The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  “What are you thinking?” asked Rousseau.

  “I’m wondering how many operatives it took to pull off something like this.”

  “And?”

  “Eight to ten for the kidnapping itself, not to mention the support agents. And yet somehow the DGSI, which is confronting the worst terrorism threat in the Western world, missed them all.”

  Rousseau removed a fourth photo from his file. “No, my friend. Not all of them.”

  16

  Paris

  Brasserie Saint-Maurice was located in the heart of medieval Annecy, on the ground floor of a teetering old building that was a riot of mismatched windows, shutters, and balustrades. Several square tables stood along the pavement beneath the shelter of three modern retractable awnings. At one, a man was drinking coffee and contemplating a mobile device. His hair was fair and straight and neatly arranged. So was his face. He wore a woolen peacoat, a stylishly knotted silk scarf, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The time code in the bottom right corner of the photo read 16:07:46. The date was the thirteenth of December, the day of Princess Reema’s abduction.

  “As you can see from the resolution,” said Rousseau, “the image has been magnified. Here’s the original.”

  Rousseau slid another photograph across the conference table. The perspective was wide enough so that the street was visible. Several cars lined the curb. Gabriel’s eye was drawn instantly toward a Citroën estate car.

  “Our national traffic surveillance system isn’t as Orwellian as yours or Britain’s, but the threat of terrorism has compelled us to improve our capabilities substantially. It didn’t take long to find the car. Or the man who was driving it.”

  “How much do you know about him?”

  “He rented a holiday villa outside Annecy two weeks before the abduction. He paid for a one-month stay entirely in cash, which the estate agent and the owner of the villa were more than happy to accept.”

  “I don’t suppose he had a passport.”

  “A British one, actually. The estate agent made a photocopy.”

  Rousseau slid a sheet of paper across the tabletop. It was a photocopy of a photocopy, but the resolution was clear. The name on the passport was Ronald Burke. It claimed he had been born in Manchester in 1969. The photograph bore a vague resemblance to the man who had been sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice a few hours before Princess Reema had been kidnapped.

  “Have you asked the British whether it’s genuine?”

  “And what should we tell the British? That he is a suspect in a kidnapping that didn’t happen?”

  Gabriel studied the man’s face. His skin was taut and unlined, and the unnatural shape of his eyes suggested a recent visit to a cosmetic surgeon. The irises stared blankly into the camera lens. His lips were unsmiling. “What was his accent like?”

  “He spoke British-accented French to the estate agent.”

  “Do you have any record of him entering the country?”

  “No.”

  “Were there any sightings of him after the abduction?”

  Rousseau shook his head. “He seems to have vanished into thin air. Just like Princess Reema.”

  Gabriel pointed to the wide shot of the man sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice. “I assume this is a still image from a video recording.”

  Rousseau opened a laptop and tapped a few keys with the air of a man who was still not comfortable with the conveniences of modern technology. Then he turned the computer so Gabriel and Sarah could see the screen and tapped the play button. The man was looking at something on his phone. So was the woman who was drinking white wine at the next table. She was professionally dressed, with dark hair that fell about an attractive face. She, too, was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact the café was in heavy shadow. The lenses were large and rectangular. They were the kind of glasses, thought Gabriel, that famous actresses wore when they wanted to avoid being recognized.

  At 16:09:22 the woman raised the phone to her ear. Whether she had initiated the call or received it, Gabriel could not discern. But a few seconds later, at 16:09:48, he noticed the man was talking on his phone, too.

  Gabriel tapped pause. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Keep watching.”

  Gabriel pressed play and watched the two people at Brasserie Saint-Maurice complete their phone calls, the woman first, the man twenty-seven seconds later, at 16:11:34. He left the café at 16:13:22 and climbed into the Citroën estate car. The woman departed three minutes later on foot.

  “You can pause it now.”

  Gabriel did.

  “We were never able to determine with certainty that the two people at Brasserie Saint-Maurice were conducting a cellular call or Internet-based conversation at eleven minutes past four o’clock on the Friday afternoon in question. If I had to guess—”

  “The phones were a ruse. They were talking directly to one another in the café.”

  “Simple, but effective.”

  “Where did she go next?”

  Rousseau dealt another photo across the tabletop. A professionally dressed woman climbing into the passenger seat of a Ford Transit, light gray. The woman’s gloved hand was on the door latch.

  “Where was it taken?”

  “The avenue de Cran. It runs through a working-class area on the western edge of the city.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  Another photo came sliding across the conference table. It depicted a blunt object of a man wearing a woolen watch cap and, of course, sunglasses. Gabriel supposed there were several other operatives in the compartment behind him, all armed with HK MP5 submachine pistols. He returned the photo to Rousseau, who was engaged in the ritualistic preparation of his pipe.

  “Perhaps now might be a good time for you to explain your involvement in this affair.”

  “His Royal Highness has requested my help.”

  “The government of France is more than capable of recovering Princess Reema without the assistance of Israel’s secret intelligence service.”

