The English Girl: A Novel

slept, so they returned to the hotel ten minutes apart and repaired to their rooms. Gabriel drifted into unconsciousness within minutes and woke to find his room ablaze with a violent Provençal sunrise. By the time he made his way downstairs to the dining room, Keller was already there, freshly shaved and looking as though he had slept well. They nodded to one another like strangers and, separated by a pair of linened tables, ate their breakfasts in complete silence. Afterward, they returned to the ancient center of the town, this time to do a quick bit of shopping. Keller bought a heavy coat, a dark woolen sweater, a rucksack, and two waterproof tarpaulins. He also bought enough water, packaged processed food, and plastic ziplock bags to last him forty-eight hours. The shopping excursion complete, they ate a large lunch together, though Keller drank no wine with his. He changed into his new clothing as Gabriel drove through the mountains to the rim of the tiny valley with three villas and spoke not a word as he disappeared into a thicket of undergrowth, as swiftly as a deer alerted by a hunter’s footfall. By then, it was sunset. Gabriel phoned Graham Seymour in London, spoke the name of a Paris landmark, and rang off again. That night, God in his infinite wisdom saw fit to send an autumn storm into the Lubéron. Gabriel lay awake in his hotel room, listening to the rain lashing against the window and thinking of Keller alone in the mud, in the valley with three villas. The next morning he ate breakfast in the dining room with only the papers and the white-haired waiter for company. Then he drove to Avignon and boarded a TGV train to Paris.

17
    PARIS
    I was beginning to think I would never hear from you.”
    “It’s only been five days, Graham.”
    “Five days can seem like an eternity when a prime minister is breathing down your neck.”
    They were walking along the Quai de Montebello, past the stalls of the bouquinistes . Gabriel wore denim and leather, Seymour a Chesterfield coat and handmade shoes that looked as though they had touched no surface other than the carpet running between his office and the director-general’s. Despite the circumstances, he seemed to be enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he had walked down a street without bodyguards, in Paris or anywhere else.
    “Are you in direct communication with him?” asked Gabriel.
    “Lancaster?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “Not anymore,” said Seymour. “He’s asked Jeremy Fallon to serve as a buffer.”
    “How do you communicate with him?”
    “In person and with great care.”
    “Does anyone else know of your involvement?”
    Seymour shook his head. “I do it all in my spare time,” he said wearily, “when I’m not trying to keep watch on the twenty thousand jihadis who call our blessed isle home.”
    “How are you managing?”
    “My director-general suspects I’m selling secrets to our enemies, and my wife is convinced I’m having an affair. Otherwise, I’m managing rather well.”
    Seymour paused at one of the trestle tables of the bouquinistes and made a show of inspecting the inventory. Standing at his back, Gabriel scanned the street for any evidence of surveillance—a pose that seemed too contrived, a face he had seen too many times before. The wind was making tiny whitecaps on the surface of the river. Turning, he found Seymour holding a faded copy of The Count of Monte Cristo .
    “Well?” asked Seymour.
    “It’s a classic tale of love, deception, and betrayal,” said Gabriel.
    “I was asking whether we’re being watched.”
    “It seems we’ve both managed to slip into Paris without attracting the attention of our mutual friends in the French security services.”
    Seymour returned the volume of Dumas to its place on the trestle table. Then, as they set off again, he delved into the breast pocket of his Chesterfield and removed an envelope.
    “They left this taped to the bottom of a bench in Hampstead Heath last night,” he said, handing the envelope to Gabriel. “Two days, or the girl dies.”
    “Still no demands?”
    “No,” said Seymour, “but they supplied a new proof-of-life photo.”
    “How did they tell you where to find it?”
    “They placed a call to Simon Hewitt’s mobile using an electronic voice generator. Hewitt retrieved the parcel during his morning jog, the first and only morning jog he’s ever taken. Jeremy Fallon gave it to me this morning. Needless to say, the tension inside