House of Spies Page 16

  But who was this man named Dmitri Antonov? And perhaps more important, where did he get his money? He was soon the focus of many Gatsbyesque rumors, some malicious, others well placed. It was said that he had killed a man, that he had killed many men, and that he had come by his fortune illicitly, all of which happened to be true. Not that it made him any less palatable to those who sold art for a living. They didn’t much care how he made his money, so long as the check arrived on time and there were no problems at the other end. There weren’t. He banked reputably at HSBC in Paris, but, curiously, all his purchases were forwarded to a vault in the Geneva Freeport. “He’s one of those,” said a woman who worked in the business office at Sotheby’s. A superior quietly reminded her that “those” were the ones who kept places like Sotheby’s in business.

  The vault in the Freeport was the closest thing he had to a permanent address. In London he lived at the Dorchester, in Paris at the Hôtel de Crillon. And when business took him to Zurich, only the Terrazza Suite at the Dolder Grand would do. Even Julian Isherwood, who was tethered to him by cell phone and text, claimed not to know where he was from one day to the next. But there were rumors—here again they were only rumors—he had acquired a castle for himself somewhere in France. “He’s using the Freeport as a temporary storage facility,” Isherwood whispered into Oliver Dimbleby’s ear. “Something big is in the works.” Isherwood then swore Oliver to absolute secrecy, thus ensuring the news would go global by morning.

  But where in France? Once again the rumor mill began to turn. For on the day the man called Dmitri Antonov left New York, there appeared a small item in Nice-Matin regarding a certain notorious piece of real estate near Saint-Tropez. Known as Villa Soleil, the sprawling seaside compound on the Baie de Cavalaire was once owned by Ivan Kharkov, the Russian oligarch and arms dealer who was shot to death outside an exclusive Saint-Tropez restaurant. For nearly a decade the property had been in the hands of the French government. Now, for reasons never made clear, the government was suddenly anxious to remove Villa Soleil from its books. Apparently, a buyer had been found. Nice-Matin, despite strenuous efforts, had not yet been able to identify him.

  Renovation of the property commenced immediately. Indeed, on the day after the article appeared, an army of painters, plumbers, electricians, stonemasons, landscapers descended on Villa Soleil and remained there without interruption until the great palace by the sea was once again fit for human habitation. The enterprising nature of the workforce provoked no small amount of resentment among the neighbors, all of whom were battle-scarred veterans of Provençal construction projects. Even Jean-Luc Martel, who lived in a grand villa on the opposite side of the bay, was impressed by the speed with which the project was completed. Gabriel and the team knew this because, with the help of the mighty American NSA, they were now privy to all of Martel’s private communications, including the molten e-mail he sent to his builder wondering why a renovation to his pool house was two months behind schedule. “Finish it by the end of April,” he wrote, “or I’ll fire you and hire the company that did Ivan’s old place.”

  The interior decoration of Villa Soleil was conducted at the same un-Provençal pace, overseen by one of the Côte d’Azur’s most prominent firms. There was only one delay, a pair of matching couches ordered from Olivia Watson’s design shop in Saint-Tropez. Owing to a minor clerical error—in truth, it was quite intentional—the name of the villa’s owner appeared on the order form. Olivia Watson shared the name with Martel, who in turn gave it to a columnist at Nice-Matin who had written favorably of him in the past. Gabriel and his team knew this because the mighty American NSA said it was so.

  Which left only the paintings, the paintings acquired under the flawless eye of Julian Isherwood and stored in a vault in the Geneva Freeport. In mid-May they were transported to Provence in a convoy of panel vans, watched over by agents of a private security firm and several officers of a secret unit of the DGSI known as the Alpha Group. Isherwood supervised the hanging with the assistance of the owner’s French wife. Then they flew to Paris, where the owner himself was staying in his usual suite at the Crillon. That evening they dined at Martel’s thriving new restaurant on the boulevard Saint-Germain, accompanied by a durable-looking man who spoke French with a pronounced Corsican accent. Martel was there, too, along with his glamorous English girlfriend. Gabriel and his team were not surprised by the presence of their quarry; they had known of Martel’s plans several days in advance, and had reserved a table for four under the name Dmitri Antonov. Within minutes of the party’s arrival, a bottle of champagne appeared, along with a handwritten note. The champagne was a 1998 Dom Pérignon, the note was from Jean-Luc Martel. Welcome to the neighborhood. See you in Saint-Tropez . . . It was, all in all, a promising beginning.

