A small Peugeot transit van, dented and dusty, passed in the street, a North African face behind the wheel, another in the front passenger seat. So much for coming alone. Keller wasn’t alone, either. In violation of all known MI6 rules, written and unwritten, he was carrying an illegal Tanfoglio pistol at the small of his back. Were the weapon to discharge—and were the round to strike another human being—Keller’s might be the shortest career in the history of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.

The Peugeot eased into an empty spot along the rue Dabray as a second car, a Citro?n sedan, stopped outside Le Bar Saint étienne. It, too, contained a pair of North African–looking men. The passenger climbed out and sat down at one of the outdoor tables while the driver found an empty space along the rue Vernier.

Keller crushed out his cigarette and considered his situation. No sign of the French security service, he thought, only four members of a Moroccan criminal gang quite possibly linked to ISIS. He recalled the many lectures he had attended during the IONEC regarding the rules for making or aborting a meeting. Given current circumstances, MI6 doctrine dictated a hasty retreat. At the very least, Keller was obliged to check in with his controller in London for guidance. Too bad his secure MI6 phone was locked in a bank vault in Marseilles.

With the disposable phone, Keller snapped a photograph of the man waiting for him at Le Bar Saint étienne. Then, rising, he left a few coins on the table and started across the street. He is not important, the old woman had said. But he can lead you to the one who is.

10

Rue Dabray, Nice

He was a citizen of the forgotten France, the great belts of suburbs, banlieues, that ringed large metropolitan centers like Paris and Lyon and Toulouse. For the most part, their residents lived in shabby high-rise housing blocks that were factories of crime, drug abuse, resentment, and, increasingly, radical Islam. The overwhelming majority of France’s growing Muslim population wanted nothing more than to live in peace and care for their families. But a small minority had fallen victim to the siren song of ISIS. And some, like Nouredine Zakaria, were prepared to slaughter in the name of the caliphate. Keller had encountered many like him—members of North African street gangs—while working for Don Orsati. He suspected that Zakaria knew little of Islam, the tenets of jihadism, or the ways of the salaf al Salih, the original followers of the Prophet Muhammad whom the murderers of ISIS sought to emulate. But the Moroccan possessed something more valuable to ISIS than knowledge of Islam. As a career criminal, he was a natural operator who knew how to acquire weapons and explosives, how to steal cars and cell phones, and where to find places for members of a terrorist cell to lie low before and after an attack. In short, he knew how to get things done without attracting the attention of the police. For a terrorist group—or an intelligence service, for that matter—it was an essential skill.

He was shorter than Keller by an inch or two, and powerfully built. His was not a body sculpted in a fitness club. It was a prisoner’s physique, honed by relentless calisthenics in a confined space. He looked to be about thirty-five, but Keller couldn’t be sure; he had never been good at guessing the ages of North African men. In appearance he was an archetype—a high forehead with arcs at the temples, broad cheekbones, a full mouth, dark lips. Yellow-tinted aviators shielded his eyes; Keller had the impression they were almost black. On his right wrist was a large Swiss watch, no doubt stolen. The right wrist meant he was probably left-handed. So it was the left hand, not the right, that would reach for the gun he carried just inside his partially zipped leather jacket. The bulge was quite obvious. And intentional, thought Keller.

Presently, a Police Nationale unit rolled slowly past the café, an environmentally friendly Peugeot 308, a go-kart with lights and a flashy paint job. The officer behind the wheel cast a long look toward the two men seated outside Le Bar Saint étienne. Keller watched the car round the corner while lighting a cigarette. When at last he spoke, he did so in the Corsican way, so that Nouredine Zakaria would know he was not a man to be taken lightly.

“You were instructed,” he said, “to come alone.”

“Do you see anyone else sitting here, my friend?”

“I’m not your friend. Not even close.” Keller glanced toward the Citro?n parked across the street, and at the Peugeot van on the rue Dabray. “What about them?”

“Guys from the neighborhood,” said Zakaria with a dismissive shrug.

“Tell them to take a drive.”

“Can’t.”

Keller started to rise.

“Wait.”

Keller froze and after a moment’s hesitation lowered himself back into his chair. Mayhew and Quill would have been pleased by their star pupil’s performance; he had just established dominance over the source. It was a technique as old as the bazaar, the willingness to walk away from a deal. But Nouredine Zakaria was a man of the bazaar, too. Moroccans were born negotiators.

He started to reach inside his leather jacket.

“Easy,” said Keller.

Slowly, the hand retrieved a mobile phone from an interior pocket. Like Keller’s, it was a throwaway. The Moroccan used it to dispatch a brief text message. Ping, thought Keller, as the message surged across the French cellular network. A few seconds later two engines turned over, and two examples of French automotive prowess, one a Peugeot, the other a Citro?n, moved off.