The English Girl. Daniel Silva

      “Brossard,” Lacroix gasped through the pain. “His name is René Brossard.”

      Gabriel looked at Keller, who nodded his head.

      “Very good,” he said to Lacroix, releasing his grip. “Now keep talking. And don’t even think about lying to me. If you do, you’ll go back in the water. But the next time it will be forever.”

       12

       OFF MARSEILLES

      THERE WERE TWO opposing swivel chairs on the afterdeck. Gabriel secured Lacroix to the one on the starboard side and then lowered himself into the other. Lacroix remained blindfolded, his tracksuit sodden from his brief swim in the ocean. Shivering violently, he pleaded for a change of clothing or a blanket. Then, after receiving no answer, he recounted a warm evening in mid-August when a man had appeared unannounced on Moondance, just as Gabriel had earlier that afternoon.

      “Paul?” asked Gabriel.

      “Yes, Paul.”

      “Had you ever met him before?”

      “No, but I’d seen him around.”

      “Where?”

      “Cannes.”

      “When?”

      “The film festival.”

      “This year?”

      “Yes, in May.”

      “You went to the Cannes Film Festival?”

      “I wasn’t on the guest list, if that’s what you’re asking. I was working.”

      “What kind of work?”

      “What do you think?”

      “Stealing from the movie stars and the beautiful people?”

      “It’s one of our busiest weeks of the year, a real boon to the local economy. The people from Hollywood are total idiots. We rob them blind every time they come here, and they never even seem to notice.”

      “What was Paul doing?”

      “He was hanging out with the beautiful people. I think I actually saw him going into the hall a couple of times to see the films.”

      “You think?”

      “He always looks different.”

      “He was running scams from the inside at Cannes?”

      “You’d have to ask him. We didn’t discuss it when he came to see me. We only talked about the job.”

      “He wanted to hire you and your boat to move the girl from Corsica to the mainland.”

      “No,” said Lacroix, shaking his head vehemently. “He never said a word about a girl.”

      “What did he say?”

      “That he wanted me to deliver a package.”

      “You didn’t ask what the package was?”

      “No.”

      “Is that the way you always operate?”

      “It depends.”

      “On what?”

      “On how much money is on the table.”

      “How much was there?”

      “Fifty thousand.”

      “Is that good?”

      “Very.”

      “Did he mention where he got your name?”

      “He got it from the don.”

      “Who’s the don?”

      “Don Orsati, the Corsican.”

      “What kind of work does the don do?”

      “He’s got his fingers into all kinds of rackets,” answered Lacroix, “but mainly he kills people. Occasionally, I give one of his men a lift. And sometimes I help make things disappear.”

      The purpose of Gabriel’s line of inquiry was twofold. It allowed him to test the veracity of Lacroix’s responses while at the same time covering his own tracks. Lacroix was now under the impression Gabriel had never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a Corsican killer named Orsati. And, at least for the moment, he was answering Gabriel’s questions truthfully.

      “Did Paul tell you when the job was supposed to go down?”

      “No,” Lacroix answered, shaking his head. “He told me he would give me twenty-four hours’ notice, that I would probably hear from him in a week, ten days at most.”

      “How was he going to contact you?”

      “By phone.”

      “Do you still have the phone you used?”

      Lacroix nodded and then recited the number associated with the device.

      “He called as planned?”

      “On the eighth day.”

      “What did he say?”

      “He wanted me to pick him up the next morning at the cove just south of the Capo di Feno.”

      “What time?”

      “Three a.m.”

      “How was the pickup supposed to work?”

      “He wanted me to leave a dinghy on the beach and wait for him offshore.”

      Gabriel looked up toward the flying bridge where Keller stood watching the proceedings. The Englishman nodded, as if to say there was indeed a suitable cove on the Capo di Feno and that the scenario as described by Lacroix was entirely plausible.

      “When did you arrive on Corsica?” asked Gabriel.

      “A few minutes after midnight.”

      “You were alone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Yes, I swear.”

      “What time did you leave the dinghy on the beach?”

      “Two.”

      “How did you get back to Moondance?”

      “I walked,” quipped Lacroix, “just like Jesus.”

      Gabriel reached out and ripped the stud from Lacroix’s right ear.

      “It was just a joke,” gasped the Frenchman as blood flowed from his ruined lobe.

      “If I were you,” replied Gabriel, “I wouldn’t be making jokes about the Lord at a time like this. In fact, I would be doing everything I could to get on his good side.”

      Gabriel glanced up toward the flying bridge again and saw Keller trying to suppress a smile. Then he asked Lacroix to describe the events that followed. Paul, the Frenchman said, had arrived right on schedule, at three o’clock sharp. Lacroix had seen a single vehicle, a small four-wheel-drive, bumping down the steep track from the cliff tops to the cove with only its parking lamps burning. Then he had heard the throb of the dinghy’s outboard echoing back at him across the water. Then, when the dinghy nudged against the stern of Moondance, he had seen the girl.

      “Paul was with her?” asked Gabriel.

      “Yes.”

      “Anyone else?”

      “No, only Paul.”

      “She