House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(17)
“The Israelite?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Without another word, she took hold of Keller’s hand and prayed. After a moment she began to weep, a sign the evil had passed from his body into hers. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to be sleeping. When she awoke she instructed Keller to repeat the trial of the oil and the water. This time the oil coalesced into a single drop.
“Don’t wait so long the next time,” she said. “It’s best not to allow the evil to linger in the blood.”
“I need someone in London.”
“I know of a woman in a place called Soho. She’s Greek, a heretic. Use her only in cases of emergency.”
Keller pushed the plate toward the center of the table. “Tell me about the one they call the Scorpion.”
“The don will find him in a city at the other end of one of our ferries. It is not in my power to tell you which one. He is not important, this man. But he can lead you to the one who is.”
“Who?”
“It is not in my power,” she said again.
“How long will I have to wait?”
“When you go home, pack your bag. You’ll be leaving us soon.”
“You’re sure?”
“You doubt me?” Smiling, she searched his eyes. “Are you happy, Christopher?”
“As happy as a man like me can be.”
“But you still mourn for the one you lost in Belfast?”
He said nothing.
“It is understandable, my child. The manner of her death was terrible. But you killed the man who took her from you, the one called Quinn. You received your vengeance.”
“Does vengeance truly heal such wounds?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. After all, I’m a Corsican. You used to be one, too.” She glanced at the strand of leather around Keller’s neck. “At least you still wear your talisman. You’re going to need it. She will, too.”
“Who?”
Her eyes began to close. “I’m tired now, Christopher. I need to rest.”
Keller kissed her hand and slipped a roll of euros into her palm.
“It’s too much,” she said softly as he took his leave. “You always give me too much.”
9
Corsica—Nice
Later that evening, in the firelit warmth of Don Orsati’s office, Christopher Keller learned the man who called himself the Scorpion would be waiting two days hence at Le Bar Saint étienne, on the rue Dabray in Nice. Keller feigned surprise. And the don, who knew that Keller had been to see the signadora, made scant effort to conceal his irritation over the fact that the mystical old woman, whom he had known since he was a boy, had once again stolen his thunder.
There was much about the encounter that even the signadora, with her extraordinary powers of second sight, could not have surmised. She did not know, for example, that the Scorpion’s real name was Nouredine Zakaria, that he held both French and Moroccan passports, that he had been a low-level street criminal most of his life and had served time in a French prison, and that he was rumored to have spent several months in the caliphate, probably in Raqqa. Which meant it was possible he was under DGSI surveillance, though the don’s men had seen no evidence of it. He was scheduled to arrive at Le Bar Saint étienne, alone, at a quarter past two in the afternoon. He would be expecting a Frenchman named Yannick Ménard, a career criminal who specialized in the sale of weaponry. Ménard, however, would be unable to attend. He was now lying five miles due west of Ajaccio, in the watery graveyard of the Orsatis. And the guns he planned to sell Nouredine Zakaria—ten Kalashnikov combat assault rifles and ten Heckler & Koch MP7 compact machine guns with suppressors and ECLAN reflex sights—were in an Orsati warehouse outside the Proven?al town of Grasse.
“How much would this be worth to your friends in London?” asked the don.
“I thought we agreed your work would be pro bono.”
“Humor me.”
“Ménard’s death might complicate things,” said Keller thoughtfully.
“How so?”
“The British frown on blood.”
“Is it not true you have a license to kill?”
No, explained Keller, it was not.
Le Bar Saint étienne occupied the ground floor of a three-story pie-shaped building at the corner of the rue Vernier. Its awning was green, its tables and chairs were aluminum and stained with spilt ice cream. It was a neighborhood spot, a place to grab a quick café crème or a beer or perhaps a sandwich. Tourists rarely ventured there unless they were lost.
On the opposite side of the intersection was La Fantasia. Here the fare was pizza, though the accommodations were identical. Keller arrived at half past one and after ordering a coffee at the counter took a table on the street. He was dressed as a man of the south. Not a well-to-do sort who lived in a villa in the hills or an apartment by the sea, but the kind who lived by his wits on the street. A waiter one day, a laborer the next, a thief by night. He’d done a bit of time in prison, this version of Keller, and was good with his fists and a knife. He was an excellent friend to have in times of trouble, and a dangerous enemy.
He drew a cigarette from his packet of Marlboros and lit it with a disposable lighter. His phone was disposable, too. Through an exhalation of smoke, he scanned the quiet street and the shuttered windows of the surrounding apartment buildings. He could see no sign of the opposition. Mayhew and Quill, his instructors at the Fort, would have reminded him that surveillance by a professional service was almost impossible to detect. Keller, however, was confident of his instincts. He had worked as an assassin in France for more than twenty years, and yet to the French police he was nothing more than a rumor. It was not because he was lucky. It was because he was very good at his job.