“Drugs.”

“Where did you first meet Jean-Luc Martel?”

“At a restaurant in Marseilles.”

“Who owned the restaurant?”

“Philippe Renard.”

“What was Renard’s real business?”

“Drugs.”

“Where is Philippe Renard now?”

“Dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“Jean-Luc Martel.”

“How did he kill him?”

“With a hammer.”

“What does Jean-Luc Martel do now?”

“He owns several restaurants, hotels, and retail businesses.”

“What is his real business?”

“Drugs,” said René Devereaux.

They put in at Ajaccio at half past nine. From there it was only a pleasant walk around the curving shoreline of the gulf to the airport. The next flight for Marseilles departed at noon. Keller arrived at eleven fifteen, having stopped for a late breakfast and to purchase a change of clothing. He dressed in an airport washroom and then cleared security with no possessions other than his wallet, a British passport, and his MI6 mobile. On it was a compressed and heavily encrypted video of René Devereaux’s interrogation. At that moment it was perhaps the most important single piece of intelligence in the global war on terrorism.

Keller switched off the phone before takeoff and did not turn it on again until he was walking through the terminal in Marseilles. Mikhail was waiting outside, in the back of Dmitri Antonov’s Maybach. Yaakov Rossman was behind the wheel. They listened to the interrogation through the car’s magnificent sound system while heading eastward on the Autoroute.

“You missed your true calling,” said Mikhail. “You should have been a television interviewer. Or a grand inquisitor.”

“Repent, my son.”

“Think he will?”

“Martel? Not without a fight.”

“There’s no way he can hide from this video. He’s ours now.”

“We’ll see,” said Keller.

It was approaching four in the afternoon by the time the Maybach turned through the gate of the safe house in Ramatuelle. Entering, Keller transferred the video file into the main operational computer network. A moment later René Devereaux’s face appeared on the monitors.

“Where is Philippe Renard now?”

“Dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“Jean-Luc Martel.”

“How did he kill him?”

“With a hammer.”

And on it went for the better part of two hours. Names, dates, places, routes, methods, money . . . It all came down to money. Under Keller’s relentless questioning—and the threat, unseen on the video, of the hammer—René Devereaux surrendered the network’s most precious secrets. How the money was collected from the street-level dealers. How the money was loaded into the laundry that was JLM Enterprises. And how, once it was cleaned and pressed, it was dispersed. The detail was granular, high resolution. There was no hiding from it. Jean-Luc Martel was in their sights. But who would be the one to offer a lifeline? Paul Rousseau declared it would be him. Martel, he said, was a French problem. Only a French solution would do.

And so, with Gabriel’s help, Rousseau prepared an edited clip of the interrogation, thirty-three seconds in length. It was a teaser, an appetizer. “A love tap,” as Gabriel called it. Martel was holding court in the bar of his restaurant in the Old Port when it appeared on his phone via an anonymous text. The phone itself was thoroughly compromised, allowing Gabriel and Rousseau and the rest of the team to watch the many shades of Martel’s rising alarm as he viewed it. A second video appeared a few seconds later, just for good measure. It depicted a brief sexual encounter between Martel and Monique, Olivia’s receptionist at the gallery. It had been shot with the same phone Martel now held in his hand, which, from the team’s unique perspective, appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.

It was at this point that Rousseau dialed Martel directly. Not surprisingly, he did not answer, leaving Rousseau no option but to offer his terms in a voice message. They were the equivalent of unconditional surrender. Jean-Luc Martel was to present himself forthwith at Villa Soleil, alone, with no bodyguards. Any attempt to escape, warned Rousseau, would be thwarted. His planes and helicopters would be grounded, his 142-foot motor yacht would be stranded in port. “Obviously,” said Rousseau, “your movements and communications are being monitored. You have one opportunity to avoid arrest and ruin. I’d advise you to take it.”

With that, Rousseau terminated the call. Five minutes elapsed before Martel listened to the message. At which point the wait began. Gabriel stood before the monitors, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side, while in the garden Christopher Keller smashed his MI6 phone to bits with a hammer. Rousseau watched from the French doors. He would give Martel one chance to save himself. He only hoped he was wise enough to take it.

38

C?te d’Azur, France

This time they left the gate open for him, though at Gabriel’s suggestion they blocked the road beyond Villa Soleil, lest he have a change of heart and try to make a run for it westward along the C?te d’Azur. He arrived, alone, at nine fifteen that same night, after a series of tense phone calls with Paul Rousseau. His appearance at the villa, he claimed, was by no means an admission of anything. He did not know the man in the video, his claims were ludicrous. His business was hospitality and luxury retail, not drugs, and anyone who claimed otherwise would face serious legal consequences. In response, Rousseau made it clear that this was not a legal question but a matter involving French national security. Martel, during a final tense exchange, actually sounded intrigued. He demanded to bring a lawyer. “No lawyers,” said Rousseau. “They only get in the way.”