Who's Robinson?"

Lambert returned the passport. "Take me somewhere he can't find me, Monsieur Allon. Then I'll tell you everything."