“Watson. My name is Olivia Watson. And, yes,” she said after a moment, “I believe we have a deal.”

They talked late into the afternoon, as the heat relented and the shadows grew long and thin in the garden and in the grove of silvery olive trees that climbed the next hillside. The circumstances of her repatriation to the United Kingdom. The manner in which she should conduct herself in Jean-Luc’s presence during the days to come. The procedures she should follow in the case of some unforeseen emergency. The green-eyed Israeli referred to this as the break-the-glass plan and warned Olivia that it was to be engaged only in the event of extreme danger, for it would necessarily wipe out a great deal of time and effort and waste untold millions in operational expenses.

Only then did he ask Olivia for the name. The name of the man whom Jean-Luc trusted to run his multibillion-euro narcotics empire. The dirty side of JLM Enterprises, as the Israeli called it. The side that made everything else—the restaurants, the hotels, the boutiques and shops, the art gallery in the Place de l’Ormeau—possible. The first time Olivia uttered it, she did so softly, as though a hand were squeezing her throat. The Israeli asked her to repeat the name and, hearing it clearly, exchanged a long, speculative glance with Paul Rousseau. At length, Rousseau nodded slowly and then resumed contemplating his dormant pipe while on the other side of the room Nicolas Carnot returned the volume of Bowles to its original place on the shelf.

After that, there was no more discussion of drugs or terror or the real reason why Olivia had been brought to the modest villa outside Ramatuelle. Monsieur Antonov materialized, all smiles and Russian-accented bonhomie, and together they arranged the transfer of fifty million euros from his accounts to the gallery’s. A bottle of champagne was opened to celebrate the sale. Olivia did not drink from the glass that was placed in her hand. The Israeli did not touch his glass, either. He was, thought Olivia, a man of admirable discipline.

Shortly after six o’clock, Nicolas Carnot returned her mobile phone. Precisely when he had taken it Olivia did not know. She reckoned he had plucked it from her handbag during the drive from Saint-Tropez. Glancing at the screen, she saw several text messages that had come through during her interrogation. The last was from Jean-Luc. It had arrived only a moment earlier. It said he was about to board his helicopter and would be home within the hour.

Olivia looked up, alarmed. “What should I say to him?”

“What would you usually say?” asked the Israeli.

“I’d tell him to have a safe trip.”

“Then please do so. And you might want to mention that you have a fifty-million-euro surprise for him. That should brighten his mood. But don’t give away too much. We wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

Olivia thumbed a response into the text box and held it up for him to see.

“Nicely done.”

She tapped it into the ether.

“Time for you to be leaving,” said the Israeli. “We wouldn’t want your carriage to turn into a pumpkin, would we?”

Outside, a few windblown clouds were moving swiftly across the evening sky. Nicolas Carnot spoke only French during the drive south to the Baie de Cavalaire, and only of Monsieur Antonov and the paintings. They were to be delivered to Villa Soleil immediately upon receipt of the money. Madame Sophie, he said, had already chosen the spot where they would hang.

“She loathes me,” said Olivia.

“She’s not so bad once you get to know her.”

“Is she French?”

“What else would she be?”

The Antonovs lived on the western side of the bay, Jean-Luc and Olivia in the east. As they were nearing the little Spar market on the corner of the boulevard Saint-Michel, Monsieur Carnot instructed her to stop. He squeezed her hand tightly and in English assured her that she had nothing to fear, that she was doing the right thing. Then he bade her a pleasant evening and, smiling as though nothing unusual had occurred that afternoon, climbed out. When she saw him last it was in the rearview mirror, speeding in the opposite direction atop a small motorcycle. Fleeing the scene of a crime, she thought.

Olivia continued eastward along the rim of the bay and a few minutes later entered the luxurious villa she shared with the man whom she had just betrayed. In the kitchen she poured herself a large glass of rosé and carried it outside onto the terrace. Through the sharp glare of the setting sun she could make out the faint outlines of Monsieur Antonov’s monstrous villa. Presently, her mobile phone trembled. She stared at the screen. home in five . . . what’s the surprise? “The surprise,” she said aloud, “is that your Russian friend and his bitch of a wife just wrote me a check for fifty million euros.” She said it again and again, until even she believed it was true.

35

Marseilles, France

At 11:45 the following morning, the sum of fifty million euros appeared in the account of Galerie Olivia Watson, 9 Place de l’Ormeau, Saint-Tropez, France. The money did not have to travel far, as both sender and recipient did their banking at HSBC on the boulevard Haussmann in Paris. By midafternoon it was resting comfortably in a renowned Swiss bank in Geneva, in an account controlled by JLM Enterprises. And at five o’clock, two paintings—one by Guston, the other by Basquiat—were delivered by unmarked van to Villa Soleil. Olivia Watson followed in her black Range Rover. In the entrance hall she passed Christopher Keller, who was on his way out. He kissed her lavishly on both cheeks, commented on her appearance, which was dazzling, and then climbed onto his Peugeot Satelis motorbike. A moment later he was racing westward along the shore of the Mediterranean.