  27

  Côte d’Azur, France

  “I think I’ll go into the village a little later.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s market day. You know how much I love the market.”

  “Ah, yes, wonderful.”

  “Can you come?”

  “Can’t, unfortunately. I have a few calls to make.”

  “Fine.”

  Ten days had elapsed since Mikhail and Natalie—otherwise known as Dmitri and Sophie Antonov—had settled into their new home on the Baie de Cavalaire, and already it seemed they were bored. It was not operational boredom, it was marital in nature. Gabriel had declared that the Antonovs’ would not be an entirely blissful union. Few marriages were perfect, he argued, and the marriage between a Russian criminal and a Frenchwoman of dubious personal provenance would not be without its rough patches. He had also decreed that they were to maintain their cover identities at all times, even when they were safely behind the twelve-foot walls of Villa Soleil. Thus the frigid exchange over breakfast. It was conducted in English, as Dmitri Antonov’s French was atrocious and his wife’s Russian was nonexistent. The household staff, all officers of Paul Rousseau’s Alpha Group, addressed only Madame Sophie. Monsieur Antonov they generally avoided. They thought him rude and coarse, and he regarded them, with some justification, as the worst domestic servants in all of Provence. Gabriel shared his opinion. Privately, he had urged Rousseau to knock them quickly into shape. Otherwise, they risked sinking the entire operation.

  Mikhail and Natalie were seated like characters in a film, at a table on the broad colonnaded terrace overlooking the pool. It was the spot where they had taken their breakfast each of the nine preceding mornings, for Monsieur Antonov preferred it above all others. He had started his day with a vigorous thirty-minute swim in the pool. Now he wore a snowy white toweling robe against his pale skin. Natalie’s eye was drawn to the rivulet of water running through the chiseled creek bed of his abdominal muscles toward the waistband of his bathing suit. Quickly, she looked away. Madame Sophie, she reminded herself, was annoyed with Monsieur Antonov. He could not worm his way back into her good graces with a petty display of physical beauty.

  She poured a cup of strong black coffee from the silver pot and added a generous measure of steamed milk. In doing so she looked undeniably French. Next she plucked a Gitane from its packet and lit it. The cigarettes, like her churlish demeanor, were purely for the sake of her cover. A physician who had seen firsthand the terrible effects of tobacco on the human body, she was a devout nonsmoker. The first inhalation clawed at the back of her throat, but with a sip of the coffee she managed to suppress the urge to cough. It was very nearly perfect, the coffee; only in the south of France, she thought, did it taste like this. The morning was clear and fine, with a soft wind that moved in the line of cypress pines marking the boundary between Villa Soleil and its neighbor. Wavelets flecked the Baie de Cavalaire, across which Natalie could make out the faint lines of the villa owned by Jean-Luc Martel, hotelier, restaurateur, clothier, jeweler, and international dealer of illicit narcotics.

  “Croissant?” she asked.

  “Pardon?” Mikhail was reading something on a tablet co
mputer with great intensity and could not be bothered to lift his gaze to meet hers.

  “I asked whether you wanted another croissant.”

  “No.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Now?”

  “In Saint-Tropez. You can meet me there.”

  “I’ll try. What time?”

  “Lunchtime, darling. The time people usually eat lunch.”

  He swiped a forefinger across the surface of the tablet but said nothing. Natalie stabbed out her cigarette and in the manner of Sophie Antonov stood abruptly. Then she leaned down and put her mouth close to Mikhail’s ear.

  “You seem to be enjoying this too much,” she whispered in Hebrew. “I wouldn’t get used to it if I were you.”

