36 Haute-Corse

36 Haute-Corse

The operational planning commenced a few minutes after eight the following morning when René Monjean, after yet another overnight

crossing from the mainland, guided Mistral into the tiny marina in the resort town of Porto. Gabriel was there to meet him. They put the vessel in order, then climbed

into the car and headed eastward into the mountains.

"What happened to your headlight, Monsieur Allon?"

"Vandalism."

"Corsicans," muttered Monjean disdainfully.

"Imagine how they feel about you Marseillais."

"They can't stand us. But then again, Corsicans can't stand anyone. That's why they're Corsicans." Monjean lit a cigarette

and eyed Gabriel through a cloud of smoke. "You, however, seem to be quite well connected on the island."

"It pays to have friends like Don Orsati in my line of work."

"And what is your game these days?"

"I'm an art conservator. But in my spare time, I help the police solve art-related crimes."

"That's interesting," said Monjean. "In my spare time, I sometimes commit art-related crimes."

"Stolen anything lately, René?"

"That depends on the ground rules of our relationship."

"One hand washes the other and both hands wash the face."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a Corsican proverb. It means that I will use you as a source or an operative, but I will never breathe a word about

you to my friends in the French police. Or any other police force, for that matter. Everything will be entre nous."

"What about money?"

"It doesn't come from singing."

"Another Corsican proverb?"

Gabriel nodded. "I'll pay you whatever you want. Provided, of course, your fee is within reason."

"It would depend on the nature of the job and the value of the target."

"I need you to steal a few documents from a law firm in Monaco."

"How many?"

"Several million."

Monjean laughed. "How am I supposed to carry several million documents out of an office building in Monaco?"

"You're going to copy them off a digital storage device."

"It's not my thing, Monsieur Allon. I steal objects, not data."

"But it's Ingrid's thing."

"The woman from the other night?"

Gabriel nodded. "She's a professional."

"How do we get into the building?"

"Philippe will open the doors remotely. You'll walk in, copy the documents, and walk out again."

"How long will it take?"

"Three or four hours."

"A lot can go wrong in four hours."

"Or four minutes," added Gabriel.

Monjean lapsed into silence.

"Any more questions, René?"

"Just one."

"Fire away."

"How do you know Don Orsati?"

"Someone hired him to kill me a long time ago."

"Why aren't you dead?"

"Luck of the Irish."

"But you're not Irish."

"Figure of speech, René."

"Mind if I ask one more question, Monsieur Allon?"

"If you must."

"What really happened to your headlight?"

***

There was no embarrassing recurrence of the incident that morning, for once again Don Casabianca's obstreperous goat allowed

Gabriel to drive past the three ancient olive trees unmolested. Two of Don Orsati's men were now standing watch outside the

villa at the end of the dirt-and-gravel track. René Monjean dropped his duffel bag in the entrance hall and went into the

sitting room. His sharp eye was caught by the Monet landscape hanging on the wall.

"Is it real?" he asked Gabriel.

"You tell me."

The art thief leaned in for a closer look. "It's definitely real."

"Not bad, René."

"I have no formal training, but I've managed to develop a pretty good eye for paintings."

"I would advise you to forget that you ever saw that one."

"The owner is a friend of Don Orsati?"

"You might say that."

They went into the kitchen, where Ingrid and Lambert were staring at laptops. Gabriel once again saw to the introductions,

but this time they left nothing to the imagination. Ingrid rose to her feet in order to properly shake Monjean's hand, or

so she made it appear. The art thief regarded her warily.

"Monsieur Allon assures me that you're a professional."

"He says the same about you. In fact, he says there's no one better than René Monjean."

"He's right about that."

"I think you'll find that I'm rather good myself."

"We'll see."

Ingrid returned the mobile phone she had plucked from Monjean's pocket. "We will indeed."

***

With a total area of just two square kilometers, the Principality of Monaco was the world's second-smallest sovereign country,

larger only than Vatican City. Its primary attractions were its historic cathedral, its aquarium and exotic gardens, and,

of course, the Casino de Monte-Carlo. Some thirty-eight thousand people lived in the city-state, but fewer than ten thousand

were Monégasque citizens. They were protected by a highly professional security force numbering 515 officers, which meant

that tiny Monaco had the largest per capita police presence anywhere on earth.

The boulevard des Moulins stretched for just five hundred meters through the heart of the principality and was lined with elegant, butter-colored apartment buildings where sixty thousand euros would buy exactly one square meter of real estate. Harris Weber & Company occupied two floors of the commercial building located at Number 41. On the ground floor was a hair salon—exclusive, of course—and a branch of Société Banque de Monaco. Directly opposite was a café called La Royale.

"It's the perfect place to kill a few minutes while you're getting to know the neighborhood," said Lambert. "But don't worry,

the lawyers of Harris Weber would never dream of setting foot there."

