Gabriel pressed PLAY, but this time the voice was drowned out by the sound of a security announcement, in German, blaring from the speaker above his head: Achtung! Achtung! When it was over, he pressed PLAY again. This time the voice, a woman’s, was clearly audible.

“It’s me. Where are you? Call me when you can. Much love.”

STOP.

“No match on file.”

“Compare to unidentified voiceprint 572/B.”

“Stand by.” Then: “It’s a match.”

“Please note, subject goes by the name Mimi Ferrere. Her address is 24 Brazil Street, apartment 6A, Cairo.”

“I’ve added it to the file. Elapsed time of this call four minutes, thirty-two seconds. Anything else?”

“I need you to pass a message to Ezekiel.”

Ezekiel was the telephone code word for the Operations directorate.

“Message?”

“Our friend is spending time in Marseilles, at the address you gave me.”

“Number 56 boulevard St-Rémy?”

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. “I need instructions from Ezekiel on where to proceed.”

“You’re calling from Frankfurt airport?”

“Yes.”

“I’m terminating this call. Move to another location and call back in five minutes. I’ll have instructions for you then.”

Gabriel hung up the phone. He went to a newsstand, bought a German magazine, then walked a short distance through the terminal to another kiosk of telephones. Same number, same patter, same girl in Tel Aviv.

“Ezekiel wants you to go to Rome.”

“Rome? Why Rome?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

It was no matter. Gabriel knew the answer.

“Where should I go?”

“The apartment near the Piazza di Spagna. Do you know it?”

Gabriel did. It was a lovely safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the Church of the Trinità dei Monti.

“There’s a flight from Frankfurt to Rome in two hours. We’re booking a seat for you.”

“Do you want my frequent-flyer number?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Have a safe trip,” said the girl, and the line went dead.

PART THREE THE GARE de LYON

 PART THREE 

THE GARE de LYON

15 MARSEILLES

15

MARSEILLES

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TEN DAYS PAUL MARTINEAU made the drive from Aix-en-Provence to Marseilles. Once again he entered the coffeehouse on the small street off the rue des Convalescents and climbed the narrow stairs to the flat on the first floor, and once again he was greeted on the landing by the gowned figure who spoke to him quietly in Arabic. They sat, propped on silk pillows, on the floor of the tiny living room. The man slowly loaded hashish into a hubble-bubble and touched a lighted match to the bowl. In Marseilles he was known as Hakim el-Bakri, a recent immigrant from Algiers. Martineau knew him by another name, Abu Saddiq. Martineau did not refer to him by that name, just as Abu Saddiq did not call Martineau by the name he’d been given by his real father.