Daniel Silva - The New Girl

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“And if you’re unable to find her by the deadline?”

“His Royal Highness will have a difficult decision to make.”

Rousseau frowned. “I’m surprised a man like you would offer your services to a man like him.”

“You disapprove of the crown prince?”

“I think it’s safe to assume he spends more time in my country than yours. As a senior officer of the DGSI, I’ve had a chance to observe him up close. I never believed the fairy tales about how he was going to change Saudi Arabia and the Middle East. Nor was I surprised when he ordered the murder of a journalist who dared to criticize him.”

“If France was so appalled by the murder of Omar Nawwaf, why did you allow Khalid into the country every weekend to spend time with his daughter?”

“Because His Royal Highness is a one-man economic stimulus program. And because, like it or not, he is going to be the ruler of Saudi Arabia for a long time.” Quietly, Rousseau added, “If you can find his daughter.”

Gabriel made no reply.

The room filled with smoke as Rousseau considered his options. “For the record,” he said finally, “the government of France will not tolerate your involvement in the search for Prince Khalid’s daughter. That said, your participation might prove useful to the Alpha Group. Provided, of course, we establish certain ground rules.”

“Such as?”

“You will share information with me, as I have shared it with you.”

“Agreed.”

“You will not bug, blackmail, or brutalize any citizen of the Republic.”

“Unless he deserves it.”

“And you will undertake no attempt to rescue Princess Reema on French soil. If you discover her whereabouts, you will tell me, and our tactical police units will free her.”

“Inshallah,” muttered Gabriel.

“So we have a deal?”

“It seems we do. I will find Princess Reema, and you will receive all the credit.”

Rousseau smiled. “By my calculation, you now have approximately five days before the deadline. How do you intend to proceed?”

Gabriel pointed to the photograph of the man sitting at Brasserie Saint-Maurice. “I’m going to find him. And then I’m going to ask him where he’s hiding the princess.”

“As your clandestine partner, I’d like to offer one piece of advice.” Rousseau pointed toward the photograph of the woman climbing into the van. “Ask her instead.”

THE ISRAELI EMBASSY WAS LOCATED on the opposite bank of the Seine, on the rue Rabelais. Gabriel and Sarah remained there for nearly an hour—Gabriel in the station’s secure communications vault, Sarah in the ambassador’s antechamber. Leaving, they purchased sandwiches and coffee from a carryout around the corner, then made their way through the southern districts of Paris to the A6, the Autoroute du Soleil. The evening rush was long over, and the road before Gabriel was nearly empty of traffic. He pressed the accelerator of the Passat to the floor and felt a small rebellious thrill as the engine responded with a roar.

“You’ve proven your point about the damn car. Now please slow down.” Sarah unwrapped one of the sandwiches and ate ravenously. “Why does everything taste better in France?”

“It doesn’t, actually. That sandwich will taste exactly the same when we cross the Swiss border.”

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