  “His Royal Highness disagrees.”

  “Does he?” Rousseau struck a match and touched it to the bowl of his pipe. “Has he received any communication from the kidnappers?”

  Gabriel handed over the demand letter. Rousseau read it through a haze of smoke. “One wonders why Khalid didn’t tell us about this. I can only assume he doesn’t want us poking our noses into an internal struggle for control of the House of Saud. But why on earth would he trust you instead?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

  “And if you’re unable to find her by the deadline?”

  “His Royal Highness will have a difficult decision to make.”

  Rousseau frowned. “I’m surprised a man like you would offer your services to a man like him.”

  “You disapprove of the crown prince?”

  “I think it’s safe to assume he spends more time in my country than yours. As a senior officer of the DGSI, I’ve had a chance to observe him up close. I never believed the fairy tales about how he was going to change Saudi Arabia and the Middle East. Nor was I surprised when he ordered the murder of a journalist who dared to criticize him.”

  “If France was so appalled by the murder of Omar Nawwaf, why did you allow Khalid into the country every weekend to spend time with his daughter?”

  “Because His Royal Highness is a one-man economic stimulus program. And because, like it or not, he is going to be the ruler of Saudi Arabia for a long time.” Quietly, Rousseau added, “If you can find his daughter.”

  Gabriel made no reply.

  The room filled with smoke as Rousseau considered his options. “For the record,” he said finally, “the government of France will not tolerate your involvement in the search for Prince Khalid’s daughter. That said, your participation might prove useful to the Alpha Group. Provided, of course, we establish certain ground rules.”

  “Such as?”

  “You will share
information with me, as I have shared it with you.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You will not bug, blackmail, or brutalize any citizen of the Republic.”

  “Unless he deserves it.”

  “And you will undertake no attempt to rescue Princess Reema on French soil. If you discover her whereabouts, you will tell me, and our tactical police units will free her.”

  “Inshallah,” muttered Gabriel.

  “So we have a deal?”

  “It seems we do. I will find Princess Reema, and you will receive all the credit.”

  Rousseau smiled. “By my calculation, you now have approximately five days before the deadline. How do you intend to proceed?”

  Gabriel pointed to the photograph of the man sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice. “I’m going to find him. And then I’m going to ask him where he’s hiding the princess.”

  “As your clandestine partner, I’d like to offer one piece of advice.” Rousseau pointed toward the photograph of the woman climbing into the van. “Ask her instead.”

  17

  Paris–Annecy

  The Israeli Embassy was located on the opposite bank of the Seine, on the rue Rabelais. Gabriel and Sarah remained there for nearly an hour—Gabriel in the station’s secure communications vault, Sarah in the ambassador’s antechamber. Leaving, they purchased sandwiches and coffee from a carryout around the corner, then made their way through the southern districts of Paris to the A6, the Autoroute du Soleil. The evening rush was long over, and the road before Gabriel was nearly empty of traffic. He pressed the accelerator of the Passat to the floor and felt a small rebellious thrill as the engine responded with a roar.

  “You’ve proven your point about the damn car. Now please slow down.” Sarah unwrapped one of the sandwiches and ate ravenously. “Why does everything taste better in France?”

  “It doesn’t, actually. That sandwich will taste exactly the same when we cross the Swiss border.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Where’s our first stop?”

  “I thought we should have a look at the crime scene.”

  Sarah took another bite of the sandwich. “Are you sure you won’t have one?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “The sun has set, Gabriel. You’re allowed to eat.”

  She switched on her overhead reading lamp and opened the dossier that Paul Rousseau had slipped into Gabriel’s attaché case as they were leaving Alpha Group headquarters. It contained a surveillance photo of Khalid and Rafiq al-Madani aboard Tranquillity. Gabriel gave it a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the road.

  “When was it taken?”

  Sarah turned over the photo and read the DGSI caption on the back. “The twenty-second of August on the Baie de Cannes.” She scrutinized the image carefully. “I know that expression on Khalid’s face. It’s the one he adopts when someone is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear. I saw it for the first time when I told him I didn’t want to be his art adviser.”

  “And the second?”

  “When I said he would be a fool to spend a half billion dollars on a suspect Leonardo.”

  “Have you ever been aboard the yacht?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Too many bad memories. Every time Khalid invited me, I always made up some excuse to turn him down.” She looked at the photograph again. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

  “Maybe they’re discussing the best way to get rid of a meddlesome journalist named Omar Nawwaf.”

  Sarah returned the photograph to the file. “I thought Khalid was going to cut off the flow of money to the radicals.”

  “So did I.”

  “So why is he hanging out with a Wahhabi true believer like al-Madani?”

  “Good question.”

  “If I were you, I’d put him under surveillance.”

  “What do you think I was doing downstairs at the embassy?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t invited.” Sarah drew another photograph from Rousseau’s dossier. A man and a woman sitting at separate tables at Brasserie Saint-Maurice in Annecy, each holding a mobile phone. “And what do you suppose they were talking about?”

