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might know the way to play it, had done it enough times after all, but this was different. This was serious. If she got this one right, she knew it wouldn't be just the one Chloe in her wardrobe, the single pair of Louboutins and the old Blahniks. This could be the big time. Big money. No more bars or private clubs, no more conferences or anonymous hotel rooms. A select clientele, arranged through Carnot. For which she'd get the new apartment he'd told her about. Off the Cours Lieutaud someplace, good and central. And a lot more money. Even with Carnot's cut, it was more than she'd ever earned in her whole life. A few more years and she'd be on her way.
At the reception desk the hotel staff were pleasingly attentive when she asked if they could direct her to the bar, called her 'Madame' and pointed across the foyer where a flight of stairs descended in a series of railed terraces to a long picture window overlooking the Vieux Port.
'I'll know him when I see him. I'll know him when I see him,' Sylviane repeated as she crossed the creamy marble expanse of the foyer, Louboutins tapping, and stepped down into the main bar on the first level. But she couldn't see him, couldn't see anyone who looked like they could be this Monsieur Raissac. So Sylviane found herself a small table, ordered a vodka tonic from the steward and made herself comfortable.
As time passed the bar grew busier, men mostly, a dozen or more business types in sharp suits and polished shoes, briefcases laid on the floor or on stools, mobiles on the bar, ordering their drinks from a white-jacketed barman who smiled and nodded and wielded the various bottles with the sure hands of a fairground juggler. Sipping her drink, helping herself from the bowl of smoked almonds on her table, Sylviane took it all in. She knew these kinds of men - all of them middle-aged, successful, away from their wives, their homes. There wasn't a single one there she couldn't have seduced away from their bored, nondescript lives. Not one. She'd worked crowds like this so many times, it was second nature. The likely ones. The generous ones. The tricky ones. But in a place like this, she knew, discretion was the watchword - or
she'd be out of the door faster than a bullet from a— 'Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle .. .?'
    The voice was low and warm and inviting, but when Sylviane looked up it was all she could do not to gasp. His face. His face. Carnot had been right - 'You'll know him when you see him.' 'You are Sylviane?'
    She nodded, unable quite to find her voice. The man stepped forward, reached for her hand and bent over it, dry lips brushing the skin. 'Enchante.'
     
     
     

9
     
Chief Inspector Gastal, a napkin tucked into his collar, was sitting alone in a booth in Fabien s, over the road from the Vieux Port, the sun's reflection off the water playing Hockney patterns across its ceiling. Picking up the last escargot from his plate, Gastal held it between ringed middle finger and thumb and, with the nail of his index finger, scratched a hole in the top of its shell. Satisfied with his handiwork, he clamped the shell's opening to his mouth and sucked loudly, the coiled black body and warm juices bubbling out like the last drops of a child's drink sucked through a straw.
Jacquot, making his way to Gastal's table, watched the performance and wondered at it. He was glad he had already eaten.
Gastal put down the empty shell, pulled the napkin from his collar and wiped away the trail of melted butter that glistened over his dimpled chin. When he spotted Jacquot approaching, he tossed down the napkin and held out his hand.
'Gastal,' he said with a shiny grin. 'Alain to you. Take a seat, why don't you?' he offered, hauling his backside along the banquette to make room. 'The paquet's good if you're hungry. Or I'd offer you one of these,' he said, indicating the pile of empty shells, 'but, as you can see, that was the last.' Having made enough room, Gastal reached back for his glass and the