  She entered the villa and padded barefoot through its many cavernous rooms until she came to the base of the grand main staircase. Her accommodations, she thought, were far better than the ones she had endured in her first operation—the drab flat in the Paris banlieue of Aubervilliers, her squalid little room in an ISIS dormitory in Raqqa, the desert training camp outside Palmyra, the chamber in the house in Mosul where she had nursed Saladin back to health.

  You are my Maimonides . . .

  In the bedroom, the satin sheets were still in disarray. Evidently, the Alpha Group maids had not found time in their busy schedule to put the room in order. Natalie smiled guiltily. This was the one room in the house where she and Mikhail made no attempt to conceal their true feelings for one another. Strictly speaking, their actions the previous evening had been a violation of Office regulations, which forbade intimate relations between operatives in the field. It was famously one of the least enforced rules in the entire service. Indeed, the current chief and his wife were known to have disregarded the rule on numerous occasions. Besides, thought Natalie as she straightened the sheets, their lovemaking was for the sake of their cover. Even quarreling spouses were not immune to the dark pull of desire.

  The walk-in closet was overflowing with designer clothing, shoes, and accessories, all paid for by the murderous ruler of Syria. Only the best for Madame Sophie. From a drawer she removed a pair of Lycra leggings and a sports bra. Her Nike trainers were on the shoe rack, next to a pair of Bruno Magli pumps. Dressed, she walked down a cool marble hall to the fitness room and stepped onto the treadmill. She hated running indoors but had no other option. Madame Sophie was not permitted to run outside. Madame Sophie had security issues. So, too, did Natalie Mizrahi.

  She slipped on a pair of headphones and set out at an easy jog, but with each kilometer she increased the speed of the belt until she was clipping along at a brisk pace. Her breathing remained controlled and steady; the many weeks she had spent at the farm in Nahalal had left her in peak fitness. She finished with a final sprint and spent thirty minutes lifting weights before returning to the bedroom to shower and dress. White capri pants, a snug-fitting stretch pullover that flattered her breasts and slender waist, gold flat-soled sandals. Standing before the mirror, she thought again of the last operation, the hijab and pious clothing of Dr. Leila Hadawi. Leila, she thought, would not have approved of Sophie Antonov. In that, she and Natalie were in complete agreement.

  She stepped onto the balcony and peered down toward the terrace where Mikhail was stretched on a chaise longue, exposing his colorless skin to the morning rays of the sun. In ten days his pallor had not changed. He seemed to be incapable of tanning.

  “Sure you won’t join me?” she called down.

  “I’m busy.”

  Natalie dropped her Office mobile into her handbag and headed downstairs to the forecourt, where the Antonovs’ black Maybach limousine waited next to the splashing fountain, an Alpha Group driver behind the wheel. In the backseat was a second officer of the Alpha Group. His name was Roland Girard. During the first operation he had served as the director of the small clinic in Aubervilliers where Dr. Leila Hadawi had practiced medicine. Now he was Madame Sophie’s favorite bodyguard. There were rumors they were having a torrid affair, rumors that had reached the ears of Monsieur Antonov. Several times he had tried to fire the bodyguard, but Madame Sophie would not hear of it. As the Maybach eased through the imposing security gate, she lit another Gitane and stared moodily out her window. This time she could not suppress the urge to cough.

  “You know,” said Girard, “you don’t have to smoke those wretched things when it’s just the two of us.”

  “It’s the only way I’ll ever get used to them.”

  “What are your plans?” he asked.

  “The market.”

  “And then?”

  “I was hoping to have lunch with my husband, but it seems he can’t be bothered.”

  Girard smiled but said nothing. Just then, Natalie’s mobile pinged with an incoming message. After reading it she returned the device to her handbag and, coughing, smoked the last of the Gitane. It was nearly time for Madame Sophie to meet Madame Olivia. She needed the practice.

