Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (110)

To the north lay Corsica. Gabriel charted a course up the island’s western side, into the teeth of a freshening maestral. And two days later, on a cool and cloudless Wednesday evening, he guided the Bavaria into Porto’s tiny marina. Waiting on the quay, their arms raised in greeting, were Sarah Bancroft and Christopher Keller.



The sun had set by the time they reached the well-guarded home of Don Anton Orsati. Clad in the simple clothing of a Corsican paesanu, he greeted Irene and Raphael as though they were blood relatives. Gabriel explained to his children that the large, expansive figure with the dark eyes of a canine was a producer of the island’s finest olive oil. Irene, with her peculiar powers of second sight, was clearly dubious.

The don’s walled garden was strung with decorative lights and filled with members of his extended clan, including several who worked in the clandestine side of his business. It seemed the arrival of the Allon family after a long and perilous sea voyage was cause for celebration, as was the first visit to the island by Christopher’s American wife. Many Corsican proverbs were recited, and a great deal of pale Corsican rosé was drunk. Sarah stared unabashedly at Raphael throughout dinner, entranced by the child’s uncanny resemblance to his father. Gabriel, for his part, stared at his wife. She had never looked happier—or more beautiful, he thought.

At the conclusion of the meal, the don invited Gabriel and Christopher upstairs to his office. Lying on the desk was the photograph of the man who had tried to kill Gabriel and Sarah at Galerie Georges Fleury in Paris.

“His name was Rémy Dubois. And you were right,” said Orsati. “He had a military background. He spent a couple of years fighting the crazies in Afghanistan, where he became quite familiar with improvised explosives. When he came home, he had trouble getting his life together.” The don glanced at Christopher. “Sound familiar?”

“Perhaps you should tell him about Rémy Dubois and leave me out of it.”

“The organization for which Dubois worked is known only as the Groupe. The other employees of this organization are all former soldiers and intelligence operatives. Most of their clients are wealthy businessmen. They’re very good at what they do. And quite expensive. We found Rémy in Antibes. A nice place near the Plage de Juan les Pins.”

“Do I have to ask where he is now?”

“You probably passed over him as you approached Porto.”

“How much were you able to get out of him?”

“Chapter and verse. Apparently, the attempt on your life was a rush job.”

“Did he happen to mention when he got the order?”

“It was the Sunday before the bombing.”

“Sunday evening?”

“Morning, actually. He had to assemble the bomb so quickly that he didn’t have time to buy a burner phone to use as the detonator trigger. He used a phone he picked up on another job instead.”

“It belonged to a woman named Valerie Bérrangar. Dubois and his associates ran her car off the road south of Bordeaux.”

“So he said. He was also involved in the murder of Lucien Marchand.” Orsati inclined his head toward an unfinished Cézanne-inspired landscape leaning against the wall. “We found that in his apartment in Antibes.”

“Who paid for the bullet?” asked Gabriel.

“An American. Evidently, he was a former CIA officer. Dubois didn’t know his name.”

“It’s Leonard Silk. He lives on Sutton Place in Manhattan.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Number fourteen.”

“We have friends in New York.” Orsati fed the photograph into his shredder. “Good friends, in fact.”

“How much?”

“You insult me.”

“Money doesn’t come from singing,” said Gabriel, repeating one of the don’s favorite proverbs.

“And dew won’t fill the tank,” he replied. “But save your money for your children.”

“Little children, little worries. Big children, big worries.”

“But not tonight, my friend. Tonight we have no worries at all.”

Gabriel looked at Christopher and smiled. “We’ll see about that.”



Downstairs, Gabriel found Raphael and Irene propped against Chiara, their eyes glassy and unfocused. Don Orsati begged them to stay a little longer, but after a final exchange of Corsican proverbs he reluctantly acquiesced to their departure. He could not hide his disappointment, though, over Gabriel’s travel plans. The Allon family intended to spend a single night at Christopher’s villa, then set out for Venice first thing in the morning.

“Surely you can stay for a week or two.”

“The children begin school in mid-September. We’ll barely make it home in time as it is.”

“To where will you sail next year?” inquired the don.

“The Galápagos, I think.”

With that, they said their goodbyes and squeezed into Christopher’s battered old Renault hatchback for the drive to the next valley. Gabriel and Chiara sat in back with the children wedged between them. Sarah sat in the passenger seat next to her husband. Despite the gaiety of the evening, her mood was suddenly tense.

“Have you heard from Magdalena?” she asked in the overbright voice of one who feared imminent disaster.