will have to arrest him and will probably have to execute him as an example.”
“At least this way,” Gage said, “he saves his life, and once he’s out of the country he can find a way to catch up with wherever his offshore cash is hidden.”
“As much as she hates to do it, that’s the pitch his mother is giving him.”
“I’ll call Mark Fong and give him your number.”
“Won’t he want some money?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Gage said, then thought for a moment. “Make sure you gather up whatever identity documents Wo-li and his wife have and any extra passport pictures. Mark may need to fudge up some papers to get them across the borders.”
Gage called Fong after he and Benaroun had gotten back into the car.
“We’ll settle up afterward,” Fong said.
“How soon-”
“My cousin in Chongqing will rent a big van and arrive there tomorrow, me the day after. We’ll collect the students first”-Fong laughed-“and then the criminals.”
Gage then understood why Fong wasn’t worried about payment. Either Wo-li and his wife would direct their offshore banker to wire the fee into Fong’s account, or he’d make sure that they’d never make it out of China.
“If you have to leave them somewhere along the road,” Gage said, “then leave them, but make sure the kids get out.”
“Of course.”
Gage disconnected and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
Benaroun grinned at Gage as he turned the ignition.
“Exile?” Benaroun said. “Like the Dalai Lama?”
“Not exactly.”
“And you trust this snakehead? The name certainly doesn’t inspire it.” Benaroun smiled. “I think I’d have more confidence in something a little more marsupial.”
“The situation calls for someone cold-blooded,” Gage said, “and I know of no one colder.”
CHAPTER 40
As Gage climbed the steps from the east parking lot to the entrance of the Basilique Notre Dame de la Garde, he was certain that Hennessy had ascended them with a stronger feeling of expectation than he did. Gage even suspected that he might be wasting his time, for he recognized that he was following a chain of possibilities and probabilities, no stronger than its weakest hypothetical link.
Even more, Gage wasn’t sure that he’d come to understand Hennessy any better for having retraced his route. But he had to do it. And he knew Benaroun had to do it. Despite his claims that his relegation to financial investigations was an anti-Semitic gesture by the commissioner, his compulsive, methodical persistence made him a perfect choice for that kind of work, and for this kind, too.
Without articulating the need, they both understood that neither one of them was willing to suffer the lingering thought that the Marseilles police had missed something. And Gage was already certain that the detectives had misunderstood why Hennessy had parked on the street below.
Gage attached himself to the trailing end of a German tour group as he passed through the wrought-iron front gates and ascended the zigzagging steps to the terrace. He stayed with them as they walked the low-walled perimeter. The angle of view toward the port was now more extreme and the entire meridian was visible.
Gage followed the group up another level, checked the perspective, and then walked back down and out through the gate.
A footpath to his left led away from the concrete walkway. He followed it along the arched walls at the base of the church, his view of the city curtained and shadowed by oaks, pines, and brush. He soon emerged into daylight and worked his way over a limestone bluff until he could see the yellow house next to which Hennessy had parked his car.
Gage glanced up at the golden Madonna statue, concluding it would’ve been the most visible landmark at night, then picked his way farther, in between aloe and evergreen bushes, until he was in a direct line between it and the car. But a few steps down showed him that a direct line didn’t mean a direct route.
The shortest distance between where Gage stood and the car was a long drop off a slick boulder. He worked his way first down to its right, then back to the top and down to its left, looking for some sign that Hennessy had passed on either side: a pen, a scrap of paper-anything.
But he found nothing.
From there, Gage headed down through a tunnel of brush and trees until he emerged into a clearing. He looked up at the Madonna and found that he was off course by thirty feet. He imagined that Hennessy, descending in the darkness down the angled slope, had drifted in the same direction.
Gage heard rocks tumble, a landslide of dirt and stones, Benaroun yelping, and then, “Merde. Merde. Merde.” Shit. Shit. Shit.
“You okay?” Gage yelled down.
“I got a damn aloe thorn in my ass. How do you think I am?”
“You need help?”
“I’ll survive.”
Gage worked his way back toward the direct line, sidestepping down the incline until the hill flattened just behind the trees and the plants that lined the street. He searched back and forth along them, inspecting between the rocks and along the rough ground, then gave up and stepped into the street.
Benaroun was grinning and leaning back against his car wearing a wrinkled, mud-smeared overcoat, arms folded over his chest.
“I like your new wardrobe,” Gage said, as he walked up.
“It’s not mine exactly,” Benaroun said. “But since I punctured my butt getting it, I could make a claim. Anyway, the man who owned it is not coming back to get it.”
“How do you figure?”
“I figure because you were right.” Benaroun pointed up the hill, seeming to enjoy the clowning. “It was jammed into a bush about twenty feet up.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“Hennessy must’ve taken it off trying to change his appearance.”
“What?” Gage’s eyes narrowed at the coat. “Are you sure-”
“It’s got an American mobile phone and a little leather notebook with the initials MH on it.”
Benaroun unfolded his arms and reached out to hand the items to Gage.
As Gage accepted them, his mind jumped back past Benaroun’s conclusion to Hennessy falling coatless over the cliff, then jumped forward to the present.
“He only would’ve changed his appearance,” Gage said, “if he thought someone had spotted him.”
Gage scanned the street and rooftops and the hillside looking for surveillance. He found none. Or at least nothing obvious. He pointed at the car.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gage said.
Benaroun cast him a puzzled look. “You don’t want to look for more? ”
“Not now.” Gage pointed at the driver’s seat. “Let’s go. I don’t want to get trapped.”
Benaroun started the engine even before his door was closed. A black Mercedes squealed around the corner. Its momentum and the driver’s overcompensating yank on the steering wheel carried it in a sweeping curve from one side of the street to the other. Benaroun punched the accelerator and shot through the gap, then hung a hard right and rocketed down the hill.
Benaroun glanced over as he cut through an alley toward a boulevard leading to the center of the city, and asked, “How did you know? ”
“I didn’t.” Gage pointed at the overcoat. “That thing told me that whoever killed Hennessy wasn’t done with him yet.”
