The first step toward which was to find her, period.
Which was not so simple.
Thinking about Lucy in Nice—or was she now in North Africa?—put him in mind of Casablanca and he found himself picking out the melody line of the Marseillaise.
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Speaking of rebels.
Come, sons of France: the day of glory has arrived! Followed by: To arms, citizens! March! Music to shed blood by.
They all were, anthems. Bombs bursting in air, and all that. Gabriel knew that at one point Napoleon Bonaparte, when he was emperor of France, had banned the Marseillaise—but what had he replaced it with? A cheery tune called Le Chant du Départ. Gabriel picked it out on the keys and sang softly to himself.
La trompette guerrière
A sonné l’heure des combats . . .
The war trumpet has sounded the hour of battle.
Gabriel pulled the cover shut over the piano keys, downed his drink, and stood up.
Those bastards who took Lucy probably had an anthem of their own, some Egyptian version of the same bloody sentiments. War trumpets, battles, marching, marching.
Well.
They’d be singing a different tune soon.
Chapter 3
Though he wasn’t much for Paris, Gabriel was fond of the south of France and Nice was his favorite city in the country. Even under the present circumstances the sight of the countryside coming into view through the plane’s windows brought a smile to his face.
Charlie dropped him off at Aéroport Nice Côte d’Azur and then flew the custom-built Bombardier Challenger CL-X to a hangar where it, and he, would stay until Gabriel needed them again. A man in his fifties, Charlie had been with the Foundation for years. Never said much; Gabriel had given up trying to engage the pilot in conversation long ago. But the man did his job well and took care of the plane as if it were his own, and what else did you need? Better to be in silent, safe hands than talkative, careless ones.
Gabriel made his way into the hilly, picturesque seaside town on his own. It didn’t surprise him that Lucy had taken an apartment near the port; as she’d once told him, she found flat horizons comforting. On a quiet evening like this, the sight of the Mediterranean receding into the distance would’ve given her all the comfort she wanted.
The sun was setting as Gabriel located Lucy’s building in the section known as Vieux Nice, which consisted of narrow, winding streets and old-town structures. The building was a crumbling, brick affair on a dimly lit lane near the water and the farmers’ market. It figured that Lucy would be living in a ramshackle place like this. She’d never had a taste for luxury. It was one of the things she’d spent her life rebelling against.
After checking to make sure there was no one around, Gabriel selected the thickest of a set of lock picks and used it to turn the heavy tumblers of the ground floor door lock. He replaced the pick inside the flat, leather money belt he wore beneath his shirt and let himself in. A set of creaking wooden stairs took him two flights up to the top floor. Number 303 was the door nearest the staircase. Gabriel reached for his picks again—but then he saw that the door was slightly ajar, the lock broken.
Moving slowly, he silently pushed the door open. The place was dark, heavy drapes drawn across the windows.
Except for one tiny spot of light moving on the other side of the room.
Gabriel felt along the wall beside the door and, when he found it, flicked the light switch.
A bare bulb went on overhead.
The first thing Gabriel noticed was that the apartment had been ransacked. Sofa cushions sporting deep slashes lay on the floor beside a pair of wooden desk drawers. Papers and debris littered the place.
The second thing he noticed was that the ransacking was still in progress. A woman with a penlight was standing by the desk, bent over its one remaining drawer. She looked up.
Gabriel shouted, “Hey!”
The woman quickly jumped away from the desk and darted through a doorway into the next room over. Gabriel leaped over the cushions in pursuit. The door to the other room slammed shut. Gabriel grabbed the knob—but as he did he heard the lock turn on the other side. He banged on the door with the side of his fist.
“Hey, open up! Who are you?” He repeated the question in French, adding, “I won’t hurt you!”
Silence.
Well, he thought, would you believe it if you were her?
Raising one leg, he brought the heel of his boot down on the metal knob. It took two blows before the knob smashed and the door swung open.
The bedroom beyond was empty.
Gabriel went straight for the adjoining bathroom. No one in there. He pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing. He returned to the bedroom and opened the clothes closet. Just clothing. He swept his hands through the outfits hanging from the rod. There was no one hiding between or behind them. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. Just dust. He then went to the room’s only window and opened the Venetian blinds. It was shut. There was a fire escape outside, but the window was locked from the inside. Unless she could move through solid walls, the woman couldn’t have gone that way.
What the hell . . . ? Where did she go?
Gabriel went back to the other room. She wasn’t there either. He skirted the mess on the floor and went into the small kitchen that was off to one side. He opened a cupboard and several pots and pans fell out.
He went back to the front door and looked out into the hall.
There had been a woman in the apartment, right?
He closed the door and surveyed the flat. There wasn’t any other place she could have gone. A living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. A coat closet by the door was open slightly. Gabriel yanked the doors the rest of the way and looked inside. She wasn’t in there either.
Bizarre.
He recalled the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the woman. She was young—probably around Lucy’s age, but it certainly wasn’t Lucy. Midtwenties, reddish hair down to her shoulders. About five-foot-seven. Wearing a black blouse and dark pants.
And very attractive. Nice figure, big blue eyes. Pouty mouth. It didn’t take more than a glimpse for those sorts of things to register with Gabriel.
Lucy, meanwhile, stood maybe five-two in heels (not that she ever wore heels), and if her weight had ever tipped over into the triple digits he’d have been amazed.
Who was this woman? What was she doing searching through Lucy’s things?
And how the hell had she gotten out of the apartment?
Just to make sure, Gabriel went through every room one more time. She wasn’t there. The woman had vanished into thin air.
He took stock of the situation. The place was a mess—but it wasn’t clear all the mess had been the handiwork of the woman he’d interrupted. Bits of electronic equipment were scattered all over the floor. A cheap flat-screen monitor lay facedown on the threadbare carpet. If they’d grabbed Lucy here, she wouldn’t have gone without a fight; what he was seeing might have been the result.
A print of Jacques-Louis David’s famous Napoleon Crossing the Alps hung over the desk. It had been slashed several times with something sharp. Gabriel moved closer to get a better look. Someone had also scrawled Arabic characters over one corner of the painting.