The English Girl

“Told by whom?”

“Paul, of course. Didn’t he tell you I was coming to see you?”

“Paul?”

“Yes, Paul,” said Gabriel assuredly. “The man who hired you to deliver the package from Corsica to the mainland. He said you were the best he’d ever seen. He said that if I ever needed someone to transport valuable goods, you were the person to handle the job.”

On the Frenchman’s face, Gabriel saw several competing reactions: confusion, apprehension, and, of course, greed. In the end, greed emerged victorious. He stepped aside and with a movement of his eyes invited Gabriel to enter. Gabriel took two languid steps forward while scanning the interior of the cabin for Lacroix’s gym bag. It was lying on a tabletop next to a bottle of Pernod.

“Do you mind?” asked Gabriel, nodding toward the open door. “It’s not the sort of thing I want your neighbors to hear.”

Lacroix hesitated for a moment. Then he walked over to the door and closed it. Gabriel positioned himself next to the table where the gym bag lay.

“What kind of job is it?” asked Lacroix, turning around.

“A very simple one. In fact, it will only take a few minutes.”

“How much?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel, feigning bewilderment.

“How much money are you offering?” asked Lacroix, rubbing his first two fingers against his thumb.

“I’m offering you something much more valuable than money.”

“What’s that?”

“Your life,” said Gabriel. “You see, Marcel, you’re going to tell me what your friend Paul did with the English girl. And if you don’t, I’m going to cut you to pieces and use you as chum.”

The Israeli martial arts discipline known as Krav Maga is not known for its gracefulness, but then it was not designed with aesthetics in mind. Its sole purpose is to incapacitate or kill an adversary as quickly as possible. Unlike many Eastern disciplines, it does not frown upon the use of heavy objects to ward off an attacker of superior size and strength. In fact, instructors encourage their students to use whatever objects they have at their disposal to defend themselves. David did not grapple with Goliath, they are fond of saying. David hit Goliath with a rock. And only then did he cut off his head.

Gabriel chose not a rock but the bottle of Pernod, which he seized by the neck and hurled, daggerlike, toward the charging figure of Marcel Lacroix. Fittingly, it struck him in the center of the forehead, opening a deep horizontal gash just above the ridge of his heavy brow. Unlike Goliath, who instantly toppled onto his face, Lacroix managed to remain on his feet, though just barely. Gabriel lunged forward and drove a knee into the Frenchman’s unprotected groin. From there, he worked his way violently upward, pummeling Lacroix’s midsection before breaking his jaw with a well-placed elbow. A second elbow, delivered to the temple, put Lacroix on the floor. Gabriel reached down and touched the side of the Frenchman’s neck to make certain he still had a pulse. Then, looking up, he saw Keller standing in the doorway, smiling. “Very impressive,” he said. “The Pernod was a lovely touch.”

11 (#ulink_5fa53d6d-32ef-5334-9ac2-e3920338e848)

OFF MARSEILLES (#ulink_5fa53d6d-32ef-5334-9ac2-e3920338e848)

THE RAIN DIED at sunset but the mistral blew without remorse long after dark. It sang in the riggings of the boats huddled in the Old Port and chased round the decks of Moondance as Keller guided it expertly out to sea. Gabriel remained by his side on the flying bridge until they were clear of the harbor. Then he headed downstairs to the main salon where Marcel Lacroix lay facedown on the floor, bound, gagged, and blinded by silver duct tape. Gabriel rolled the Frenchman onto his back and tore away the blinding layer of tape with a single rough movement. Lacroix had regained consciousness; in his eyes there was no sign of fear, only rage. Keller had been right. The Frenchman did not frighten easily.

Gabriel reapplied the duct tape blindfold and commenced a thorough search of the entire craft, beginning in the main salon and concluding in Lacroix’s stateroom. It produced a cache of illegal narcotics, approximately sixty thousand euros in cash, false passports and French driver’s permits in four different names, a hundred stolen credit cards, nine disposable cellular phones, an elaborate collection of print and electronic pornography, and a receipt with a telephone number scrawled on the back. The receipt was from a place called Bar du Haut on boulevard Jean Jaurès in Rognac, a working-class town north of Marseilles, not far from the airport. Gabriel had passed through it once in another lifetime. That was the kind of town Rognac was, a way station on a road to somewhere else.

Gabriel checked the date on the receipt. Then he searched the calling histories of the nine cell phones for the number written on the back. He found it on three of the phones. In fact, Lacroix had called it twice that morning using two different devices.

Gabriel slipped the cell phones, the receipt, and the cash into a nylon rucksack and returned to the main salon. Once again he tore the duct tape from Lacroix’s eyes, but this time he removed the gag as well. Lacroix’s face was now heavily distorted from the swelling caused by the broken jaw. Gabriel squeezed it tightly as he stared into the Frenchman’s eyes.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, Marcel. You have one chance to tell me the truth. Do you understand?” Gabriel asked, squeezing a little harder. “One chance.”

Lacroix made no response other than to groan in pain.

“One chance,” Gabriel said again, holding up his index finger to emphasize the point. “Are you listening?”

Lacroix said nothing.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Gabriel. “Now, Marcel, I want you to tell me the names of the men who are holding the girl. And then I want you to tell me where I can find them.”

“I don’t know anything about a girl.”

“You’re lying, Marcel.”

“No, I swear—”

Before Lacroix could utter another word, Gabriel silenced him by sealing his mouth once again. Next he wrapped several feet of additional tape around the Frenchman’s head until only his nostrils were visible. Belowdecks he retrieved a length of nylon rope from a storage cabinet. Then he headed back upstairs to the flying bridge. Keller was clutching the wheel with both hands and squinting through the window at the turbulent seas.

“How’s it going down there?” he asked.

“Surprisingly, I wasn’t able to persuade him to cooperate.”

“What’s the rope for?”

“Additional persuasion.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Reduce speed and put us on autopilot.”

Keller did as instructed and followed Gabriel down to the main salon. There they found Lacroix in obvious distress, his chest heaving as he struggled for air through the duct tape helmet. Gabriel rolled him onto his stomach and fed the nylon line through the bindings at his feet and ankles. After securing the line with a tight knot, he dragged Lacroix onto the afterdeck as though he were a freshly harpooned whale. Then, with Keller’s help, he lowered him onto the swim step and rolled him overboard. Lacroix struck the black water with a heavy thud and began to thrash wildly in an attempt to keep his head above the surface. Gabriel watched him for a moment and then scanned the horizon in all directions. Not a single light was visible. It seemed they were the last three men on earth.

“How will you know when he’s had enough?” asked Keller as he watched Lacroix fighting for his life.

“When he starts to sink,” replied Gabriel calmly.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Don’t ever get on my bad side.”

After forty-five seconds in the water, Lacroix went suddenly still. Gabriel and Keller hauled him quickly back on board and removed the duct tape from his mouth. For the next several minutes the Frenchman was unable to speak as he alternately gasped for air and coughed seawater from his lungs. When the retching finally stopped, Gabriel took hold of his broken jaw and squeezed.

“You might not realize it at this moment,” he said, “but this is your lucky day, Marcel. Now, let’s try this again. Tell me where I can find the girl.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying to me, Marcel.”

“No,” Lacroix said, shaking his head violently from side to side. “I’m telling you the truth. I have no idea where she is.”

“But you know one of the men who’s holding her. In fact, you had drinks with him at a bar in Rognac a week after she disappeared. And you’ve been in contact with him ever since.”

Lacroix was silent. Gabriel squeezed the broken jaw harder.