32 Marseilles

32 Marseilles

Gabriel returned to the Autoroute and once again headed west. As they were approaching Marseilles, the dead man's phone shivered

with an incoming text message. Ingrid looked down at the screen.

"He wants to know whether the flowers have been delivered."

"That would explain the HK nine-millimeter."

"You should have left it at the scene."

"I took it for safety reasons only."

"Whose?"

"Mine, of course. Only a fool would come to Marseilles without a gun."

They plunged into the Prado-Carénage Tunnel and emerged a moment later at the bustling port. It was much larger than its counterpart

in Cannes and had a well-deserved reputation for criminality, which was the reason Gabriel had come there. He slid the car

into an illegal parking space on the Quai de Rive Neuve and turned to face Philippe Lambert.

"I need some cash."

"For what?"

Gabriel indicated the fishmongers plying their trade in the esplanade on the port's eastern flank. "A thousand should do."

"For fish?" The Frenchman removed a bundle of twenty-euro banknotes from his suitcase and handed it over. "It had better be

the finest fish in all of France, Monsieur Allon."

"Trust me, Philippe. You won't be disappointed."

Ingrid watched as Gabriel climbed out of the car and walked over to one of the fishmongers, a gray-haired man in a tattered

wool sweater and a rubber apron. A brief conversation ensued and the money changed hands. Then Gabriel returned to the car

and dropped behind the wheel.

"Who is that man?" asked Ingrid.

"His name is Pascal Rameau."

"Is he an actual fisherman?"

"Yes, of course. But he has other business interests as well, all of them criminal in nature."

"Such as?"

"Theft, for one. With all due respect, Pascal and his crew are without question the finest thieves in Europe. They pulled

a couple of jobs for me back in the day."

"Why did you just give him a thousand euros?"

"Transport."

Rameau was now holding a phone to his ear. He caught Gabriel's eye and pointed to a spot along the quay. Gabriel hit the trunk

release and opened his door.

"What about the car?" asked Ingrid.

"One of Pascal's men will drop it at Hertz."

"How thoughtful of him."

Luggage in hand, they set off along the quay. Gabriel purchased a dozen sandwiches at a boulangerie, then ducked into the pharmacy next door for scopolamine patches and tablets.

"I don't suffer from seasickness," protested Ingrid.

"You will if the seas are running two to three meters."

"What about you?"

"I never get seasick."

He led Ingrid and Lambert across the street and onto a jetty stretching toward the center of the harbor. Near the end of the

dock was a twelve-meter motor yacht called Mistral . The owner of the vessel, a man named René Monjean, was standing on the afterdeck in a Helly Hansen offshore jacket.

"Long time, no see, Monsieur Allon." He shook Gabriel's hand warmly. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Someone is trying to kill my friend. I need to get him off the mainland as quietly as possible."

Monjean smiled. "You've come to the right place."

Gabriel made the introductions, first names only, then asked about the marine forecast.

"The wind is starting to blow," said Monjean. "But it shouldn't be too bad. I'll have you there in ten hours, twelve at the

most."

"Twelve hours?" asked Lambert. "Where are you taking me?"

"Libya," said Gabriel, and went into the boat's small but comfortable salon.

Monjean gave them a quick briefing. "There's a head down below and two berths." He tapped the stainless-steel door of the

fridge. "And plenty of beer and wine."

With that, Monjean headed up to the flybridge. As the boat eased away from the jetty, Gabriel offered Ingrid the scopolamine.

She opened the fridge instead and pried the cap from a bottle of Kronenbourg.

"What sort of jobs did Pascal Rameau do for you back in the day?"

"The kind I couldn't do for myself."

"Did our captain take part in these robberies?"

"Absolutely. There's nobody better than René Monjean."

"Has he ever pulled a heist in Moscow?" Ingrid drank her beer and smiled. "I didn't think so."

***

Monjean rounded ?le Pomègues, the largest of the four islands at the entrance of the Port of Marseilles, and made for Planier

Light. There he turned to the southeast and brought their speed up to a comfortable twenty-five knots. The wind was steady

from the north, the seas were moderate. Gabriel and Ingrid drank Kronenbourg on the afterdeck and watched the setting sun

while Lambert chain-smoked Winstons. Three times he asked Gabriel to reveal their destination, only to receive three different

replies. Gabriel in turn pressed Lambert for additional information on the man he had referred to as Monsieur Robinson. Lambert,

cupping his hand over the flame of a plastic lighter, revealed that Robinson's first name was Trevor and that he was the head

of security at a small law firm with offices in Monaco and the British Virgin Islands.

"Firm have a name?"

"Not yet, Monsieur Allon."

By half past eight the last light of sunset was gone, and a three-quarter moon shone like a torch in the cloudless sky. The

wind picked up, the air turned colder, the swells exceeded a meter in height. Ingrid went into the salon and reluctantly swallowed

a dose of the scopolamine and adhered a patch to the side of her neck. Then she unwrapped the sandwiches that Gabriel had

bought in Marseilles and pulled the cork from a bottle of rosé.

"Dinner is served," she called out, and Gabriel and Lambert came in from the afterdeck. René Monjean switched on the Garmin autopilot and the AIS collision alarm and joined them in the galley. The unlikely circumstances of the gathering made serious conversation impossible, so they engaged in polite small talk and listened to Melody Gardot on Monjean's onboard audio system. It was a recent acquisition, he explained, part of a major overhaul of Mistral he had carried out that winter. He said nothing as to how he had financed the project, and Gabriel, who was certain he knew

the answer, didn't ask. René Monjean wasn't terribly particular about what he stole, but he specialized in the illicit acquisition

of paintings.

