Page 103 of A Death in Cornwall

They returned to Mistral shortly after noon to find that Gabriel and Christopher had prepared lunch. They dined on the sunlit afterdeck in the manner of four friends on holiday while monitoring the audio feed from Trevor Robinson’s phone. The former MI5 officer was lunching at Le Louis XV with the head of HSBC’s wealth management division. The topic of conversation was the prospect of data loss and exposure. Robinson assured the HSBC executive that the firm’s most sensitive files were offline and entirely inaccessible.

“There will be no spillage from Harris Weber & Company,” he promised. “You and your bank have absolutely nothing to fear.”

Ingrid helped René Monjean with the dishes, then repaired to her berth for a few hours of sleep. For the first time in many years, Lars Hansen visited her in her dreams, though this time the encounter took place in a lavender-scented grove of towering laricio pine trees. When she returned home, her mother pointed at her in the Corsican way and screamed, “Occhju.”

She woke with a start to find her berth in semidarkness. It was nearly seven thirty. She gave herself a quick rinse in the marine shower, then put her hair in order and dressed in the same dark pantsuit. Next she packed her handbag. Her laptop was fully charged, but she added a power cord nonetheless, along with the two external hard drives. She carried no wallet or identification, only her phone and a wad of cash. After a moment of deliberation, she tossed in her bump keys and screwdriver, more out of habit than anything else. The automatic combination dialer and rare-earth magnet were in René Monjean’s attaché case.

Upstairs in the galley, Ingrid poured herself a cup of coffee from the thermos flask. Gabriel was seated at the table, a phone at his elbow, laptop open. From the speakers came the sound of Trevor Robinson’s voice. In the background was a low multilingual murmur.

“Where is he?”

“The Crystal Bar at the Hôtel Hermitage. Brendan Taylor is minding the store.”

“Did anyone open the safe this afternoon?”

“Ian Harris. He returned the storage device when he was finished.”

“Did you happen to see the passcode?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “But I’m guessing it’s nine, two, eight, seven, four, six.”

Christopher and René Monjean were outside on the afterdeck. Monjean looked faintly ridiculous in his blazer and trousers—like a thief pretending to be a businessman. Christopher, in his tailored Savile Row suit, looked like the real thing. Ingrid helped herself to one of his Marlboros. The combination of caffeine and nicotine raised her heart rate and blood pressure, but she still felt unusually serene. There was no tingling in her fingertips, no fever.

She smoked the last of the cigarette and then returned to the salon. Trevor Robinson had left the Crystal Bar and was walking along the Avenue Princesse Grace toward his apartment. Brendan Taylor was playing solitaire on his computer at Harris Weber. The two men spoke at 9:05 p.m. Robinson asked Taylor whether the file room was locked. Taylor told Robinson that it was.

The young associate left the office at 9:09 p.m., but Gabriel waited until nine thirty to dispatch his operational team. Christopher departed Mistral first, followed ten minutes later by Ingrid and René Monjean. As they walked along the Avenue de Monte-Carlo, Ingrid allowed her eyes to wander over the costly goods displayed in the shop windows. Once the very sight of such luxuries would have set her ablaze. Now, strangely, she felt nothing at all.

41

Boulevard des Moulins

The two outdoor tables at La Royale were both unoccupied. Christopher sat down at one, ordered coffee and a cognac, struck his Dunhill lighter, leaned a Marlboro into the flame. Only then did he ring Gabriel.

“Comfortable?” inquired his old friend.

“Never better.”

“Our associates are headed your way.”

Christopher looked to the left and saw Ingrid and René Monjean walking along the pavement on the opposite side of the boulevard. There was not another pedestrian in sight—and no officers of the Sûreté Publique de Monaco, either.

“Are we a go?” asked Gabriel.

“I believe we are.”

Ingrid and Monjean paused at the entrance of Number 41. So quiet was the boulevard that Christopher, from his observation post at the café, could hear the thud of the dead bolt. Only then did he take a first nip of the cognac.

They were off to a fine start.

***

Ingrid and Monjean crossed the half-lit lobby to the building’s only lift. There was no need to press the call button; Philippe Lambert, a hundred miles to the south in the mountains of Corsica, had already summoned the carriage. Ingrid gazed directly into the surveillance camera during the slow ascent to the fourth floor.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Just fine,” replied Gabriel. “But who’s that unsavory-looking fellow standing next to you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

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