House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(14)

Eventually, they came to the ancient village of the Orsatis, a cluster of sandstone-colored houses with red-tile roofs, huddled around the bell tower of a church. It had been there, or so it was said, since the time of the Vandals, when people from the coasts took to the hills for safety. Beyond it, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island’s finest oil, was Don Orsati’s estate. Two armed guards stood watch at the entrance. They touched their distinctive Corsican caps respectfully as Giancomo turned through the gate and started up the long drive.

He parked in the deep shadow of the forecourt, and Keller, alone, entered the villa and climbed the cold stone steps to the don’s office. He was seated at a large oaken table, peering into an open leather-bound ledger. He was a large man by Corsican standards, well over six feet and broad through the back and shoulders. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting trousers, dusty leather sandals, and a crisp white shirt that his wife ironed for him each morning, and again in the afternoon when he rose from his nap. His hair was black, as were his eyes. At his elbow was a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil—olive oil being the legitimate front through which the don laundered the profits of death.

“How’s business?” asked Keller at last.

“Which part? Blood or oil?” In Don Orsati’s world, blood and oil flowed together in a single seamless enterprise.

“Both.”

“Oil, not so good. This no-growth economy is killing me. And the British with this Brexit nonsense!” He waved his hand as though dispersing a foul odor.

“And blood?” asked Keller.

“Did you happen to see the story about the German businessman who disappeared from the Carlton Hotel in Cannes last week?”

“Where is he?”

“Five miles due west of Ajaccio.” The don smiled. “Or thereabouts.”

“Alive one hour,” said Keller, quoting a Corsican proverb, “dead the next.”

“Remember, Christopher, life is just as long as the time it takes to pass by a window.” The don closed the ledger with a coffin finality and regarded Keller thoughtfully. “I didn’t expect to see you back on the island so soon. Are you having second thoughts about your new life?”

“Third and fourth,” replied Keller.

This pleased the don. He was still appraising Keller with his black eyes. It was like being studied by a canine.

“I hope your friends in British intelligence don’t know you’re here.”

“It’s possible,” said Keller candidly. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with them.”

“I don’t have the luxury of not worrying. As for the British,” said the don, “they’re not to be trusted. You’re the only inhabitant of that dreadful island I’ve ever cared for. If only they’d stop coming here for their summer holidays, everything would be right with the world.”

“It’s good for the island’s economy.”

“They drink too much.”

“A cultural affliction, I’m afraid.”

“And now,” said the don, “you’re one of them again.”

“Almost.”

“They’ve given you a new name?”

“Peter Marlowe.”

“I prefer your old name.”

“It wasn’t available. Poor chap’s deceased, you see.”

“And your new employers?” asked the don.

“Every bed has lice,” said Keller.

“Only the spoon,” replied the don, “knows the pot’s sorrows.”

With that, a companionable silence settled between them. There was only the wind in the laricio pine and the crackling of the macchia-wood fire, which perfumed the air of the don’s large office. At length, he asked why Keller had returned to Corsica; and the Englishman, with an indifferent movement of his head, implied he had come for reasons having to do with his new line of work.

“You were sent here by the British secret service?”

“More or less.”

“Don’t speak to me in riddles, Christopher.”

“I didn’t have an appropriate proverb at my fingertips.”

“Our proverbs,” said the don, “are sacred and correct. Now tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m looking for a man. A Moroccan who calls himself the Scorpion.”

“And if I agree to help you?” The don tapped the leather cover of his ledger.

Keller said nothing.

“Money doesn’t come from singing, Christopher.”

“I was hoping you might do it as a personal favor.”

“You abandon me, and now you want to utilize my services free of charge?”

“Is that a proverb, too?”

The don frowned. “And if I can find this man? What then?”

“My friends in British intelligence think it might be a good idea for me to go into business with him.”

“What line of work is he in?”

“Drugs, apparently. But in his spare time he supplies guns to ISIS.”

“ISIS?” Don Orsati shook his head gravely. “I suppose this has something to do with the attacks in London.”

“I suppose it does.”

“In that case,” said the don, “I’ll do it for nothing.”