By ten thirty he was back at the controls in the main helm station with a thermos of strong coffee to get him through the

night. Ingrid and Lambert took the berths, and Gabriel stretched out on the convertible bed in the salon. Exhausted, he slept

until seven. He found René Monjean up on the flybridge in the cold morning air.

" Bonjour , Monsieur Allon." Monjean pointed out a rocky island about two kilometers off the prow. "?le de Mezzu Mare. You and your

friends will be on solid ground in about a half hour."

Gabriel went down to the galley. Ingrid, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, emerged from belowdecks. She sat down

at the table and rubbed her eyes.

"For some reason, they hurt like hell."

"It's a side effect of the scopolamine."

"How much longer do you intend to make me stay on this boat?"

"A few more minutes."

"And then?"

"A scenic drive through the mountains."

"Wonderful." Ingrid drank some of the coffee. "Is it my imagination, or do I smell rosemary and lavender?"

"I'm sure it's only the scopolamine."

Ingrid took up the packet and read the warning label. "Eyelid irritation, headache, feelings of restlessness, and problems with memory. But nothing at all about rosemary and lavender."

***

The bustling port into which René Monjean expertly guided Mistral was Ajaccio, birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and capital of the occasionally restive French island of Corsica. Ingrid and

Lambert had breakfast in a café near the ferry terminal while Gabriel saw to the rental car. By nine fifteen they were speeding

along the island's rugged western coastline. Lambert, stretched sideways across the back seat, watched the waves rolling across

the picturesque Golfu di Liscia.

"Much better than Libya, Monsieur Allon. But where exactly are you taking me?"

"A village in Haute-Corse. It's near Monte Cinto." Gabriel glanced at Ingrid and added, "The highest mountain in Corsica."

"Exactly what I was hoping to hear."

Gabriel followed the coast road to the seaside resort of Porto, then headed inland and began the long climb into the mountains.

Ingrid lowered her window, and the pungent scent of rosemary and lavender filled the car.

"I knew it wasn't my imagination," she said.

"Macchia," explained Gabriel. "It's a dense undergrowth that covers most of the island's interior. When the wind is right,

you can smell it out at sea."

They passed through the towns of Chidazzu and Marignana and évisa, then crossed the border into Haute-Corse. In the next village

a young girl pointed at Ingrid with the first and fourth fingers of her right hand.

"Why did she do that?"

"She was afraid you might give her the occhju . The evil eye."

"Surely they don't believe that nonsense."

"Corsicans are superstitious by nature. They live in fear of contracting the evil eye, especially from blond-haired strangers

like you."

"And if they do?"

"They have to go to the signadora ."

"Well," said Ingrid. "I'm glad we cleared that up."

Beyond the village, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island's finest oil, was a walled estate. The two

men standing guard at the entrance were well armed. Gabriel gave them a friendly tap of the horn, and the men touched the

brims of their traditional birretta caps in reply.

"Who lives there?" asked Ingrid.

"The man who will make certain that nothing happens to Philippe."

The road climbed a steep hill and spilled into the next valley, and soon it was little more than a dirt-and-gravel track.

Gabriel nevertheless increased his speed.

Ingrid shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. "Is someone following us again?"

"No," replied Gabriel. "The danger lies ahead."

"Where?"

Just then a horned domestic goat, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, rose from its resting place beneath the

twisted limbs of three ancient olive trees and took up a defensive position in the center of the track.

"There," said Gabriel, and applied the brakes.

The enmity in the beast's deportment was obvious at once. Even Ingrid, who was new to the island, could see that something was amiss. She looked to Gabriel for an explanation. His voice, when at last he spoke, was heavy with despair.

"The goat belongs to Don Casabianca."

"And?"

"We've had our disagreements in the past."

"You and Don Casabianca?"

"No."

"Not the goat?" asked Ingrid.

Gabriel nodded gravely.

"Were you unkind to him?"

"Other way around."

"You must have done some thing to upset him."

"It's possible I insulted him once, but he had it coming."

"Honk the horn," said Ingrid. "I'm sure he'll move out of the way."

"Trust me, it will only make matters worse."

She reached across the front seat and sounded the horn. The goat, incensed, lowered its head and delivered four piledriver

blows to the front end of the car. The last shattered glass.

"I warned you," said Gabriel.

"What now?"

"One of us has to have a word with him."

Ingrid raised a hand toward the windscreen. "Be my guest."

"If I set foot outside this car, it will be a fight to the death."

"What about Philippe?"

"Impossible. The goat is Corsican. He loathes the French."

Ingrid opened her door and placed a foot on the dusty track. "Any advice?"

"Whatever you do, don't look him directly in the eye. He has the occhju ."

Ingrid, incredulous, climbed out of the car and addressed the goat in Danish. Gabriel, of course, had no idea what she was saying, but the goat appeared to hang on her every word. At the conclusion of her remarks, the creature cast a malevolent final glance at Gabriel, then retreated into the macchia.

Ingrid settled into the passenger seat with a smile and closed the door. Gabriel pushed the throttle to the floor and sped

away before the goat had a chance to change his mind.

"What did you say to him?"

"I assured him that you were sorry for hurting his feelings. I also implied that you would take steps to atone for your conduct."

Gabriel, seething, drove in silence for a moment. "Did he apologize for attacking the car?"

"I didn't raise it."

"How bad is the damage?"

"Bad," she answered.

Gabriel glanced at Lambert over his shoulder. "I'm going to need another thousand euros."