Page 76 of A Death in Cornwall

Gabriel looked at Lambert and said, “Let’s go.”

They headed down the stairs to the foyer. Gabriel opened the door and peered into the street. Ingrid, having settled the bill, was waiting at the entrance of the hotel.

“Shall we?” she asked.

They all three stepped into the rue d’Antibes at the same instant and climbed into the waiting car—Lambert in back, Ingrid in the passenger seat, Gabriel behind the wheel. He waited until the car was rolling before closing his door. Ingrid removed the Bose Ultras from her ears and took a long look over her shoulder.

“No sign of him.”

“For the moment,” said Gabriel, and headed for the Vieux Port. They shot past La Pizza Cresci in a blur, then raced westward along the crescent of golden sand rimming the Baie de Cannes. Gabriel glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a motorcyclist following about fifty meters behind them.

“You were saying,” he remarked.

Ingrid turned to have a look for herself. “Could be a different motorcyclist.”

“It isn’t,” said Gabriel. “Same motorcyclist.”

***

During the short drive to the Autoroute, Gabriel performed a series of time-tested maneuvers designed to expose vehicle-borne surveillance, just to make certain there were no misunderstandings. The man on the motorcycle matched him turn for turn.

“Doesn’t that idiot know who I am?”

“Perhaps he’s heard about this new leaf of yours.”

“Rest assured, it’s now old and dry and lying on the ground.”

“Do you have a gun, by any chance?”

“It’s possible I forgot to pack one.”

Gabriel followed the westbound ramp onto the Autoroute and pressed the throttle to the floor. Soon they were sailing along at 150 kilometers per hour with the man on the motorcycle in close pursuit.

“What do you suppose he’s planning to do?” asked Ingrid.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll shoot Philippe and leave us in peace.”

“And if we’re not?”

“He’ll kill us all.” Gabriel met Lambert’s anxious gaze in the rearview mirror. “Which is why I have no choice but to encourage him to shoot Philippe.”

They continued west for another forty kilometers across a rugged Provençal landscape dotted with umbrella pine. Then, at the village of Le Muy, Gabriel turned onto the D25 and headed south toward Saint-Tropez. The road was nearly empty of traffic.

“What on earth is he waiting for?” asked Ingrid.

“If I had to guess, he’s hoping I’ll make a mistake.”

“Like what?”

“This,” said Gabriel, and swerved onto the D44. It was a narrow, treacherous road that snaked its way through the sparsely inhabited hills north of Saint-Tropez. There was no centerline on the tarmac, and no verge or guardrails. On the right side of the road rose a rocky and unstable ridge. A deep ravine fell away to the left.

Gabriel drove dangerously fast, his grip light upon the wheel, his foot never once touching the brake. Ingrid and Lambert kept watch on the man on the motorcycle. He had no trouble matching Gabriel’s speed.

They flashed past a hotel and the entrance of a winery, then scaled the slope of a hill and raced along the rim of a small valley of vineyards and olive groves. The bike accelerated and closed to within thirty meters of the car’s rear bumper.

“It looks as though he’s making his move,” said Ingrid.

Gabriel glanced into the rearview. For the moment, at least, the assassin had both hands on the controls. “It’s not so easily done, you know.”

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