Romy Hoffmann engraved on it in fine copperplate script. Prendergast pressed the bell and the door clicked open.
Dr. Hoffmann’s assistant, a burly man in a white track suit, his head shaved and gleaming, showed Prendergast into an empty, all-white waiting room, where elderly copies of
Prendergast looked at his watch. He had made the mistake of arriving on time for the appointment, forgetting that punctuality is the sworn enemy of the medical profession. He had been waiting for twenty minutes when a metallic voice emanating from a speaker in the corner told him that he should come through.
Dr. Hoffmann, a small, wiry woman in her forties, was dressed in a white cotton top and trousers, a surgical facemask hanging round her neck. Her dark hair was cropped short, her eyes concealed by tinted glasses. She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Please. Sit. Monsieur Patrimonio told me to expect you. Tell me what brings you here.”
Ray Prendergast took a deep breath and started to talk.
For Brian and Dave, this was, as Lord Wapping had made clear, a last chance to redeem themselves. Their encounter with the journalist had been partly successful, although not successful enough to stop him making a bloody pest of himself after the accident. As for the business of the tent on the beach, the less said about that the better. They had, in their employer’s words, made a right Horlicks of it.
This time, they were to make no mistakes. But as they had agreed after the briefing from Prendergast, this was their kind of job: a bit of detective work, some shadowing, and just a touch of the nasty at the end. No worries. They rented a nondescript Peugeot, bought a street map of Marseille, and set off one morning for the Chemin du Roucas Blanc, parking a comfortable distance away from the gated entrance.
With painful slowness, the hours went by. People came and went, but not the people they were interested in. The Peugeot, despite its place in the shade of a tree, became intolerably hot. Dave nearly got himself arrested when a resident saw him responding to a pressing call of nature up against a garden wall.
They quickly learned to recognize those who came and went on a regular basis: Nanou the maid on her Mobylette, Claudine the housekeeper in her Fiat 500, Olivier the chauffeur in the big black car-sometimes with passengers, sometimes without. But not once did they see the solitary figure they were hoping to see. Tedious hours turned into tedious days, broken up by shadowing Olivier from time to time as he went off to carry out some errand in the city.
Their patience was finally rewarded one bright afternoon by the arrival of a taxi that roused Dave from his afternoon doze by sounding its horn at the gate.
“It’s empty,” said Brian. “Come to pick someone up.”
Dave focused his binoculars on the gate a hundred yards away, saw the taxi appear and pull out onto the road with a single female passenger in the back. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
At a safe distance, they followed the taxi back down the winding Chemin du Roucas Blanc, closing the gap when the traffic thickened as they reached the center of town. They went along the side of the Vieux Port, through a narrow side street, and emerged into the Rue Paradis. The taxi came to a halt outside a tinted glass facade, and they saw Elena Morales get out and go through the entrance marked “Studio Celine Coiffure.”
“Gone for a hairdo, it looks like,” said Dave. “This could do us nicely if we can find somewhere to park.”
After ten minutes of automotive infighting, Brian managed to shoehorn the Peugeot into a spot opposite the salon, provoking a barrage of shouts and horn-blowing from frustrated drivers backed up behind him. A young man in a battered Renault extended his hand in the classic single-digit salute as he passed. “And the same to you, mate,” said Brian. “No bleeding manners, these French.”
“Not long now,” said Dave. “Got your syringe?”
Brian nodded. “Got yours?”
They waited a few minutes more, then left the car, crossed the street, and appeared to find something that fascinated them in the window of a menswear boutique two doors away from the salon.
Elena came out into the bright sunshine of the street and was putting on her sunglasses when Brian, holding a map, went up to her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”
“Sure.”
“I’m a bit lost.” He moved around to be beside her, holding the map so that she could see it. Dave came up behind her and jabbed the needle of his syringe into the bicep of her bare arm. The effect was instant. Her head slumped forward, her legs started to give way. They had to stop her from collapsing and almost had to carry her across the street before putting her into the back seat of the Peugeot. Passers-by took one look and hurried on. In Marseille one didn’t interfere in such situations.
Brian was grinning as he started the engine. “Works a treat, that stuff, doesn’t it?”
Sam checked his watch. Six-thirty, that time of day when stomachs all over Marseille start to rumble in anticipation. He and Elena had arranged to have dinner with Mimi and Philippe, but where was she? How long could a haircut take? Or had shopping caused her to lose track of the time?
He called her cell phone, but there was no answer. He called again twenty minutes later, and again ten minutes after that. Still no answer. By 7:30 he was worried enough to call Reboul. An hour later, Reboul called back. “My people have checked with the police, and with the hospitals and clinics. There have been no reports of any accidents or emergencies involving anyone of Elena’s description. I’m very sorry, my friend, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. We’ll keep trying.”
Sam passed a miserable evening with Philippe and Mimi. They made more unsuccessful calls to Elena’s number. Philippe called all his contacts-the informers, the night people, bar and club owners, a friend who owned a private ambulance service. Nothing. Evening stretched into what would prove to be a long, black, sleepless night for Sam.
Tired of pacing the bedroom, and more in desperation than hope, he tried Elena’s number. This time there was an answer.
“We were hoping you’d call.” The voice at the other end sounded tinny and slightly distorted, as if speaking through some kind of baffle, but it was distinct enough.
Sam made an effort to stay calm. “Where’s Elena?”
“Oh, she’s fine.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. She’s catching up on her sleep. It would be a shame to disturb her.”
“Where is she? Who are you?”
“That needn’t concern you. Now listen carefully. Miss Morales will be returned to you unharmed as soon as you withdraw your bid for the development on the Anse des Pecheurs, officially and unconditionally. You may give any excuse you want-apart, of course, from the real one. Is that clear? You can call me on this number when you’ve made the necessary arrangements. I’d advise you not to waste any time.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“What other options do you have?”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
Sixteen
Philippe was already in the kitchen, standing at the window and nursing his first espresso, when Sam came in-a haggard, unshaven, red-eyed Sam wearing his rumpled clothes from the day before and clutching his cell phone. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down.