The other tenants of 41 boulevard des Moulins, he continued, were medical professionals, accountants, financial advisers,

and architects. Visitors were admitted remotely by the tenants' receptionists, but those who worked in the building unlocked

the street entrance with their personal cardkeys. The same keys operated the lift, with access to floors carefully restricted.

Harris Weber's lobby and reception area were on the fourth floor, but the offices of the founding partners and senior associates

were upstairs on the fifth.

"Along with Trevor Robinson's," added Lambert.

"What about the file room?" asked Gabriel.

"It's down on four."

Lambert was logged on to the system. He tapped a few keys on his laptop, and a shot of the file room appeared on his screen,

courtesy of Harris Weber's internal security cameras. An attractive young woman was at that moment crouched next to the open

drawer of a metal filing cabinet.

"Mademoiselle Dubois. She's one of the secretaries. Anyone in the firm can access the paper files stored in those cabinets,

but access to the secure room is strictly limited." Lambert pointed out a vaguely out-of-focus doorway on the left side of

the shot. "The lock is numeric and biometric, but I can override it."

"Is there a surveillance camera in that room?"

"Yes, of course. Trevor Robinson trusts no one."

Lambert worked the keys on his laptop, and a small windowless room appeared on his screen. It contained a table, a swivel

chair, a desktop computer, a printer, and a double-doored executive safe.

"The computer is air-gapped," Lambert continued. "If one of the senior lawyers needs to review sensitive attorney-client documents,

he removes the storage device from the safe and attaches it to the desktop. If he needs to print the documents, he keeps them

only as long as necessary. Trevor Robinson handles the shredding personally. If he had his druthers, he'd burn the documents

instead. It's just like an intelligence service."

Gabriel pointed out the electronic lock on the safe. "I don't suppose you know the combination."

"I'm afraid not. Whenever someone punches in the passcode, they block the view of the camera, which is by design. Trevor Robinson

changes it every few weeks, much to the chagrin of Herr Weber, who has a dreadful memory."

Ingrid had a closer look at the lock.

"Recognize it?" asked Gabriel.

She nodded. "It's American made, secure but vulnerable. Like many electronic locks, the internal actuator can be manipulated

from outside the safe with a magnet."

"How powerful does it need to be?"

"A forty-by-twenty-millimeter rare-earth magnet should do the trick. Professional locksmiths call them hockey pucks. They're

referred to as permanent magnets because they're so strong. And quite dangerous." She glanced at Monjean. "Isn't that right,

René?"

He nodded knowingly. "A colleague crushed a finger using one of those things."

"I hope it was worth it," said Gabriel.

"A blue-and-white Tianqiuping vase." Monjean smiled. "It fetched two million on the black market."

"Any other options?" asked Gabriel.

"A computerized automatic dialer," said Ingrid. "You attach it to the lock and let it run the numbers until it stumbles on

the correct combination."

"How long will it take?"

"Hard to say. Could be twelve minutes or twelve hours."

"Can you lay your hands on one on short notice?"

"My friend in Grasse will sell me one, I'm sure."

"Monsieur Giroux?" asked Monjean.

Ingrid frowned. "Perhaps Philippe should give us a guided tour of the entire office."

It began in the fourth-floor reception area, with its stylish furnishings and artwork to match, and concluded in the fifth-floor

conference room, where Ian Harris and Konrad Weber were at that moment meeting with a slick-looking creature with a chemically

enhanced face and a price-available-upon-request suit. There was no audio, only video. The cameras, said Lambert, were concealed.

"How late do they work at night?" asked Gabriel.

"The firm's office hours are ten to six, but one of the young associates always stays until nine."

"Close of business in the British Virgin Islands?"

Lambert nodded.

"And the rest of the building?"

"It's dead by then. As soon as the last lawyer leaves for the night, Ingrid and René will have the place to themselves. I'll

let them into the building and let them out again when it's time to leave."

"How's the Internet here?"

"Rock-solid and surprisingly fast. Your friend has an excellent network."

Gabriel turned to Monjean. "Escape route?"

"The French border is fifty meters to the west of the building, but my preference would be to leave by boat."

"Can you reserve a berth in the port?"

"At this time of year?" Monjean shrugged to indicate it would not be a problem. "You can spend the evening listening to my

new audio system while Ingrid and I steal the documents. And then we'll all take a nice midnight cruise together to celebrate."

Gabriel made to reply but stopped when he heard the sound of a car drawing up outside in the forecourt. The driver greeted

Don Orsati's security men in fluent corsu and then let himself into the villa. He wore a charcoal-gray suit by Richard Anderson of Savile Row, an open-neck white dress

shirt, and handmade oxford shoes. His hair was sun-bleached, his skin was taut and dark, his eyes were bright blue. The notch

in the center of his thick chin looked as though it had been cleaved with a chisel. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in

an ironic half-smile.

"Well, well," he said. "Isn't this jolly."