Daniel Silva 2-Book Thriller Collection: Portrait of a Spy, The Fallen Angel

“So it must have been St. Barts.”

There was silence.

“Did I lose you?” asked Zoe.

“No, I’m still here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Where did I meet him?”

“He said it was in a bar near one of the beaches.”

“Which bar?”

“Not sure about that.”

“Which beach?”

“Don’t think Thomas mentioned it.”

“Was Thomas alone that day?”

“Actually, he was with his wife. Lovely girl. Bit on the pushy side, but I suppose that comes with the territory.”

“Which territory is that?”

“Being the wife of a billionaire like Thomas.”

More silence, longer than the first.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember him.”

“He certainly remembers you.”

“Describe him, please.”

“Tallish chap. Built like a lamppost. A bit more interesting, once you get to know him. I think he did a deal a few years ago with an associate of your father.”

“Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”

“Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”

“What are you saying, Zoe?”

On the second floor of Château Treville was a somber music room with walls covered in red silk and lavish window treatments to match. At one end of the room was a harpsichord with gilded moldings and a pastoral oil painting on the lid. At the other was an antique French Renaissance table with walnut inlay where Gabriel and Eli Lavon sat staring into a pair of computers. On one was a blinking light showing Zoe Reed’s current location and altitude. On the other was a recording of the conversation she had conducted at 10:22 with Nadia al-Bakari. Ten times Gabriel and Lavon had listened to it. Ten times they could find no excuse not to proceed. It was now 11:55. Lavon frowned as Gabriel clicked the play icon one final time.

“Do you happen to recall this associate’s name?”

“Why don’t you ask Thomas for yourself?”

“What are you saying, Zoe?”

“I’m saying you should come to the party. I know Thomas would simply adore it, and it would give us a chance to spend some more time together.”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because your friend . . . forgive me, Zoe, but please tell me his name again.”

“Thomas Fowler. Like the character in the Graham Greene novel.”

“Who?”

“It’s not important. What’s important is that you come.”

“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“You wouldn’t be, for heaven’s sake. Besides, it’s my birthday, and I insist.”

“Where exactly is your friend’s home located?”

“Just north of Paris. The hotel’s arranged a car for me.”

“Tell the hotel to cancel it. We’ll take my car instead. It will give us a chance to talk.”

“Wonderful. Thomas says the dress code is château casual. But let’s go light on the security, shall we? Thomas is a bit of a fanny patter, but he’s otherwise quite harmless.”

“I’ll see you at noon, Zoe.”

The call went dead. Gabriel clicked on the stop icon and then looked up to find Yossi leaning in the doorway, looking every inch the prosperous private equity mogul who was spending the weekend at his French country retreat. “For the record,” he said in his lazy Oxford drawl, “I didn’t appreciate the bit about a lamppost.”

“I’m sure she meant it as a term of endearment.”

“How would you feel if someone compared you to a lamppost?”

“Endeared.”

Yossi smoothed the front of his Bond Street cashmere jacket. “Have we achieved château casual?”

“I believe we have.”

“Ascot or no ascot?”

“No ascot.”

“Ascot,” said Lavon. “Definitely ascot.”