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“And I am a senior Police Nationale officer who is obligated to follow the orders of my superiors to the letter.”
“And if you were to disobey?”
“I would be terminated.Avec la guillotine.” Ménard inclined his head toward the west. “A la Place de la Concorde.”
“How about a leak to a friendly reporter atLe Monde?”
“A leak of what, exactly? A story about a London art dealer who purchased a forged Van Dyck portrait from a Parisian art gallery and then sold it to an American investor?”
“Perhaps the leak could be a bit narrower in scope.”
“How narrow?”
“A Cranach, a Hals, a Gentileschi, and the most delicious Van der Weyden you’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“The scandal would be immense.” Ménard paused. “And it wouldn’t accomplish our shared goal.”
“What might that be?” asked Gabriel warily.
“Putting the forger out of business.” Ménard nudged the photographs a few millimeters closer to Gabriel. “And while you’re at it, you might want to track down the man who tried to kill you and Madame Bancroft.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Ménard smiled. “You’re the former intelligence operative, Allon. I’m sure you’ll be able to find him if you put your mind to it.”
WhatJacques Ménard proposed next wasune petite collaboration, the terms of which he outlined for Gabriel while walking along the footpaths of the Jardin des Tuileries. Theirs was to be an entirely secret relationship, with Ménard playing the role of case officer andGabriel acting as his informant and asset. It would be up to Ménard, and only Ménard, to determine how best to act upon their findings. If possible, he would resolve the situation quietly, without inflicting undue damage to the reputations of those who had been taken in.
“But if a few eggs need to be broken, well, so be it.”
Gabriel made only a single demand in return, that Ménard make no attempt to observe his activities or monitor his movements. The Frenchman readily agreed to avert his eyes. He asked only that Gabriel avoid unnecessary violence, especially within the borders of the Republic.
“What if I’m able to find the man who tried to kill me?”
Ménard pulled his lips into a Gallic expression of indifference. “Do with him what you will. I’m not going to cry over a little spilled blood. Just make certain none of it splashes on me.”
With that, the newfound partners went their separate ways—Ménard to the Quai des Orfèvres, Gabriel to the Gare de Lyon. As his train slithered from the station shortly after 5:00 p.m., he made two phone calls, one to his wife in Venice, the other to Sarah. Neither was pleased by his news or by his travel plans, Sarah especially. Nevertheless, after consulting with her husband on a separate line, she reluctantly agreed to Gabriel’s request.
“How are you making the crossing?” she asked.
“The morning ferry from Marseilles.”
“Peasant,” she hissed, and rang off.
