“Good afternoon, Mr. Allon. Follow me, please.”
Together they crossed the apron and boarded the Sikorsky. Higgins settled into the leather chair on the port side of the cabin, Gabriel on the starboard. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” he said as the helicopter lifted from the tarmac, “I work alone.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Allon. So do I.”
“In that case, why are you here?”
“A bit of housekeeping, that’s all.”
On the floor of the cabin were a pair of attaché cases, black in color, identical in shape and size. Higgins opened one, removed a file folder, and handed it to Gabriel. Inside was a printout of AliceWinter’s credit card charges during her brief stay on Ibiza. It ran to several pages—restaurants, bars, nightclubs, a pharmacy, a hair salon, the Louis Vuitton boutique near the marina. The last transaction was a twelve-euro charge for parking. The time was 2:56p.m.
“Is this the only card she used?”
“None of her other credit cards show any sign of activity.” Higgins handed over another file. “Those are the emails and text messages she sent and received while she was on Ibiza and for the week preceding the trip. You can see her social media posts for yourself.”
“How did you access her data?”
“Her personal computer at Wickham House.”
“And if I wanted to see her emails and text messages for, say, the previous six months?”
“You would have to take that up with Mr. Knight.”
Higgins returned the attaché case to the floor, then handed the second case to Gabriel. Inside were bundles of newly minted hundred-euro banknotes.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I believe the Americans call it walking-around money. Use it as you see fit.”
“How much is there?”
“A half million. Any money left over is yours to keep.”
Gabriel closed the attaché case. The housekeeping, it seemed, had reached its end. At length he asked, “How long have you been working for him?”
“Mr. Knight?” Higgins made a show of thought. “It’s been four years now.”
“And before that?”
“I served as the personal assistant to another successful businessman.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it,” said Higgins, and picked a fleck of imaginary lint from the sleeve of his jacket.
Gabriel gazed out his window at the green Cornish countryside below. To be continued, he thought.
It was Gabriel’s abiding fear that Edward Knight’s factotum planned to accompany him on the flight to Ibiza. He passed the two-and-a-half-hour journey in solitude, though, without so much as a cabin attendant to see to his needs. Alice Winter’s emails, text messages, and credit card charges served as his reading material. A quick tally revealed that she had managed to spend more than fifty thousand euros during the six days she spent on Ibiza, all while receiving and dispatching text messages at an astonishing rate. She was especially prolific during the small hours, was disdainful of punctuation, and fond of profanity and puerile three-letter abbreviations. She messaged her husband sparingly, as though conscious of not bothering him with trivial matters. There was nothing in the exchanges to indicate tension in their marriage. Nor did Gabriel notice anything to suggest that Alice was involved in an extramarital affair. But then these were only her iMessage texts. Unfaithful spouses, like spies and terrorists, tended to do their communicating via encrypted or clandestine means.
It was a few minutes after seven o’clock when Edward Knight’s Bombardier plopped onto the runway at Ibiza Airport. Higgins had arranged for a car to take Gabriel to his hotel, a modern edifice overlooking a bone-white boulevard lined with palm trees. While crossing the crowded lobby he was gripped by an unshakable sense that hewas being watched. The young woman at reception, after inspecting his passport, handed him a room key and a telephone message. It was from a certain Inspector Aragón of the Policía Nacional.
“Perhaps I should find another hotel,” said Gabriel.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. “Is it serious?”
“Could be.”
“In that case, Señor Allon, you should probably hide out here. We’ll take good care of you.”
