But the green-eyed man was patience incarnate, especially when he was at the villa in Ramatuelle. The antics of Monsieur Antonov and Madame Sophie were of little concern to him. It was the beautiful Englishwoman who owned the art gallery in the Place de l’Ormeau who was his obsession. With the help of the other occupants of the villa, he watched her day and night. And with the help of his friend in America, he listened to her every phone call and read her every text message and e-mail.

She loathed the noisy new couple who lived on the opposite side of the Baie de Cavalaire—that much was evident—but she was intrigued by them nevertheless. Mainly, she wondered why it was that every D-list celebrity in the south of France had been invited to the Antonovs’ villa, but she had been excluded. Her not-quite husband was of a similar mind. He was a celebrity himself, after all. A real celebrity, not one of those poseurs who had wormed their way into the Antonovs’ dubious orbit. Soon he was making inquiries of his own about his new neighbor and the source of his considerable income. The more he heard, the more he became convinced that Monsieur Dmitri Antonov was a kindred spirit. He instructed his not-quite wife to extend another invitation. She replied that she would sooner slash her wrists than spend another minute in the company of that spoiled creature from the other side of the bay, or words to that effect.

And so the green-eyed man bided his time. He watched her every move and listened to her every word and read her every electronic missive. And he wondered whether she was worthy of his obsession. Was she the girl of his dreams, or would she break his operational heart? Would she surrender to him willingly, or would force be necessary? If so, he had force in abundance. Namely, the forty-eight blank canvases he had found in the Geneva Freeport. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He thought of her as a painting in desperate need of repair. He would offer his services. And if she was foolish enough to refuse him, it was possible things might get nasty.

By the second week of July he had seen and heard enough. Bastille Day was fast approaching, after which the final crush of the summer season would commence. But how to bridge the divide that he himself had created? Only a formal invitation, he decided, would do. He wrote it out himself, in a hand so precise it looked as though it had rolled off a laser printer, and gave it to Monsieur Carnot to deliver to the gallery in the Place de l’Ormeau. He did so at eleven fifteen on a perfect Proven?al morning, and by noon the following day they had received the answer they were hoping for. Jean-Luc Martel, hotelier, restaurateur, clothier, jeweler, and international dealer of illicit narcotics, was coming to Villa Soleil for lunch. And Olivia Watson, the girl of Gabriel’s dreams, was coming with him.

30

C?te d’Azur, France

“What do you think, darling? Gun or no gun?”

Mikhail was admiring himself in the full-length mirror in the dressing room. He wore a dark linen suit—too dark for the occasion and the weather, which was warm even by C?te d’Azur standards—and a crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned to the breastbone. Only his shoes, a pair of fifteen-hundred-euro drivers, which he wore with no socks, were entirely appropriate. Their gold clasps matched the gold wristwatch that lay on his wrist like a misplaced weather barometer. It had been handmade for him by his man in Geneva, a bargain at a million and a half.

“No gun,” said Natalie. “It might send the wrong message.”

She was standing next to him, her image reflected in the same mirror. She wore a sleeveless white dress and more jewelry than was necessary for an afternoon garden luncheon. Her skin was very dark from too much time in the sun. She thought it did not quite match the color of her hair, which had been lightened several shades before her departure from Tel Aviv.

“Do you think it would ever get boring?”

“What’s that?”

“Living like this.”

“I suppose that depends on the alternative.”

Just then, Natalie’s mobile vibrated.

“What is it?”

“Martel and Olivia have just departed their villa.”

Mikhail frowned at his wristwatch. “They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

“JLM time,” said Natalie.

The mobile vibrated a second time.

“What is it now?”

“It says we make a handsome couple.”

Natalie kissed Mikhail’s cheek and went out. Downstairs on the shaded terrace a trio of Alpha Group household servants was setting a luncheon table with inordinate care. At the opposite end of the terrace Christopher Keller was drinking rosé. Natalie tugged a Marlboro from his packet and addressed him in French.

“Can’t you even pretend to be a little nervous?”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to finally meeting him. Here he comes now.”

Natalie looked toward the horizon and saw a pair of black Range Rovers skirting the edge of the bay, one for Martel and Olivia, the other for their security detail. “Bodyguards at lunch,” she said with Madame Sophie’s disdain. “How gauche.” Then she lit the cigarette and smoked for a moment without coughing.

“You’re getting rather good at that.”

“It’s a filthy habit.”

“Better than some. In fact, I can think of several that are far worse.” Keller watched the approaching Range Rovers. “You really have to relax, Madame Sophie. It’s a party, after all.”