I could find nothing online—or at least, nothing that was publicly accessible. Financing for the project was shrouded in mystery. If I wanted to get anywhere, I had no choice but to get Stéphane Pianelli involved. I sent him a text message summarizing what I’d found out, and to add weight to the story, I sent him the samples of Alexis Clément’s handwriting and those of the mystery man who had written the letters to Vinca.

He called back within a nanosecond. I was a little apprehensive when I answered. Pianelli was a talented sparring partner. He had a quick mind, but given my situation, I would have to feed him information while making sure that nothing I said could later be used against me, Maxime, or Fanny.

3.

“Shit, this is fucking insane!” Pianelli said with a slight Marseillaise twang. “How could we have missed it?”

He was forced to shout to be heard over the roar of the crowds in the stands watching the race in Monaco.

“All the witness statements and the rumors backed up the hypothesis,” I said. “Your friend Angevin was right—we were all brainwashed from the start.”

I told him about my visit to Dalanegra, the cropped photograph, and the other man in the shot.

“Hang on. Are you saying there was another guy called Alexis?”

“You got it.”

There was a long silence during which Pianelli was, I knew, thinking hard. I could almost hear the cogs of his brain turning on the other end of the line. In less than a minute, he came to the same conclusion I had.

“There was another Alexis at Saint-Ex,” he said. “A Greek guy. We used to tease him and call him Rastapopoulous, remember?”

“Alexis Antonopoulos.”

“That’s him!”

“I thought about that, but I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy we’re looking for.”

“Why not?”

“He was an idiot. I can’t imagine Vinca hooking up with him.”

“That’s a bit simplistic, don’t you think? The guy was rich, good-looking…and if teenage girls only dated smart guys, I think you and I would have heard. Do you remember the shit we had to put up with?”

I changed the subject.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got the lowdown on who’s financing the construction at the school?”

The background noise had faded, as though Pianelli had found refuge in a soundproof room.

“In recent years, Saint-Ex has adopted the American model, tuition that costs an arm and a leg, donations by rich parents who want to see their names on a building, and a handful of scholarships awarded to poor, deserving disadvantaged kids to salve their consciences.”

“But this project must run into the millions. How the hell could the school come up with that kind of cash?”

“I’m guessing they borrowed some of it. Interest rates are pretty low at the moment.”