Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (45)

Several more bodyguards stood like statuary in the floodlit forecourt of the palatial villa. Gabriel left his Beretta in the Renault and followed Christopher up a flight of stone steps to Don Orsati’s office. Entering, they found him seated at a large oaken table, before an open leather-bound ledger. As usual, he was wearing a bleached white shirt, loose-fitting cotton trousers, and a pair of dusty leather sandals that looked as though they had been purchased at the local outdoor market. 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.

Laboriously he rose to his feet. He was a large man by Corsican standards, well over six feet and broad through the back and shoulders, with coal-black hair, a dense mustache, and the brown-streaked eyes of a canine. They settled first on Christopher, inhospitably. He addressed him in corsu.

“I accept your apology.”

“For what?”

“The wedding,” answered the don. “Never in my life have I been so insulted. And from you of all people.”

“My new employers might have found it odd if you had been there.”

“How do you explain your eight-million-pound flat in Kensington?”

“It’s a maisonette, actually. And it cost me eight and a half.”

“All of which you earned working for me.” The don frowned. “Did you at least receive my wedding gift?”

“The fifty thousand pounds’ worth of Baccarat crystal? I sent you a rather lengthy handwritten note of gratitude.”

Don Orsati turned to Gabriel and in French said, “I assume you were in attendance.”

“Only because they needed someone to give away the bride.”

“Is it true she’s an American?”

“Barely.”

“What does that mean?”

“She spent most of her childhood in England and France.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“At least she’s not Italian,” said Gabriel knowingly.

“At the end of many disasters,” said Don Orsati, reciting a Corsican proverb, “there is always an Italian. But your lovely wife is definitely the exception to the rule.”

“I’m confident you’ll feel the same about Sarah.”

“She’s intelligent?”

“She has a PhD from Harvard.”

“Attractive?”

“Stunningly beautiful.”

“Is she good to her mother?”

“When they’re on speaking terms.”

Don Orsati looked at Christopher in horror. “What kind of woman doesn’t speak to her mother?”

“They’ve had their ups and downs.”

“I’d like to have a word with her about this as soon as possible.”

“We’re hoping to spend a week or two on the island this summer.”

“He who lives on hope dies on shit.”

“How eloquent, Don Orsati.”

“Our proverbs,” he said gravely, “are sacred and correct.”

“And there’s one for every occasion.”

Don Orsati laid a granite hand gently upon Christopher’s cheek. “Only the spoon knows the pot’s sorrows.”

“Mistakes are made even by priests at the altar.”

“Better to have little than nothing.”

“But he who has nothing will not eat.”

“Shall we?” asked Don Orsati.

“Perhaps we should discuss our mutual friend’s problem first,” suggested Christopher.

“This business with the art gallery in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true your beautiful American wife was involved?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“In that case,” said Don Orsati, “you have a problem, too.”





30

Villa Orsati




Gabriel laid two photographs on Don Orsati’s desk. Same time stamp, slightly different angle. The don contemplated them as though they were Old Master paintings. He was a connoisseur of death and the men who dispensed it for a living.

“Do you recognize him?”

“I’m not sure his own mother would recognize him in that ridiculous disguise.” The don glanced up at Christopher. “You would have never been caught dead looking like that.”

“Never,” he agreed. “One has to maintain certain standards.”

Smiling, Don Orsati returned his gaze to the photographs. “Is there anything you can tell me about him?”

“The taxi driver said he spoke French like a native,” answered Gabriel.

“The driver would have said the same about Christopher.” The don’s eyes narrowed. “He looks like a former soldier to me.”

“I thought so, too. He certainly seems to know his way around explosive devices.”

“Unless someone else built it for him. There are many fine bomb makers in this business of ours.” Orsati once again turned to Christopher. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not as many as there used to be. But let’s not dwell on the past.”

“Perhaps we should,” said Gabriel. Then he added quietly, “Just for a moment or two.”