  28

  Saint-Tropez, France

  As they passed the turnoff for the Plage de Pampelonne, Natalie was overcome by memories. This time they were not Leila’s memories, they were her own. It is a perfect morning in late August. Natalie and her parents have made the difficult drive from Marseilles to Saint-Tropez because no other beach in France—or the world, for that matter—will do. The year is 2011. Natalie has completed her medical training and has embarked on what promises to be a successful career in France’s state-run health care system. She is a model French citizen; she cannot imagine living anywhere else. But France is changing rapidly beneath her feet. It is no longer a place where it is safe to be a Jew. Each day, it seems, brings news of another horror. Another child beaten or spat upon, another shop window broken, another synagogue sprayed with graffiti, another gravestone toppled. And so on that day in late August, on the beach at Pampelonne, Natalie and her parents do their best to conceal their Jewishness. They cannot, and the day does not pass without scornful looks and a murmured insult by the waiter who grudgingly serves their lunch. During the drive back to Marseilles, Natalie’s parents make a fateful decision. They will leave France and settle in Israel. They ask Natalie, their only child, to join them. She agrees without hesitation. And now, she thought, gazing out the tinted window of the Maybach limousine, she was back again.

  Beyond the beaches were newly planted vineyards and tiny villas shaded by cypress and umbrella pine. Once they reached the outer edges of Saint-Tropez, however, the villas were concealed by high walls covered in flowering vines. These were the homes of the merely rich, not the superrich like Dmitri Antonov or Ivan Kharkov before him. As a child Natalie had dreamed of living in a grand house surrounded by walls. Gabriel had granted her wish. Not Gabriel, she thought suddenly. It was Saladin.

  The driver eased the Maybach onto the avenue Foch and followed it into the centre ville. It was only June, not yet high summer, and so the crowds were manageable, even in the Place des Lices, site of Saint-Tropez’s bustling open-air market. As Natalie made her way slowly through the stalls, she felt an overwhelming sense of loss. This was her country, she thought, and yet her family had been forced to leave it because of the most ancient hatred. The presence of Roland Girard focused her attention on the task at hand. He walked not at her side, but at her back. There was no mistaking him for a husband. He was there for one reason and one reason only, to protect Madame Sophie Antonov, the new resident of the scandalous palace on the Baie de Cavalaire.

  All at once she heard someone calling her name from a café along the boulevard Vasserot. “Madame Sophie, Madame Sophie! It’s me, Nicolas. Over here, Madame Sophie.” She looked up and saw Christopher Keller waving to her from a table at Le Clemenceau. Smiling, she crossed the street, with Roland Girard a step behind. Keller rose and offered her a chair. When Natalie sat down, Roland Girard returned to the Place des Lices and stood in the dappled shade of a plane tree.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” said Keller when they were alone.

&nbs
p; “Yes, it is.” Natalie’s tone was cool. It was the voice Madame Sophie used when addressing men who worked for her husband. “What brings you into the village?”

  “An errand. You?”

  “A bit of shopping.” She glanced around the market. “Anyone watching?”

  “Of course, Madame Sophie. You caused quite a stir.”

  “That was the point, wasn’t it?”

  Keller was drinking Campari. “Have you had a chance to visit any of the art galleries?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “There’s a rather good one near the Old Port. I’d be happy to show it to you. It’s a five-minute walk at most.”

  “Will the owner be there?”

  “I’d say so, yes.”

  “How does our friend want me to play it?”

  “He seems to think a good snub is in order.”

  Natalie smiled. “I think Madame Sophie can manage that quite nicely.”

  They walked toward the Old Port past the parade of shops lining the rue Gambetta. Keller wore white pants, black moccasins, and a formfitting black pullover. With his dark tan and gelled hair, he looked thoroughly disreputable. Natalie, playing the role of Madame Sophie, affected a deep and profound boredom. She loitered in several of the shop windows, including a boutique that bore the name Olivia Watson. Roland Girard, her ersatz bodyguard, stood vigilantly at her shoulder.

  “What do you think of that one?” she asked, pointing toward a sheer dress that hung from a headless mannequin like a negligee. “Do you think Dmitri would notice me if I wore that? Or how about that one? That might get his attention.”

  Greeted by a professional silence, she walked on, swinging her handbag like a spoiled schoolgirl. Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern were walking toward them along the narrow street, hands clasped, laughing at a private joke. Dina Sarid was evaluating a pair of sandals in the window of Minelli, and a little farther along the street Natalie spotted Eli Lavon rushing into a pharmacy with the urgency of a man whose bowels were in a state of rebellion.