itself, not to mention the support agents. And yet somehow the DGSI, which is confronting the worst terrorism threat in the Western world, missed them all.”
Rousseau removed a fourth photo from his file. “No, my friend. Not all of them.”
BRASSERIE SAINT-MAURICE WAS LOCATED IN the heart of medieval Annecy, on the ground floor of a teetering old building that was a riot of mismatched windows, shutters, and balustrades. Several square tables stood along the pavement beneath the shelter of three modern retractable awnings. At one, a man was drinking coffee and contemplating a mobile device. His hair was fair and straight and neatly arranged. So was his face. He wore a woolen peacoat, a stylishly knotted silk scarf, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The time code in the bottom right corner of the photo read 16:07:46. The date was the thirteenth of December, the day of Princess Reema’s abduction.
“As you can see from the resolution,” said Rousseau, “the image has been magnified. Here’s the original.”
Rousseau slid another photograph across the conference table. The perspective was wide enough so that the street was visible. Several cars lined the curb. Gabriel’s eye was drawn instantly toward a Citroën estate car.
“Our national traffic surveillance system isn’t as Orwellian as yours or Britain’s, but the threat of terrorism has compelled us to improve our capabilities substantially. It didn’t take long to find the car. Or the man who was driving it.”
“How much do you know about him?”
“He rented a holiday villa outside Annecy two weeks before the abduction. He paid for a one-month stay entirely in cash, which the estate agent and the owner of the villa were more than happy to accept.”
“I don’t suppose he had a passport.”
“A British one, actually. The estate agent made a photocopy.”
Rousseau slid a sheet of paper across the tabletop. It was a photocopy of a photocopy, but the resolution was clear. The name on the passport was Ronald Burke. It claimed he had been born in Manchester in 1969. The photograph bore a vague resemblance to the man who had been sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice a few hours before Princess Reema had been kidnapped.
“Have you asked the British whether it’s genuine?”
“And what should we tell the British? That he is a suspect in a kidnapping that didn’t happen?”
Gabriel studied the man’s face. His skin was taut and unlined, and the unnatural shape of his eyes suggested a recent visit to a cosmetic surgeon. The irises stared blankly into the camera lens. His lips were unsmiling. “What was his accent like?”
“He spoke British-accented French to the estate agent.”
“Do you have any record of him entering the country?”
“No.”
“Were there any sightings of him after the abduction?”
Rousseau shook his head. “He seems to have vanished into thin air. Just like Princess Reema.”
Gabriel pointed to the wide shot of the man sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice. “I assume this is a still image from a video recording.”
Rousseau opened a laptop and tapped a few keys with the air of a man who was still not comfortable with the conveniences of modern technology. Then he turned the computer so Gabriel and Sarah could see the screen and tapped the PLAY button. The man was looking at something on his phone. So was the woman who was drinking white wine at the next table. She was professionally dressed, with dark hair that fell about an attractive face. She, too, was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact the café was in heavy shadow. The lenses were large and rectangular. They were the kind of glasses, thought Gabriel, that famous actresses wore when they wanted to avoid being recognized.
At 16:09:22 the woman raised the phone to her ear. Whether she had initiated the call or received it, Gabriel could not discern. But a few seconds later, at 16:09:48, he noticed the man was talking on his phone, too.
Gabriel tapped PAUSE. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Keep watching.”
Gabriel pressed PLAY and watched the two people at Brasserie Saint-Maurice complete their phone calls, the woman first, the man twenty-seven seconds later, at 16:11:34. He left the café at 16:13:22 and climbed into the Citroën estate car. The woman departed three minutes later on foot.
“You can pause it now.”
Gabriel did.
“We were never able to determine with certainty that the two people at Brasserie Saint-Maurice were conducting a cellular call or Internet-based conversation at eleven minutes past four o’clock on the Friday afternoon in question. If I had to guess—”
“The phones were a ruse. They were talking directly to one another in the café.”
“Simple, but effective.”
“Where did she go next?”
Rousseau dealt another photo across the tabletop. A professionally dressed woman climbing into the passenger seat of a Ford Transit, light gray. The woman’s gloved hand was on the door latch.
“Where was it taken?”
“The avenue de Cran. It runs through a working-class area on the western edge of the city.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
Another photo came sliding across the conference table. It depicted a blunt object of a man wearing a woolen watch cap and, of course, sunglasses. Gabriel supposed there were several other operatives in the compartment behind him, all armed with HK MP5 submachine pistols. He returned the photo to Rousseau, who was engaged in the ritualistic preparation of his pipe.
“Perhaps now might be a good time for you to explain your involvement in this affair.”
“His Royal Highness has requested my help.”
“The government of France is more than capable of recovering Princess Reema without the assistance of Israel’s secret intelligence service.”
“His Royal Highness disagrees.”
“Does he?” Rousseau struck a match and touched it to the bowl of his pipe. “Has he received any communication from the kidnappers?”
Gabriel handed over the demand letter. Rousseau read it through a haze of smoke. “One wonders why Khalid didn’t tell us about this. I can only assume he doesn’t want us poking our noses into an internal struggle for control of the House of Saud. But why on earth would he trust you instead?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“And
