41 Boulevard des Moulins

41 Boulevard des Moulins

The two outdoor tables at La Royale were both unoccupied. Christopher sat down at one, ordered coffee and a cognac, struck

his Dunhill lighter, leaned a Marlboro into the flame. Only then did he ring Gabriel.

"Comfortable?" inquired his old friend.

"Never better."

"Our associates are headed your way."

Christopher looked to the left and saw Ingrid and René Monjean walking along the pavement on the opposite side of the boulevard.

There was not another pedestrian in sight—and no officers of the S?reté Publique de Monaco, either.

"Are we a go?" asked Gabriel.

"I believe we are."

Ingrid and Monjean paused at the entrance of Number 41. So quiet was the boulevard that Christopher, from his observation

post at the café, could hear the thud of the dead bolt. Only then did he take a first nip of the cognac.

They were off to a fine start.

***

Ingrid and Monjean crossed the half-lit lobby to the building's only lift. There was no need to press the call button; Philippe

Lambert, a hundred miles to the south in the mountains of Corsica, had already summoned the carriage. Ingrid gazed directly

into the surveillance camera during the slow ascent to the fourth floor.

"How do I look?" she asked.

"Just fine," replied Gabriel. "But who's that unsavory-looking fellow standing next to you?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

The doors slid open and Ingrid followed Monjean into the foyer. A single overhead light shone dimly. On the wall directly

before them was Harris Weber & Company's understated logo. Next to it was a glass door and card reader.

"Open sesame," said Ingrid.

A buzzer groaned, a lock snapped.

They were in.

Nothing about Harris Weber's stylish workplace suggested that the firm was involved in the practice of law. Ingrid followed

a corridor past a row of empty glass-enclosed offices, then turned to the left. A locked door halted her progress.

"Ready when you are," she said, and the lock gave way.

The room they entered was in darkness. With the flashlight function of her phone, Ingrid illuminated several rows of metal

file cabinets. At the opposite end of the room was yet another door.

"Would you mind terribly?" she asked.

Lambert unlocked the door remotely, and Ingrid and Monjean went inside. A table, a swivel chair, a desktop computer, a printer,

and a double-doored executive safe with an electronic lock.

Ingrid entered the combination.

"Shit," she whispered.

"Don't tell me," said Gabriel.

Ingrid opened the door of the safe. "Works every time."

She illuminated the interior.

" Merde ," said René Monjean.

"What's the problem now?" asked Gabriel.

"Several million euros in cash," replied Ingrid.

"Is there anything else?"

"A rather large pile of physical documents and a twenty-terabyte SanDisk external hard drive."

Ingrid removed the SanDisk and connected it to her laptop.

"How much data is there?" asked Gabriel.

"Three point two terabytes."

"How long will it take?"

"One moment, please. Your question is very important to us." Ingrid connected one of the storage devices she had purchased

that morning and initiated the transfer. "According to the little window on my screen, it will take four hours and twelve

minutes."

"Which will leave you plenty of time to photograph the rest of those documents."

"It would be my pleasure," said Ingrid, and rang off.

René Monjean was eyeing the stacks of newly minted euro banknotes. "How much do you suppose there is?"

"Five or six million."

"Do you think they would miss a million or two?"

"Probably."

"Not even tempted?"

No, thought Ingrid. Not in the least.

***

Shortly before 11:00 p.m., the waiter at La Royale informed Christopher that the establishment would soon be closing. He drank

a final coffee, smoked a final cigarette, then settled his bill and was on his way. He rang Gabriel while walking along the

deserted pavements of the boulevard.

"Time remaining?" he asked.

"Three hours and fifteen minutes."

"An eternity."

"And then some."

"If I stay on this street any longer, the s?reté will arrest me for loitering."

"They would be doing the rest of the world a favor."

"Be that as it may," said Christopher, "my detention would come as an unpleasant surprise to my superiors in London. It would

also leave us with no one in close proximity to our two colleagues."

"In that case, you should probably find somewhere to spend the next three hours and fourteen minutes."

Christopher walked down the gentle slope of the hill to the Place du Casino and obtained an outdoor table at Café de Paris,

the celebrated Monaco eatery that remained open until 3:00 a.m. For the sake of his not-so-elaborate cover, he ordered pasta

with truffles and a bottle of pricey Montrachet, then watched as a million-euro Lamborghini, bright red in color, pulled up

outside the ornate entrance of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. The cameras of the assembled paparazzi flashed as the owner of the

motorcar, a celebrity Spanish fashion designer, entered the casino with an underfed model on his arm.

The waiter appeared with the Montrachet. Christopher, with nothing but time on his hands, was slow in signaling his approval. When he was alone again, he rang Gabriel with an update on his whereabouts.

"Hanging by a thread, are you?"

"Bored senseless, if you must know. Can I bring you anything?"

"Ingrid and René Monjean."

The connection died as another seven-figure supercar rolled up outside the entrance of the casino. This time it was a Bugatti.

A silver-haired man, a beautiful young girl. Christopher glanced at his watch. Nothing but time.

***

It was after midnight when Ingrid finally finished photographing all of the physical documents stored in the safe. She returned

the files to their original positions, then checked the progress bar on her computer. The original time estimate, as it turned

out, had been too pessimistic. The operating software now predicted the data transfer would be complete in one hour and thirty-nine

minutes, which would have them out the door by 1:45 a.m. at the latest. As far as Ingrid was concerned, their departure could

not come soon enough. She was no stranger to lengthy jobs—her last theft had involved weeks of planning and observation—but

the take itself nearly always occurred in the blink of an eye.

René Monjean, who was peering over her shoulder, was growing restless as well. "Is there nothing you can do to make it go

faster?" he asked.

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

Monjean turned away from the computer and stared at the money.

"You're not thinking about doing something stupid, are you?"

"Have you ever seen that much money before?"

"Twice."

"Really? When?"

"My last job. I got five up front and five on delivery."

"What did you steal?"

"Something I shouldn't have."

Monjean closed the door of the safe.

"Wise move, René."

***

By 12:45 a.m. Christopher had worn out his welcome at Café de Paris, so he paid his bill and headed across the square toward

his last remaining refuge, the Casino de Monte-Carlo. Inside, he handed over the required twenty-euro admission fee and purchased

five hundred euros in chips, which he promptly lost at the English roulette table. He purchased another five hundred and dropped

most of that playing blackjack. Finally, at half past one in the morning, the dealer presented him with a pair of queens.

At the instant Christopher split his hand, his mobile phone pulsed, leaving him no choice but to step away from the table

and abandon the last of his money.

"As usual," he said, "your timing is impeccable."

"Sorry to put a damper on your evening, but Trevor Robinson just left his apartment."

"Where is he going?"

"It looks as though he's headed to the office."

"At one thirty in the morning?"

"One thirty-two, actually."

"Does he know they're inside?"

"If he does, he hasn't called the s?reté yet."

Christopher watched the dealer sweep away the last of his chips. "I assume you've instructed our friends to vacate the premises."

"Not surprisingly, Ingrid would like to finish copying the files."

"And you, of course, told her to leave immediately."

"To no avail."

Christopher set off across the gaming floor toward the exit. "Time remaining?"

"Thirteen minutes."

"Where is he?"

"Headed west on the boulevard d'Italie."

"Any suggestions?"

"Improvise."