40 Monaco

40 Monaco

A bit nicer than Marseilles, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur Allon?"

"Actually, René, I've always had a soft spot for your hometown."

"Too many criminals," replied Monjean.

"I have a soft spot for them, too."

They were approaching the entrance of Port Hercule, the larger of Monaco's two harbors. The luxury apartment buildings lining

the waterfront sparkled in the bright morning sunlight. A monstrous superyacht, perhaps a hundred meters in length, loomed

over one of the quays.

Gabriel quickly searched the vessel's name online. "It's owned by a member of the Qatari royal family."

"What does he do for all that money?"

"As little as possible, I imagine."

A harbormaster in a whaler-type craft directed them to their berth. It was along a noisy quay lined with shops and restaurants.

Gabriel connected his laptop to Mistral 's satellite Wi-Fi network, then rang Philippe Lambert in Corsica. Lambert was awake and monitoring Harris Weber's internal

surveillance cameras. At half past eight the office was still deserted.

Gabriel raised the volume on the audio feed from Trevor Robinson's mobile phone and brewed a pot of coffee in the galley. Ingrid carried a cup belowdecks, where she hosed herself down in the cramped marine shower before changing into her dark pantsuit. René Monjean emerged from the owner's berth dressed in jeans and a black pullover. Upstairs in the salon, Gabriel advised the French thief to do a bit of shopping while he was getting to know the neighborhood around Harris Weber's office.

"The stores in Monaco are the most expensive in the world," Monjean protested.

"Which means you're sure to find something appropriate to wear to this evening's festivities."

Monjean and Ingrid left Mistral at nine fifteen and set off along the quay. Gabriel went onto the forward deck and found Christopher lying shirtless on a

cushion, beer in hand.

"It's a bit early in the day for that, isn't it?"

"I'm on holiday on my friend's motor yacht in Monaco. The midmorning carbonated beverage is simply part of my elaborate cover."

"Might I trouble you to run a small errand for me on the French side of the border?"

Christopher sighed. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'd like you to collect a parcel from a certain Monsieur Giroux. He'll be waiting outside the tennis club in Cap-d'Ail."

"Why can't Monsieur Giroux bring the parcel here?"

"Because it contains a computerized automatic combination dialer and a forty-by-twenty-millimeter rare-earth magnet."

"In that case, perhaps you should handle it, old sport." Christopher closed his eyes. "Those rare-earth magnets are bloody

dangerous."

***

Ingrid paused beneath the white awning of the Gucci boutique on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo. "Perhaps we can find you something

presentable to wear here."

"Only if we steal it," replied René Monjean.

They moved along the spotless pavement to the next shop. "How about Valentino? They have lovely things for men."

"I prefer Hermès." It was located next door. "Home of the seven-hundred-euro polo shirt."

Ingrid eyed the elegant garment worn by the mannequin in the window. "And the five-thousand-euro cashmere stole."

"I'm sure you can get it for less," said Monjean. "Much less."

"Are you daring me?"

"It would look great with the pantsuit you're wearing."

It would, indeed. But Ingrid had no desire to possess it. She was sure it was only a side effect of the scopolamine. Her eyes

were killing her.

"I'll pass," she said.

"Should I pinch it for you?"

"Dressed like that?" She looked him up and down. "They wouldn't let you in the store."

They followed the avenue past the Casino de Monte-Carlo and the H?tel de Paris, then walked through the Jardins de la Petite

Afrique to the boulevard des Moulins. Number 41 was to the right. They sat down at an outdoor table at La Royale, and Monjean

ordered two café crèmes in his Marseillais French.

"Have you noticed that there's no dirt in this place?" he asked.

"And no poor people, either."

"There are plenty of poor people. They sweep the floors and change the beds and clean the toilets, but they're not allowed

to live here. To tell you the truth, I hate Monaco. It's the most boring place on earth."

"Ever work here?"

"Sure. You?"

"It's possible that I picked a few pockets in the casino. I also had a nice score at the H?tel de Paris."

"Room safe?"

She nodded.

"How did you open it?"

"Magic word."

"What was inside?"

"A diamond necklace and a hundred thousand euros in cash."

"How much did you get for the necklace?"

"Two fifty."

"Antwerp?"

"Actually, I returned it to Harry Winston on the Avenue Montaigne in Paris. They kindly gave me a full refund despite the

fact that I couldn't find my receipt."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Monjean. On the opposite side of the boulevard, a well-dressed man was approaching the entrance

of Number 41. "Looks like a British lawyer to me."

"How can you tell?"

"Could be the stick up his ass."