  “It can’t be good.”

  “They’re obviously not Saudi.”

  “Obviously.”

  Sarah studied the passport photo. “He doesn’t look British to me.”

  “What do British people look like?”

  Sarah unwrapped another sandwich. “Eat something. You’ll be less surly.”

  Gabriel took a first bite.

  “Well?”

  “It might be the finest sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”

  “I told you,” said Sarah. “Everything tastes better in France.”

  It was a few minutes after midnight when they arrived in Annecy. They left the Passat outside Brasserie Saint-Maurice and checked into a small hotel near the cathedral. Gabriel was awakened shortly after four a.m. by a quarrel in the street beneath his window. Unable to sleep again, he went downstairs to the breakfast room and over several cups of coffee read the newspapers from Paris and Geneva. They were filled with accounts of the latest outrage from Washington, but there was no mention of a missing princess from Saudi Arabia.

  Sarah appeared a few minutes after nine. Together they walked for an hour along the moss-green canals of the old town to determine whether they were being followed. While crossing the Pont des Amours, they agreed they were not.

  They returned to the hotel long enough to collect their luggage, then walked to Brasserie Saint-Maurice. Sarah drank a café crème while Gabriel, in the manner of a stranded motorist, searched the Passat for explosives or a tracking device. Finding no evidence to suggest the car had been tampered with, he tossed their bags into the backseat and summoned Sarah with a nod. They left Annecy by way of the avenue de Cran, passing the spot where the woman had entered the Transit van, and made their way to the D14.

  It bore them westward through a string of Alpine towns and villages that lay along the banks of the Fier River. Beyond the hamlet of La Croix the road climbed sharply into a coppice of trees before emerging once more into a Van Gogh landscape of groomed farmland. At the intersection of the D38, Gabriel eased onto the grassy verge and switched off the engine. The silence was complete. A single villa occupied a hilltop about a kilometer away. Otherwise, there was not a building or residence in sight.

  Gabriel opened his door and placed a foot on the ground. Instantly, he felt shattered auto glass beneath his shoe. It was everywhere, the glass, at all four corners of the imperfect intersection. The French police, in their haste, hadn’t given the scene a proper cleaning. There was even a bit of blood still on the asphalt, like an oil stain, and a long set of tire marks. Gabriel reckoned they were the ones left by the Range Rover. He saw it all clearly—the collision, the gunshots, the controlled explosion, a child being ripped from the back of a luxury automobile. With his right hand he was counting the seconds. Twenty-five, thirty at most.

  He climbed into the car next to Sarah. His finger hovered over the start button.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t think Ronald Burke looks British, either.” Gabriel started the engine. “Have you ever been to Khalid’s château?”

  “Once.”

  “Do you remember the way?”

  Sarah pointed to the west.

  Even before they reached the main gate, the property made its presence known. There was, for a start, the wall. Many kilometers in length, it was fashioned of local stone and topped by outward-leaning rows of barbed wire. It reminded Gabriel of the fence that ran along Grosvenor Place in London, separating the grounds of Buckingham Palace from the rabble of neighboring Belgravia. The gate itself was a monstrosity of iron bars and gold-dipped lamps, behind which a perfect gravel drive stretched toward a garish private Versailles.

  Gabriel pondered it in silence. Finally, he asked, “Why am I trying to help a
man who would waste four hundred million euros on a house like that?”

  “What’s the answer?”

  Before Gabriel could respond, his BlackBerry shivered. He frowned at the screen.

  “What is it?” asked Sarah.

  “Rafiq al-Madani just entered the Interior Ministry in Paris.”

  18

  Geneva

  During his brief stay in the Office station in Paris, Gabriel had done more than place Rafiq al-Madani under surveillance. He had also ordered Unit 8200 to find the address of Lucien Villard, the former chief of security at the International School of Geneva. The cyberthieves of the Unit obtained it in a matter of minutes from the personnel section of the school’s computer network, which they entered as though passing through an open door. Villard lived in a busy quarter of Parisian-style apartment buildings. His street was a watcher’s paradise of shops and cafés. There was even a modest hotel, where Gabriel and Sarah arrived at midday. Gabriel asked to see a guest named Lange and was directed to a room on the third floor. They arrived to find a do not disturb sign hanging from the latch and Mikhail Abramov standing in the breach of the half-open door.

  He looked at Sarah and smiled. “Something wrong?”

  “I was just—”

  “Expecting to see someone else?”

  “Hoping, actually.” Sarah looked at Gabriel. “You might have mentioned he was going to be here.”

  “Mikhail is a professional, and so are you. I’m sure you two can set aside your differences and play nicely together.”

  “Like Israel and the Palestinians?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  Gabriel slipped past them and entered the room. The lights were doused, the shades were tightly drawn. The only sources of illumination were the open laptop computer on the writing desk and Mikhail’s secure Office BlackBerry.

  He drew a thin file from the outside pocket of his overnight bag. “We ran those photographs of the man and woman from Annecy through all the databases last night.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Same for the passport.”