The English Girl: A Novel (Gabriel Allon)

by Silva, Daniel

  The money.

  During the next five minutes, Gabriel made three phone calls in rapid succession. The first two he placed from his room phone—one to the room next door, which went unanswered, and a second to the drowsy night clerk downstairs, who confirmed that the room was unoccupied. Gabriel reserved it for the night, promising payment in full within the hour. Then, from his personal mobile phone, he rang Christopher Keller.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Boulogne,” replied Keller.

  “I need you to walk through the entrance of the Hotel de la Mer in Grand-Fort-Philippe in fifty-five minutes.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I have an errand to run, and I need to make sure no one steals my luggage while I’m gone.”

  “Where’s the luggage?”

  “Under the bed in the room next door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Another hour, another wait. Gabriel used the time to put his room in order and to prepare perhaps the strongest cup of Nescafé ever brewed. He was going on his third night without sleep—the Lubéron, Downing Street, and now this. He was close; he could feel it. A few more hours, he thought, as he poured the bitter liquid down his throat. And then he would sleep for a month.

  At ten minutes past ten, he headed downstairs to the lobby, where he told the night clerk that a Monsieur Duval would be arriving shortly. He paid the room charges in full and left behind an envelope, which was to be given to Monsieur Duval at check-in. Then he headed outside and climbed behind the wheel of the Passat. As he was driving away, he peered into the rearview mirror and saw Keller walking into the hotel, right on schedule.

  This time they had given him not only a destination but a specific route as well. It took him across fields of windmills and eventually to the gasworks, refineries, and rail depots of west Dunkirk. Before him rose a mountain range of gravel, like a miniaturized version of the Alps. He sped past it in a cloud of dust and turned onto a narrow road running atop a long breakwater. On his right were the cargo cranes of Dunkirk harbor; on his left, the sea. He marked the starting point of the road with the TRIP setting on the odometer; then, exactly one and a half kilometers later, he pulled to the side and switched off the engine. The car shuddered in the heavy, wet wind. Gabriel climbed out and, turning up his coat collar, set out across the beach. The tide was out; the sand was as hard and flat as a parking lot. He stopped at the water’s edge and hurled his Beretta into the sea. It was a fine place for a soldier’s gun to end up, he thought as he started back toward the car. On the bottom of the sea, off the beaches of Dunkirk.

  When he arrived back at the road, he looked in both directions, east, west, then east again. There were no other people about and no headlights approaching, only the lights of the cargo cranes and the distant glow of the gas fires burning atop the refineries. Gabriel opened the trunk and placed the key on the ground, just inside the left rear wheel. Then he climbed into the trunk, arranged his moderately sized frame in something like a fetal position, and pulled the hatch closed. A few seconds later the phone rang.

  “Are you in?” asked the voice.

  “I’m in.”

  “Five minutes,” said the voice.

  As it turned out, it was closer to ten minutes before Gabriel heard a car pull up behind him. He heard a door opening and closing, followed by the tack-hammer clatter of boots over asphalt. It was the woman, he thought as the car lurched forward. He was certain of it.

  Once free of Dunkirk, she drove at speed for more than an hour, only twice coming to a complete stop. Then she turned onto a pitted track and continued to drive at speed, as if to punish Gabriel for the impertinence of asking for proof of life before surrendering ten million euros in ransom. At one point the Passat bottomed out with a heavy, scraping thud. To Gabriel it sounded as though they had just struck an iceberg.

  The pitted track soon gave way to soft, deep gravel, and the gravel to the concrete floor of a garage. Gabriel knew this because, when the car came to a stop, the sound of the engine was vibrating back at him from the walls. After a moment it fell silent, and the woman climbed out, her heels clattering loudly over the floor. The trunk opened a few inches, and the long pale hand inserted a swath of cloth, which Gabriel immediately pulled over his head.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen if that hood comes off?”

  “The girl dies.”

  Gabriel heard the hatch of the trunk rise. Then two pairs of hands, obviously male, took hold of him, one by the shoulders, the other by the legs, and lifted him out. They placed him on his feet with surprising gentleness and made certain he was stable before binding his hands behind his back with a pair of flex-cuffs. Then they seized him by the elbows and frog-marched him across the gravel, slowing slightly to help him up two brick steps and through a doorway.

  The flooring inside was wooden and uneven, like the floorboards of an old farmhouse. As they made a series of quick turns, Gabriel had the sensation of being guided by a figure of authority. They clambered down a flight of steep stairs, into a cool cellar that smelled of limestone and damp. The hands pushed him forward for several more feet, jerked him to a stop, and then eased him downward, onto the edge of a cot. Gabriel listened carefully to the footfalls of the captors as they withdrew, trying to determine their number. Then a heavy door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid. After that, there was no sound at all. Only the smell. Heavy and nauseatingly sweet. The smell of a human being in captivity.

