Page 100 of A Death in Cornwall

“You’re late.”

“I thought you weren’t coming with us.”

“And miss all the fun? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Christopher flicked his cigarette into the oily waters of the marina. “Leave the key in that rental car of yours. And don’t worry about the smashed headlamp. His Holiness will take care of everything.”

***

They stowed their bags belowdecks and locked the drawers and cabinets in the galley. Then Gabriel and René Monjean climbed up to the flybridge and fired the engines. They headed due west across the choppy waters of the Golfe de Porto before turning to the north. The sea state deteriorated instantly. Ingrid felt a wave of nausea wash over her and decided to take her chances outside on the afterdeck. She found Christopher relaxing in the cockpit, as though the boat beneath him were gliding across a glassy ornamental pond.

“Feeling unwell?” he asked.

“A little. You?”

“Actually, I’m feeling rather guilty.”

“You should, Mr. Keller. You gave us quite a scare.”

“I was referring to the incident this afternoon at the pool.”

“When you asked Gabriel if we were having an affair?”

Christopher nodded. “The truth is, I knew you weren’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Gabriel is madly in love with his wife and children. He also happens to be the most decent and honorable man I’ve ever met.”

“And what about you, Mr. Keller? Are you decent and honorable?”

“I am now. But I still have a naughty streak.”

“So does Gabriel.”

“That he does,” said Christopher, and lit another cigarette.

40

Monaco

A bit nicer than Marseilles, wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Allon?”

“Actually, René, I’ve always had a soft spot for your hometown.”

“Too many criminals,” replied Monjean.

“I have a soft spot for them, too.”

They were approaching the entrance of Port Hercule, the larger of Monaco’s two harbors. The luxury apartment buildings lining the waterfront sparkled in the bright morning sunlight. A monstrous superyacht, perhaps a hundred meters in length, loomed over one of the quays.

Gabriel quickly searched the vessel’s name online. “It’s owned by a member of the Qatari royal family.”

“What does he do for all that money?”

“As little as possible, I imagine.”

A harbormaster in a whaler-type craft directed them to their berth. It was along a noisy quay lined with shops and restaurants. Gabriel connected his laptop to Mistral’s satellite Wi-Fi network, then rang Philippe Lambert in Corsica. Lambert was awake and monitoring Harris Weber’s internal surveillance cameras. At half past eight the office was still deserted.

Gabriel raised the volume on the audio feed from Trevor Robinson’s mobile phone and brewed a pot of coffee in the galley. Ingrid carried a cup belowdecks, where she hosed herself down in the cramped marine shower before changing into her dark pantsuit. René Monjean emerged from the owner’s berth dressed in jeans and a black pullover. Upstairs in the salon, Gabriel advised the French thief to do a bit of shopping while he was getting to know the neighborhood around Harris Weber’s office.

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