“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?”