  Gabriel sat motionless and silent, convinced he had been left in the room alone. But after a few seconds, a hand removed the hood from his head. It belonged to a young woman, gaunt, pale as porcelain, yet still exquisitely beautiful.

  “I’m Madeline Hart,” she said. “Who are you?”

  26

  NORTHERN FRANCE

  For nine days Gabriel had struggled to paint her face clearly in his mind. She was a charcoal sketch, a name in an impressive file, a favor for an old friend. And now at long last she sat before him, the captive for whom he had tortured and killed, posed as if for her own portrait. She wore a dark blue tracksuit and canvas shoes with no laces. She was thinner than she had been in the videotape—thinner even than in the last proof-of-life photo—and her hair had grown at least an inch in length since her disappearance. It was combed straight back from her forehead and hung limply down the center of her back. There was a hard edge to her cheekbones and dark patches like bruises beneath her blue-gray eyes. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her wrists were all bone and sinew; her nails were gnawed to the quick. Even so, she managed to convey a sense of dignity and command. It was clear why Jeremy Fallon had declared her destined for a seat in Parliament—and why Jonathan Lancaster had risked everything for her. Gabriel realized suddenly that he had, too.

  “I’m here to bring you out, Madeline,” he said, responding finally to her original question. “This is part of the endgame.”

  “You wanted to see whether I was still alive?”

  He hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

  “Well, I am alive,” she said. “At least, I think I am. Sometimes I’m not so certain. I don’t know the time, the day of the week, or the month. I don’t even know where I am.”

  “I think you’re in France,” said Gabriel. “Somewhere in the north.”

  “You think?”

  “I was brought here in the trunk of a car.”

  “I’ve spent a great deal of time in the trunk of a car,” she said sympathetically. “And I think I remember a boat ride a few hours after they kidnapped me, but I can’t be sure. They gave me a shot of something. After that, it was all a blur.”

  Gabriel assumed that their conversation was being monitored. Therefore, he did not tell Madeline that she had
been brought from Corsica to the mainland aboard a thirty-six-foot motor yacht called Moondance, piloted by a smuggler named Marcel Lacroix, and accompanied by the man with whom she had lunched earlier that afternoon at Les Palmiers. Gabriel had many questions he wanted to ask her about the man he knew only as Paul. When did she meet him? What was the nature of their relationship? Instead, he asked if she could recall the circumstances of her kidnapping.

  “It happened on the road between Piana and Calvi.” She stopped herself. “Have you ever been?”

  “To Corsica?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never set foot there.”

  “It’s quite lovely, really,” she said, sounding very English. “In any case, I was riding a little faster than I should have been, the way I always ride. A car pulled in front of me after a blind turn. I managed to squeeze the brakes, but I still hit the side of the car quite hard. It took an eternity for all the scrapes and bruises to heal.” She rubbed the back of her hand. “How long has it been?” she asked. “How long have they been holding me?”

  “Five weeks.”

  “Is that all? It seems longer.”

  “Have they treated you well?”

  “Do I look as though I’ve been treated well?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “I’ve eaten nothing but bread and cheese and canned vegetables. Once they gave me a few scraps of chicken,” she added, “but it made me sick, so they never gave it to me again. I asked for a radio but they refused. I asked for books to read or a newspaper so I could keep up with what’s going on in the world, but they refused that, too.”

  “They didn’t want you reading about yourself.”

  “What does the world know about me?”

  “You’re missing—that’s all.”

  “And what about that dreadful video they forced me to make?”

  “No one’s seen it,” he said. “No one but the prime minister and his closest aides.”

  “Jeremy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “And what about you? You’ve seen it, too, I suppose.”

  Gabriel said nothing. Madeline was rubbing the back of her hand raw, as though she were trying to punish herself. Gabriel wanted to stop her but couldn’t—not with his hands pinned behind his back.

  “I had no choice but to make that video,” she said at last.

  “I know.”

  “They said they would kill me.”

  “I know.”

  “I tried to lie—you have to believe me. I tried to tell them there was nothing between Jonathan and me, but they knew everything. Times, dates, places—everything.”

  She stopped herself and looked at him quizzically.

  “You’re not English.”

  “Sorry,” said Gabriel.

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a friend of the prime minister.”

  “So you’re a spy, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  She actually smiled briefly. It had been a beautiful smile once, but now there was something faintly mad about it. She would be well again eventually, thought Gabriel, but it was going to take time.

  “Please stop, Madeline,” he said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Your hands.”

