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“Not even tempted?”
No, thought Ingrid. Not in the least.
***
Shortly before 11:00 p.m., the waiter at La Royale informed Christopher that the establishment would soon be closing. He drank a final coffee, smoked a final cigarette, then settled his bill and was on his way. He rang Gabriel while walking along the deserted pavements of the boulevard.
“Time remaining?” he asked.
“Three hours and fifteen minutes.”
“An eternity.”
“And then some.”
“If I stay on this street any longer, the sûreté will arrest me for loitering.”
“They would be doing the rest of the world a favor.”
“Be that as it may,” said Christopher, “my detention would come as an unpleasant surprise to my superiors in London. It would also leave us with no one in close proximity to our two colleagues.”
“In that case, you should probably find somewhere to spend the next three hours and fourteen minutes.”
Christopher walked down the gentle slope of the hill to the Place du Casino and obtained an outdoor table at Café de Paris, the celebrated Monaco eatery that remained open until 3:00 a.m. For the sake of his not-so-elaborate cover, he ordered pasta with truffles and a bottle of pricey Montrachet, then watched as a million-euro Lamborghini, bright red in color, pulled up outside the ornate entrance of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. The cameras of the assembled paparazzi flashed as the owner of the motorcar, a celebrity Spanish fashion designer, entered the casino with an underfed model on his arm.
The waiter appeared with the Montrachet. Christopher, with nothing but time on his hands, was slow in signaling his approval. When he was alone again, he rang Gabriel with an update on his whereabouts.
“Hanging by a thread, are you?”
“Bored senseless, if you must know. Can I bring you anything?”
“Ingrid and René Monjean.”
The connection died as another seven-figure supercar rolled up outside the entrance of the casino. This time it was a Bugatti. A silver-haired man, a beautiful young girl. Christopher glanced at his watch. Nothing but time.
***
It was after midnight when Ingrid finally finished photographing all of the physical documents stored in the safe. She returned the files to their original positions, then checked the progress bar on her computer. The original time estimate, as it turned out, had been too pessimistic. The operating software now predicted the data transfer would be complete in one hour and thirty-nine minutes, which would have them out the door by 1:45 a.m. at the latest. As far as Ingrid was concerned, their departure could not come soon enough. She was no stranger to lengthy jobs—her last theft had involved weeks of planning and observation—but the take itself nearly always occurred in the blink of an eye.
René Monjean, who was peering over her shoulder, was growing restless as well. “Is there nothing you can do to make it go faster?” he asked.
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
Monjean turned away from the computer and stared at the money.
“You’re not thinking about doing something stupid, are you?”
“Have you ever seen that much money before?”
“Twice.”
“Really? When?”
“My last job. I got five up front and five on delivery.”
“What did you steal?”
“Something I shouldn’t have.”
