The driver eased the Maybach onto the avenue Foch and followed it into the centre ville. It was only June, not yet high summer, and so the crowds were manageable, even in the Place des Lices, site of Saint-Tropez’s bustling open-air market. As Natalie made her way slowly through the stalls, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. This was her country, she thought, and yet her family had been forced to leave it because of the most ancient hatred. The presence of Roland Girard focused her attention on the task at hand. He walked not at her side, but at her back. There was no mistaking him for a husband. He was there for one reason and one reason only, to protect Madame Sophie Antonov, the new resident of the scandalous palace on the Baie de Cavalaire.

All at once she heard someone calling her name from a café along the boulevard Vasserot. “Madame Sophie, Madame Sophie! It’s me, Nicolas. Over here, Madame Sophie.” She looked up and saw Christopher Keller waving to her from a table at Le Clemenceau. Smiling, she crossed the street, with Roland Girard a step behind. Keller rose and offered her a chair. When Natalie sat down, Roland Girard returned to the Place des Lices and stood in the dappled shade of a plane tree.

“What a pleasant surprise,” said Keller when they were alone.

“Yes, it is.” Natalie’s tone was cool. It was the voice Madame Sophie used when addressing men who worked for her husband. “What brings you into the village?”

“An errand. You?”

“A bit of shopping.” She glanced around the market. “Anyone watching?”

“Of course, Madame Sophie. You caused quite a stir.”

“That was the point, wasn’t it?”

Keller was drinking Campari. “Have you had a chance to visit any of the art galleries?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“There’s a rather good one near the Old Port. I’d be happy to show it to you. It’s a five-minute walk at most.”

“Will the owner be there?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“How does our friend want me to play it?”

“He seems to think a good snub is in order.”

Natalie smiled. “I think Madame Sophie can manage that quite nicely.”

They walked toward the Old Port past the parade of shops lining the rue Gambetta. Keller wore white pants, black moccasins, and a formfitting black pullover. With his dark tan and gelled hair, he looked thoroughly disreputable. Natalie, playing the role of Madame Sophie, affected a deep and profound boredom. She loitered in several of the shop windows, including a boutique that bore the name Olivia Watson. Roland Girard, her ersatz bodyguard, stood vigilantly at her shoulder.

“What do you think of that one?” she asked, pointing toward a sheer dress that hung from a headless mannequin like a negligee. “Do you think Dmitri would notice me if I wore that? Or how about that one? That might get his attention.”

Greeted by a professional silence, she walked on, swinging her handbag like a spoiled schoolgirl. Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern were walking toward them along the narrow street, hands clasped, laughing at a private joke. Dina Sarid was evaluating a pair of sandals in the window of Minelli, and a little farther along the street Natalie spotted Eli Lavon rushing into a pharmacy with the urgency of a man whose bowels were in a state of rebellion.

At last, they arrived in the Place de l’Ormeau. It was not a proper square like the Place des Lices, but a tiny triangle at the intersection of three streets. In the center was an old wellhead, shaded by a single tree. On one side was a dress shop, on the other a café. And next to the café was the handsome four-story building—large by Saint-Tropez standards, pale gray instead of tan—occupied by Galerie Olivia Watson.

The heavy wooden door was closed and locked. Next to it was a brass placard, which stated in both French and English that viewing of the gallery’s inventory was by appointment only. In the display window were three paintings—a Lichtenstein, a Basquiat, and a work by the French painter and sculptor Jean Dubuffet. Natalie wandered over to have a closer look at the Basquiat while Keller checked his mobile. After a moment she became aware of a presence at her back. The intoxicating scent of lilac made it clear it was not Roland Girard.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a female voice in French.

“The Basquiat?”

“Yes.”

“Actually,” said Natalie to the glass, “I prefer the Dubuffet.”

“You have good taste.”

Natalie turned slowly and appraised the fourth work of art standing a few inches away, in the Place de l’Ormeau. She was shockingly tall, so tall in fact that Natalie had to lift her gaze to meet hers. She was not beautiful, she was professionally beautiful. Until that moment, Natalie had not realized there was a difference.

“Would you like to have a closer look?” the woman asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“At the Dubuffet. I have a few minutes before my next appointment.” She smiled and extended a hand. “Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Olivia. Olivia Watson,” she added. “This is my gallery.”

Natalie accepted the proffered hand. It was unusually long, as was the bare arm, smooth and golden, to which it was attached. Luminous blue eyes stared out from a face so flawless it scarcely seemed real. It was set in an expression of mild curiosity.