Ingrid nodded toward the attractive young woman approaching the building from the opposite direction. "And here comes Mademoiselle

Dubois."

The well-dressed man arrived first. He inserted his cardkey into the reader and held the door open for the secretary—and for

the man who emerged from the back of a Mercedes sedan. It was Ian Harris, founding partner of the dirty law firm that bore

his name.

"I think I'm going to enjoy this," said Monjean. "I only wish we could steal something from him other than those files."

"They're worth hundreds of billions of dollars."

"Not to me. But it is rather ironic, don't you think?"

"Thieves stealing from thieves?"

"Exactly."

"Poetic justice, I'd say." Ingrid's phone shivered with an incoming message.

"Something wrong?" asked Monjean.

She glanced at the man with gray-blond hair and a square jaw coming along the pavement. "Does he look like a murderer to you?"

"The good ones never do."

Trevor Robinson jammed his cardkey into the reader and went into the building.

"Seen enough?" asked Ingrid.

" Oui ." Monjean swallowed the rest of his coffee. "Let's get out of here."

***

At a computer shop on the boulevard d'Italie, Ingrid purchased two palm-sized external hard drives with a combined storage

space of sixteen terabytes, more than enough to handle Harris Weber's sensitive attorney-client files. Then she marched René

Monjean over to an American clothing retailer near the yacht club and supervised the purchase of a blazer, a pair of gabardine

trousers, leather oxfords, a blue button-down dress shirt, and an attaché case.

They returned to Mistral shortly after noon to find that Gabriel and Christopher had prepared lunch. They dined on the sunlit afterdeck in the manner of four friends on holiday while monitoring the audio feed from Trevor Robinson's phone. The former MI5 officer was lunching at Le Louis XV with the head of HSBC's wealth management division. The topic of conversation was the prospect of data loss and exposure. Robinson assured the HSBC executive that the firm's most sensitive files were offline and entirely inaccessible.

"There will be no spillage from Harris Weber & Company," he promised. "You and your bank have absolutely nothing to fear."

Ingrid helped René Monjean with the dishes, then repaired to her berth for a few hours of sleep. For the first time in many

years, Lars Hansen visited her in her dreams, though this time the encounter took place in a lavender-scented grove of towering

laricio pine trees. When she returned home, her mother pointed at her in the Corsican way and screamed, " Occhju ."

She woke with a start to find her berth in semidarkness. It was nearly seven thirty. She gave herself a quick rinse in the

marine shower, then put her hair in order and dressed in the same dark pantsuit. Next she packed her handbag. Her laptop was

fully charged, but she added a power cord nonetheless, along with the two external hard drives. She carried no wallet or identification,

only her phone and a wad of cash. After a moment of deliberation, she tossed in her bump keys and screwdriver, more out of

habit than anything else. The automatic combination dialer and rare-earth magnet were in René Monjean's attaché case.

Upstairs in the galley, Ingrid poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos flask. Gabriel was seated at the table, a phone

at his elbow, laptop open. From the speakers came the sound of Trevor Robinson's voice. In the background was a low multilingual

murmur.

"Where is he?"

"The Crystal Bar at the H?tel Hermitage. Brendan Taylor is minding the store."

"Did anyone open the safe this afternoon?"

"Ian Harris. He returned the storage device when he was finished."

"Did you happen to see the passcode?"

"No," said Gabriel. "But I'm guessing it's nine, two, eight, seven, four, six."

Christopher and René Monjean were outside on the afterdeck. Monjean looked faintly ridiculous in his blazer and trousers—like

a thief pretending to be a businessman. Christopher, in his tailored Savile Row suit, looked like the real thing. Ingrid helped

herself to one of his Marlboros. The combination of caffeine and nicotine raised her heart rate and blood pressure, but she

still felt unusually serene. There was no tingling in her fingertips, no fever.

She smoked the last of the cigarette and then returned to the salon. Trevor Robinson had left the Crystal Bar and was walking

along the Avenue Princesse Grace toward his apartment. Brendan Taylor was playing solitaire on his computer at Harris Weber.

The two men spoke at 9:05 p.m. Robinson asked Taylor whether the file room was locked. Taylor told Robinson that it was.

The young associate left the office at 9:09 p.m., but Gabriel waited until nine thirty to dispatch his operational team. Christopher

departed Mistral first, followed ten minutes later by Ingrid and René Monjean. As they walked along the Avenue de Monte-Carlo, Ingrid allowed

her eyes to wander over the costly goods displayed in the shop windows. Once the very sight of such luxuries would have set

her ablaze. Now, strangely, she felt nothing at all.