The English Girl: A Novel

invisible. Shamron loved the view because it allowed him to keep watch on his distant enemies. Gabriel loved it because he had beheld it while reciting his marriage vows to Chiara. Now he was about to take a vow of another sort, a vow that would make an old man very happy.
    “I won’t be a party to any sort of palace coup,” Gabriel said at last. “Uzi and I have had our differences over the years, but we’ve become friends.”
    Shamron knew better than to speak. He had the interrogator’s gift of silence.
    “If the prime minister decides not to appoint Uzi to a second term,” Gabriel continued, “I will consider an offer to become the next chief of the Office.”
    “I need better odds than that.”
    “They’re the best you’re going to get.”
    “Negotiating with kidnappers has sharpened your edge.”
    “Yes, it has.”
    “Where do you plan to start?”
    “I haven’t decided yet.”
    “What will you do for money?”
    “I found a few thousand euros lying around a boat in Marseilles.”
    “Who did the boat belong to?”
    “A smuggler named Marcel Lacroix.”
    “Where is he now?”
    Gabriel told him.
    “Poor devil.”
    “More to follow.”
    “Just make sure you’re not one of them. I have plans for you.”
    “I said I would consider it, Ari. I haven’t agreed to anything.”
    “I know,” Shamron said. “But I also know that you would never mislead me to get something you wanted. You’re not like me. You have a conscience.”
    “So do you, Ari. That’s why you can’t sleep at night.”
    “Something tells me I’ll sleep well tonight.”
    “Don’t get carried away,” Gabriel said. “I still have to talk to Chiara about all this.”
    Shamron smiled.
    “What’s so funny?” asked Gabriel.
    “Whose idea do you think it was?”
    “You’re a ruthless bastard.”
    “Someone has to be.”
    B ut where to begin his search for Madeline’s killers? The most logical place was among the criminal organizations of Marseilles. He could locate associates of Marcel Lacroix and René Brossard, watch them, bribe them, interrogate them, hurt a few if necessary, until he learned the identity of the man who had called himself Paul. The man who had taken Madeline to lunch at Les Palmiers the day of her disappearance. The man who spoke French as though he had learned it from a tape. But there was one problem with that plan. If Gabriel went to Marseilles, he would surely cross paths with the French police. Besides, he thought, the man known as Paul was probably long gone by now. Therefore, he decided he would begin his search not with the perpetrators of the crime but with the two victims. Someone had known about the affair between Jonathan Lancaster and Madeline Hart. And someone had passed that information to the man known as Paul. Find that person, he reasoned, and he would find Paul.
    For now, though, Gabriel needed to find someone else first. Someone who had followed Lancaster’s rise to power. Someone who knew the dynamics of Lancaster’s relationship with Jeremy Fallon. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. He found that person the following morning while reading the coverage of the British election campaign. It would be complicated, dangerous even. But if it produced information that led Gabriel to Madeline’s killers, it would be well worth the personal risk.
    He spent the rest of the morning preparing a detailed dossier. Then he packed an overnight bag with two changes of clothing and two changes of identity. That evening he flew from Ben Gurion to Paris, and by noon the following day he was once again on the island of Corsica. He needed one more thing before he could begin his search. He needed an accomplice. Someone extremely capable, utterly ruthless, and without a shred of conscience.
    He needed Christopher Keller.

31
    CORSICA
    T he island had been transformed since Gabriel’s last visit. The beaches were deserted, there were good tables to be had in the better restaurants, and the outdoor markets were free of the half-naked mainlanders who gawked admiringly but rarely reached into their wallets. Corsica was once again in the possession of the Corsicans. And for that, even the gloomiest of the island’s residents were grateful.
    There were many other things, however, that remained unchanged. The same intoxicating scent of the macchia greeted Gabriel as he turned inland from the coast; the same old woman pointed at him with her index and little fingers as he drove through