Page 79 of A Death in Cornwall

Gabriel made the introductions, first names only, then asked about the marine forecast.

“The wind is starting to blow,” said Monjean. “But it shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll have you there in ten hours, twelve at the most.”

“Twelve hours?” asked Lambert. “Where are you taking me?”

“Libya,” said Gabriel, and went into the boat’s small but comfortable salon.

Monjean gave them a quick briefing. “There’s a head down below and two berths.” He tapped the stainless-steel door of the fridge. “And plenty of beer and wine.”

With that, Monjean headed up to the flybridge. As the boat eased away from the jetty, Gabriel offered Ingrid the scopolamine. She opened the fridge instead and pried the cap from a bottle of Kronenbourg.

“What sort of jobs did Pascal Rameau do for you back in the day?”

“The kind I couldn’t do for myself.”

“Did our captain take part in these robberies?”

“Absolutely. There’s nobody better than René Monjean.”

“Has he ever pulled a heist in Moscow?” Ingrid drank her beer and smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

***

Monjean rounded Île Pomègues, the largest of the four islands at the entrance of the Port of Marseilles, and made for Planier Light. There he turned to the southeast and brought their speed up to a comfortable twenty-five knots. The wind was steady from the north, the seas were moderate. Gabriel and Ingrid drank Kronenbourg on the afterdeck and watched the setting sun while Lambert chain-smoked Winstons. Three times he asked Gabriel to reveal their destination, only to receive three different replies. Gabriel in turn pressed Lambert for additional information on the man he had referred to as Monsieur Robinson. Lambert, cupping his hand over the flame of a plastic lighter, revealed that Robinson’s first name was Trevor and that he was the head of security at a small law firm with offices in Monaco and the British Virgin Islands.

“Firm have a name?”

“Not yet, Monsieur Allon.”

By half past eight the last light of sunset was gone, and a three-quarter moon shone like a torch in the cloudless sky. The wind picked up, the air turned colder, the swells exceeded a meter in height. Ingrid went into the salon and reluctantly swallowed a dose of the scopolamine and adhered a patch to the side of her neck. Then she unwrapped the sandwiches that Gabriel had bought in Marseilles and pulled the cork from a bottle of rosé.

“Dinner is served,” she called out, and Gabriel and Lambert came in from the afterdeck. René Monjean switched on the Garmin autopilot and the AIS collision alarm and joined them in the galley. The unlikely circumstances of the gathering made serious conversation impossible, so they engaged in polite small talk and listened to Melody Gardot on Monjean’s onboard audio system. It was a recent acquisition, he explained, part of a major overhaul of Mistral he had carried out that winter. He said nothing as to how he had financed the project, and Gabriel, who was certain he knew the answer, didn’t ask. René Monjean wasn’t terribly particular about what he stole, but he specialized in the illicit acquisition of paintings.

By ten thirty he was back at the controls in the main helm station with a thermos of strong coffee to get him through the night. Ingrid and Lambert took the berths, and Gabriel stretched out on the convertible bed in the salon. Exhausted, he slept until seven. He found René Monjean up on the flybridge in the cold morning air.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Allon.” Monjean pointed out a rocky island about two kilometers off the prow. “Île de Mezzu Mare. You and your friends will be on solid ground in about a half hour.”

Gabriel went down to the galley. Ingrid, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, emerged from belowdecks. She sat down at the table and rubbed her eyes.

“For some reason, they hurt like hell.”

“It’s a side effect of the scopolamine.”

“How much longer do you intend to make me stay on this boat?”

“A few more minutes.”

“And then?”

“A scenic drive through the mountains.”

“Wonderful.” Ingrid drank some of the coffee. “Is it my imagination, or do I smell rosemary and lavender?”

“I’m sure it’s only the scopolamine.”

Ingrid took up the packet and read the warning label. “Eyelid irritation, headache, feelings of restlessness, and problems with memory. But nothing at all about rosemary and lavender.”

***

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