Page 74 of A Death in Cornwall

The hacker was about twenty meters from the café. He passed within a few inches of Gabriel’s table, then headed diagonally across the street toward the apartment building. At the residential entrance he reached a hand toward the intercom panel, but a sudden noise made him swing his head to the left before entering the passcode. Gabriel heard the same noise. It was the roar of a high-performance motorcycle racing along the rue d’Antibes.

A look of fear swept over the hacker’s face. He reached for the keypad a second time and in his haste entered the passcode incorrectly. The bike was perhaps fifty meters away and closing fast. Gabriel slid a ten-euro banknote beneath the remnants of his café crème and stepped calmly into the middle of the street. The motorcyclist sounded his horn and applied his brakes, slowing his speed only marginally. Gabriel looked at the hacker and in French shouted, “Five, one, seven, nine, zero, two, eight, six.”

This time the hacker entered the passcode correctly, and the dead bolt snapped. Gabriel pivoted toward the motorcycle bearing down on him and saw the helmeted man atop the saddle draw a gun from the inside of his leather coat. The weapon had no suppressor. Silence, it seemed, was not a priority.

The motorcyclist pointed the gun in the direction of the man standing frozen with fear at the entrance of the apartment building. Gabriel held his ground for another second or two, then stepped from the path of the speeding machine and shoved the hacker through the unlocked door. They came to rest in a heap in the foyer. Outside, the motorcycle sped past the building without slowing. The engine note faded and a moment later was gone.

The hacker was sprawled supine on the tile floor. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head, then checked the tips of his fingers. There was no blood.

“Are you all right?” asked Gabriel.

“Oui. It’s just a bit of a bump.” He offered Gabriel his hand. “I’m Philippe, by the way. Who are you?”

“I’m the man who just saved your life.”

“And I cannot thank you enough, Monsieur. But how did you know the passcode for my building?”

“Come upstairs,” said Gabriel. “I’ll show you.”

31

Rue d’Antibes

Ingrid was waiting on the landing outside the hacker’s apartment. On Gabriel’s signal, she unlocked the door with her bump key and screwdriver. Then she stepped aside and gave the hacker a beguiling smile.

“Après vous.”

The hacker looked to Gabriel for an explanation and, receiving only a blank stare, went hesitantly into the darkened entrance hall. Ingrid silenced the bleating alarm by entering the disarm code into the control panel. Gabriel closed the door and switched on the lights.

The display had its intended effect. The hacker looked at Gabriel and asked, “Who are you?”

“You may refer to me as Monsieur Klemp.”

“You’re German?”

“When the mood strikes me.”

The hacker’s gaze shifted to Ingrid. “And her?”

“My associate.”

“Does she have a name?”

“I’m more interested in yours,” replied Gabriel.

“I told you, it’s Philippe.”

“Philippe what?”

“Lambert.”

“Are you carrying a weapon, Philippe Lambert?”

“Non.”

Gabriel pushed the hacker face-first against the wall and subjected him to a thorough search. He found nothing but a second phone and a billfold. The driver’s permit and credit cards all bore the name Philippe Lambert.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

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