Page 99 of A Death in Cornwall

Missing from the data were the names of the superrich individuals behind the anonymous companies, the so-called beneficial owners. Those could be found in the safe at Harris Weber’s office in Monaco. Konrad Weber opened it at half past five that afternoon and, after attaching the offline storage device to the air-gapped computer, printed several documents. He placed them in his attaché case, then returned the storage device to the safe and locked the door.

The Swiss lawyer left the office, as usual, at the stroke of six o’clock. Ian Harris was gone by six fifteen, as were most of the senior associates and secretarial staff, but Trevor Robinson hung around until nearly seven. Lambert recorded the security chief’s departure, including the thirty seconds he spent waiting for the lift. The surveillance camera in the foyer was to Robinson’s left—his good side, thought Gabriel. With his square jaw and ample head of gray-blond hair, he looked considerably younger than his sixty-four years. There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest he had orchestrated the murder of three people to protect his firm and its clients. But then Gabriel had expected nothing less. A retired MI5 counterintelligence officer, Trevor Robinson was a liar and deceiver by trade.

By all appearances, however, Robinson was oblivious to the fact that his mobile phone was now infected with the Israeli malware known as Proteus. It allowed Gabriel and Lambert to listen in on two calls that Robinson placed during the short walk from the firm’s office to his apartment on the Avenue Princesse Grace. The first call was to an ex-wife in London named Ruth. The second was to their son, Alistair, who dispatched his father to voicemail. Robinson left a curt message—it expressed neither love nor affection—and cut the connection.

He received an incoming call at 9:05 p.m. while standing on his balcony overlooking the Plage du Larvotto, Monaco’s artificial beach. It was Brendan Taylor, the young associate who had drawn the short straw and was working late. Taylor informed Robinson that the Road Town office was now closed and that he was leaving for the night. Robinson asked Taylor whether the door to the file room was securely locked, and Taylor replied that it was. Then he switched off the lights and boarded the elevator. It was 9:10 p.m.

By then the wind was howling through the mountain valleys of northwestern Corsica and clawing at the tiles of Christopher’s roof. Of Christopher himself, however, there was still no sign. Gabriel placed several calls to his mobile phone, but there was no answer. A text message received no reply.

“Perhaps we should ring the signadora,” suggested Ingrid. “I’m sure she can locate him.”

“The signadora doesn’t have a phone.”

“How silly of me. But we have to tell someone that he’s missing.”

“Christopher is a world-class mountaineer and quite indestructible. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Ingrid went up to her room to shower and change and pack her bag. When she returned, Gabriel offered her a scopolamine patch. “Put it on now. You’ll thank me later.”

She adhered the patch behind her left ear and swallowed two tablets for good measure. Then she checked the time. It was ten fifteen.

“We’ll give him until ten thirty,” said Gabriel.

They waited until 10:45 instead. Gabriel placed a final call to Christopher before pulling on his coat. Then he looked at Lambert and said, “Whatever you do, don’t try to leave this villa. Otherwise, those two men outside will shoot you and bury you at sea in a concrete coffin.”

“Don’t worry, Monsieur Allon. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel smiled. “You’ll hear from me in the morning. Provided, of course, we don’t capsize and sink.”

He went into the windblown night and dropped behind the wheel of the rental car. René Monjean was sprawled in the back. Ingrid was in the passenger seat. She leaned close to the windscreen as the beam of the only functional headlamp illuminated the three ancient olive trees.

“Do you think something happened to him?” she asked.

“We can only hope.”

“I was talking about your friend.”

“So was I.” Gabriel slowed to a stop as Don Casabianca’s goat stepped from the macchia and blocked the path. “I thought we had resolved this situation.”

“Evidently not.”

“Say something to him in Danish again. He seems to respond to it.”

“Should I ask him if he knows where Christopher is?”

“Only if you want him to smash the other headlamp.”

Ingrid lowered her window and with a few soothing words persuaded the goat to move aside. Gabriel followed the road to the entrance of Villa Orsati and asked the guards whether they had seen Christopher. They informed him that the Englishman had dined alone with Don Orsati after a difficult ascent up Monte Cinto but was no longer at the estate.

“When did he leave?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Does he ever?”

Gabriel was tempted to ask Sarah Bancroft if she knew her husband’s whereabouts, but such a course of action would have violated the most basic precepts of his former trade. And so he drove down the treacherous western slope of the mountains by the light of a single headlamp and rolled into the tiny marina in Porto a few minutes after midnight. Which was when he spotted Christopher, still in his Gore-Tex climbing gear, sitting on the afterdeck of Mistral, a cigarette between his lips, a nylon overnight bag at his side. He pondered the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then looked at Gabriel and smiled.

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