Page 78 of A Death in Cornwall

“Whose?”

“Mine, of course. Only a fool would come to Marseilles without a gun.”

They plunged into the Prado-Carénage Tunnel and emerged a moment later at the bustling port. It was much larger than its counterpart in Cannes and had a well-deserved reputation for criminality, which was the reason Gabriel had come there. He slid the car into an illegal parking space on the Quai de Rive Neuve and turned to face Philippe Lambert.

“I need some cash.”

“For what?”

Gabriel indicated the fishmongers plying their trade in the esplanade on the port’s eastern flank. “A thousand should do.”

“For fish?” The Frenchman removed a bundle of twenty-euro banknotes from his suitcase and handed it over. “It had better be the finest fish in all of France, Monsieur Allon.”

“Trust me, Philippe. You won’t be disappointed.”

Ingrid watched as Gabriel climbed out of the car and walked over to one of the fishmongers, a gray-haired man in a tattered wool sweater and a rubber apron. A brief conversation ensued and the money changed hands. Then Gabriel returned to the car and dropped behind the wheel.

“Who is that man?” asked Ingrid.

“His name is Pascal Rameau.”

“Is he an actual fisherman?”

“Yes, of course. But he has other business interests as well, all of them criminal in nature.”

“Such as?”

“Theft, for one. With all due respect, Pascal and his crew are without question the finest thieves in Europe. They pulled a couple of jobs for me back in the day.”

“Why did you just give him a thousand euros?”

“Transport.”

Rameau was now holding a phone to his ear. He caught Gabriel’s eye and pointed to a spot along the quay. Gabriel hit the trunk release and opened his door.

“What about the car?” asked Ingrid.

“One of Pascal’s men will drop it at Hertz.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

Luggage in hand, they set off along the quay. Gabriel purchased a dozen sandwiches at a boulangerie, then ducked into the pharmacy next door for scopolamine patches and tablets.

“I don’t suffer from seasickness,” protested Ingrid.

“You will if the seas are running two to three meters.”

“What about you?”

“I never get seasick.”

He led Ingrid and Lambert across the street and onto a jetty stretching toward the center of the harbor. Near the end of the dock was a twelve-meter motor yacht called Mistral. The owner of the vessel, a man named René Monjean, was standing on the afterdeck in a Helly Hansen offshore jacket.

“Long time, no see, Monsieur Allon.” He shook Gabriel’s hand warmly. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Someone is trying to kill my friend. I need to get him off the mainland as quietly as possible.”

Monjean smiled. “You’ve come to the right place.”

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