“Of course you were.”
“So was Paul Rousseau, Alpha Group’s chief. I introduced you to him at my swearing-in party.”
“He looked more like a professor than a French spy.”
“He was once, actually. He’s one of France’s foremost scholars of Proust.”
“What’s the Alpha Group’s role?”
“Human penetration of jihadist networks. But Rousseau has access to everything.”
A uniformed officer approached the car. Gabriel gave him two pseudonymous names, one male, the other female, both French and both inspired by the novels of Dumas, a particularly Rousseauian touch. The Frenchman was waiting in his new lair on the top floor. Unlike the other offices in the building, Rousseau’s was somber and wood-paneled and filled with books and files. Like Gabriel, he preferred them to digital dossiers. He was dressed in a crumpled tweed jacket and a pair of gray flannel trousers. His ever-present pipe belched smoke as he shook Gabriel’s hand.
“Welcome to our new Bastille.” Rousseau offered his hand to Sarah. “So good to see you again, Madame Bancroft. When we met in Israel, you told me you were a museum curator from New York. I didn’t believe it then, and I surely don’t believe it now.”
“It’s true, actually.”
“But obviously there’s more to the story. Where Monsieur Allon is concerned, there usually is.” Rousseau released Sarah’s hand and contemplated Gabriel over his reading glasses. “You were rather vague on the phone this morning. I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“I heard you recently had a bit of unpleasantness in the Haute-Savoie.” Gabriel paused, then added, “A few miles west of Annecy.”
Rousseau raised an eyebrow. “What else have you heard?”
“That your government chose to cover up the incident at the request of the victim’s father, who happens to own the largest château in the region. He also happens to be—”
“The future king of Saudi Arabia.” Rousseau lowered his voice. “Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul.”
The Frenchman nibbled thoughtfully at the stem of his pipe. “The unpleasantness, as you call it, was quickly designated a criminal act rather than an act of terrorism. Therefore, it fell outside the purview of the Alpha Group. It is none of our affair.”
“But you must have been at the table during the first hours of the crisis.”
“Of course.”
“You also have access to all the information and intelligence gathered by the National Police and the DGSI.”
Rousseau pondered Gabriel at length. “Why is the abduction of the crown prince’s daughter of interest to the State of Israel?”
“Our interest is humanitarian in nature.”
“A refreshing change of pace. On whose behalf have you come?”
“The future king of Saudi Arabia.”
“My goodness,” said Rousseau. “How the world has changed.”
15
Paris
It soon becameapparent that Paul Rousseau did not approve of his government’s decision to conceal the abduction of Princess Reema. It had been made easier, he said, by the remote location—the intersection of two rural roads, the D14 and the D38, west of Annecy. As it happened, the first person on the scene was a retired gendarme who lived in a nearby village. The next to arrive were the crown prince himself and his usual retinue of bodyguards. They surrounded the two vehicles of the princess’s motorcade, along with a third vehicle that had been abandoned by the kidnappers. To subsequent passersby it looked like a serious traffic accident involving wealthy men from the Middle East.
“Hardly an unusual occurrence in France,” said Rousseau.
The retired gendarme was sworn to secrecy, he continued, as were the officers who took part in a rapid nationwide search for the princess. Rousseau offered the assistance of the Alpha Group but was informed by his chief and his minister that his services were not required.
“Why not?”