  She looked down at them. She had drawn blood.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was full of submission. She bunched her hands into a tight knot and squeezed until her knuckles were white. “Why did they do this to me?”

  “Money,” answered Gabriel.

  “They’re blackmailing Jonathan?”

  He nodded.

  “How much?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “How much?” she insisted.

  “Ten million.”

  “My God,” she whispered. “And he agreed to pay it?”

  “Without blinking.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We find some way to make an exchange that satisfies the needs of both parties.”

  “How long?”

  “We’re close.”

  “How long?” she pressed.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of here by morning.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “A few hours.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll take you somewhere safe to clean you up and let you rest. And then you’ll go home.”

  “To what?” she asked. “My life will be ruined, all because I made one silly mistake.”

  “No one will ever know about the ransom or the affair. It will be as if it never happened.”

  “Until the press finds out. And then they’ll tear me limb from limb. That’s what they do. That’s all they do.”

  Gabriel was about to respond, but just then there was a knock at the door, two sharp blows with a hammer fist. Madeline gave a start that made Gabriel’s stomach lurch sideways. She quickly covered his head with the black hood. He supposed she covered her own as well, but couldn’t be sure; his hood was entirely opaque.

  “You never told me your name,” she said.

  “It’s not important.”

  “I loved him, you know. I loved him very much.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get me out of here.”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon,” he said.

  They removed the flex-cuffs before placing him in the trunk and driving him down the pitted dirt track. The car bottomed out at the same pothole and after that ran smooth and fast over paved roads. It must have been raining very hard because the road spray beat ceaselessly against the wheel wells. The sound lulled Gabriel briefly to sleep. He dreamed that Madeline had scratched the back of her hand down to the bone.

  “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get me out of here.”

  “I will.”

  Ten minutes after he awoke, the car finally came to a stop. The engine died, a door opened, boots clattered over pavement and receded into nothing. After that, there was only the rain and the distant crash-and-hiss of the surf. For a moment Gabriel feared they had left him to die a death that was akin to being buried alive. Then the phone rang in his coat pocket.

  “We told you no backup,” said the voice.

  “You didn’t really think I was going to leave ten million euros in a hotel room, did you?”

  “From now on, do exactly as we say, or the girl dies.”

  “You have my word,” said Gabriel.

  There was silence, followed by a burst of typing.

  “The spare key is taped to the lid directly above your head. Go back to your room and wait for our call.”

  “How long?”

  The connection went dead. Gabriel reached up and tore loose the key. Then he pressed the trunk release and the rain fell benevolently upon his face.

  27

  GRAND-FORT-PHILIPPE, FRANCE

  When Gabriel entered his room at the Hotel de la Mer, he found Keller propped up in bed, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the television. It was a replay of an English Premier League match, Fulham versus Arsenal. The sound was muted.

  “Comfortable?” asked Gabriel.

  “I saw you drive up.” Keller aimed the remote at the screen and fired. “Well?”

  “She’s alive.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We wait for the phone to ring.”

  Keller switched on the television and
lit a fresh cigarette.

  This time Gabriel’s natural forbearance abandoned him. He tried to distract himself with the football match, but the sight of grown men in shorts chasing a ball around a pitch seemed offensive to him. Finally, he brewed another evil cup of the double-strength Nescafé and drank it at his outpost in the window. The current of the tidal creek had changed directions; it was flowing in instead of out. He looked at his wristwatch. The time had not changed since he had checked it last: 3:22 a.m. It was a provable fact, he told himself, that nothing good ever happened at 3:22 in the morning.

  “They’re not going to call,” he said, more to himself than to Keller.

  “Of course they’re going to call.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because they’ve come too far. And keep one other thing in mind,” he added. “At this point, they want to get rid of Madeline as badly as you want her back.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Keller looked at him seriously. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “September.”

  “Any chance you’d allow me to deliver the money?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “I appreciate the gesture.”

  Keller frowned at the television. Evidently, someone had scored a goal because the men in shorts were jumping up and down like children on a playground. But not Gabriel; he was staring at the waters of the tidal creek and thinking about Madeline clawing the skin from the back of her hand. Consequently, when the phone finally rang at 3:48 a.m., it startled him like the scream of a terrified woman. The voice spoke to him, thin, lifeless, and stressing all the wrong words. After a few seconds he looked at Keller and nodded once.

  It was time.

  The night clerk was nowhere to be found. Gabriel placed both room keys in the pigeonhole behind the desk and wheeled the two suitcases into the wet street. The engine block of the Passat was still ticking from the last journey. He loaded the suitcases into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. The phone started ringing as he was closing the door. He immediately switched the device to SPEAKER mode, just as he had been instructed.