“Jean-Luc Martel and I come from the same part of France. I’m afraid he’s going to look at me and see a Jewish girl from Marseilles.”

“He’s going to see whatever you want him to see. Besides,” said Keller, “if you can convince Saladin that you’re a Palestinian, you can do anything.”

Natalie suppressed a cough and watched the Alpha Group servants putting the finishing touches on the table.

“Why candles?” she murmured. “We’re doomed.”

During the final hours of preparation for the long-awaited meeting between Jean-Luc Martel and Monsieur Dmitri Antonov, there had been an unusually heated debate between Gabriel and Paul Rousseau over what seemed to be a trivial detail. Specifically, whether the imposing gate of Villa Soleil should be open to Martel’s arrival or left closed, thus placing before him one final metaphorical hurdle to clear. Rousseau lobbied in favor of a welcoming approach—Martel, he argued, had suffered enough. But Gabriel was in a less forgiving mood, and after a quarrel of several minutes he prevailed upon Rousseau to leave the gate closed. “And make him ring the bell like everyone else,” said Gabriel. “As far as Dmitri Antonov is concerned, Martel is kitchen help. It’s important we treat him as such.”

And so it was that, at twenty-nine minutes past one o’clock, Martel’s driver had to press the intercom button not once but twice before Villa Soleil’s gate finally opened with an inhospitable groan. Roland Girard, in a dark suit and tie, roasted slowly in the sun-drowned forecourt, a radio to his ear. Thus, it was the face of an Alpha Group operative, not his host’s, that Martel saw when he emerged from the back of his vehicle, dressed in a wedding-cake-white poplin suit, his trademark mane of hair twisting in the eddies of hot wind that swirled and died around the dancing waters of the fountain. Six cameras recorded his arrival, and the transmitter worn by Roland Girard captured a tense exchange concerning the fate of his bodyguards. It seemed Martel wanted them to accompany him into the villa, a request Girard politely but firmly denied. Incensed, Martel turned away and struck out across the court with a predatory swiftness, his manner that of a gangster entrepreneur, a rock-star hoodlum. Olivia was at that point an afterthought. She followed a few paces behind as though already preparing her apologies for his conduct.

By then, the Antonovs were standing in the shade of the portico, posed as if for a photograph, which was indeed the case. The greetings were gender-based. Madame Sophie welcomed Olivia Watson as though the frigid encounter outside the gallery had never occurred, while Martel and Dmitri Antonov shook hands like opponents preparing to thrash one another on the field of play. Through a tight smile, Martel said he had heard much about Monsieur Antonov and was pleased to finally make his acquaintance. He did so in English, which suggested he was aware of the fact that Monsieur Antonov did not speak French.

“Your villa is quite magnificent. But I’m sure you know its history.”

“I’m told it was once owned by a member of the British royal family.”

“I was referring to Ivan Kharkov.”

“Actually, it was one of the reasons why I agreed to take it off the hands of the French government.”

“You knew Monsieur Kharkov?”

“I’m afraid Ivan and I moved in rather different circles.”

“I knew him quite well,” boasted Martel as he walked next to his host across the villa’s main hall, trailed by Madame Sophie and Olivia and watched by the unblinking eyes of the surveillance cameras. “I entertained the Kharkovs many times in my restaurants in Saint-Tropez and Paris. It was terrible, the way he died.”

“The Israelis were behind it. At least that was the rumor.”

“It was more than just a rumor.”

“You sound rather sure of yourself.”

“There isn’t much that happens on the C?te d’Azur that I don’t know about.”

They went onto the terrace, where the last member of the luncheon party waited among the colonnades.

“Jean-Luc Martel, I’d like you to meet Nicolas Carnot. Nicolas is my closest aide and adviser. He’s from Corsica originally, but don’t hold that against him.”

In the villa outside Ramatuelle, Gabriel watched intently as Jean-Luc Martel accepted the outstretched hand. There followed a tense few seconds as the two men took stock of one another as only creatures of similar birth, upbringing, and career aspirations can do. Clearly, Martel saw something he recognized in the hard-looking man from the island of Corsica. He introduced Monsieur Carnot to Olivia, who explained that they had met on two previous occasions at the gallery. But Martel didn’t seem to hear her; he was admiring the bottle of Bandol rosé sweating in the ice bucket. His approval of the wine was no accident. It was featured prominently at all his bars and restaurants. Gabriel had ordered enough of the stuff to float a cargo ship filled with hashish.

At Madame Sophie’s suggestion, they sat down on the couches and chairs arrayed at the far end of the terrace. She was cool and distant, an observer, like Gabriel. He was standing before the video monitors with his head tilted slightly to one side and a hand resting on his chin. The other he pressed to the small of his back, which was giving him fits. Eli Lavon stood next to him, and next to Lavon was Paul Rousseau. They watched anxiously as an officer of the Alpha Group, clad in a spotless white tunic, removed an exhausted bottle of rosé from the ice bucket and successfully replaced it with a fresh one. Quietly, Madame Sophie instructed him to bring the savories. This, too, he accomplished without casualties or collateral damage. Relieved, Paul Rousseau loaded a pipe and blew a cloud of smoke at the video screens. Madame Sophie appeared relieved, too. She lit a Gitane and, with thumb and ring finger, discreetly picked a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue.