Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (46)

The don bunched his hands beneath his chin. “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

“There was a similar incident in Paris about twenty years ago. The gallery was owned by a Swiss dealer who was trading in paintings looted by the Nazis during the war. The bomb was delivered by a former British commando who—”

“I remember it well,” interjected Don Orsati.

“As do I.”

“And now you’re wondering whether the man in these photographs works for my organization.”

“I suppose I am.”

Orsati’s expression darkened. “You may rest assured, my old friend, that any man who offered me money to kill you would not leave this island alive.”

“It’s possible they thought I was someone else.”

“With all due respect, I doubt that. For a man of the secret world, you have a rather famous face.” Don Orsati looked at Christopher and exhaled heavily. “As for the former British commando, his fair hair, blue eyes, perfect English, and elite military training allowed him to fulfill contracts that were far beyond the skill level of my Corsican-born taddunaghiu. Needless to say, my business has suffered as a result of his decision to return home.”

“Because you’ve turned down job offers where the risk of exposure was too high?”

“More than I can count.” Orsati tapped the cover of his leather-bound ledger of death. “And my profits have fallen sharply as a result. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I still get plenty of criminal and vengeance work. But my higher-profile clients have gone elsewhere.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“An exclusive new organization that offers white-glove concierge service to the sort of men who travel in private aircraft and dress like Christopher.”

“Wealthy businessmen?”

“That’s the rumor. This organization specializes in accidents and apparent suicides, the sort of thing the Orsati Olive Oil Company never bothered with. It is said that they’re quite accomplished when it comes to staging crime scenes, perhaps because they employ several former police officers. They are also rumored to possess certain technical capabilities.”

“Phone and computer hacking?”

The don shrugged his heavy shoulders. “This is your area of expertise. Not mine.”

“Does this organization have a name?”

“If it does, I am not aware of it.” Orsati looked down at the photographs. “The more important question is, who might have retained the services of this organization to kill you?”

“The leader of a sophisticated forgery network.”

“Paintings?”

Gabriel nodded.

“He must be making a great deal of money.”

“Thirty-four million euros from the Louvre alone.”

“Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work.”

“I’ve often thought the same about myself, Don Orsati.”

“What is your business these days?” he asked.

“I’m the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company.” Gabriel paused. “Currently on loan to the Police Nationale.”

“A complicating factor, to say the least.” Orsati made a face. “But please tell me how I can be of assistance to you and your friends from the French police.”

“I’d like you to find the man in those photographs.”

“And if I can?”

“I’ll ask him a simple question.”

“The name of the man who hired him to kill you?”

“You know what they say about assassinations, Don Orsati. The important thing is not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullet.”

“Who was it who said that?” asked the don, intrigued.

“Eric Ambler.”

“Wise words indeed. But in all likelihood, the man who tried to kill you in Paris doesn’t know the client’s name.”

“Perhaps not, but he’ll certainly be able to point me in the right direction. If nothing else he can provide valuable information on your competitor.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “I would think that would be of interest to you, Don Orsati.”

“One hand washes the other, and both hands wash the face.”

“A very old Jewish proverb.”

The don gave a dismissive wave of his enormous hand. “I’ll put these photographs into circulation first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you and Christopher can spend a few days relaxing here on the island.”

“Nothing like going on holiday with a man who once tried to kill you.”

“If Christopher had actually tried to kill you, you would be dead.”

“Just like the man who paid for the bullet,” remarked Gabriel.

“Did Eric Ambler really say that about assassinations?”

“It’s a line from A Coffin for Dimitrios.”

“Interesting,” said the don. “I never knew that Ambler was Corsican.”



The distinctive scent of the macchia rose from the sumptuous feast that awaited them downstairs in Don Orsati’s garden. They did not remain there long. Indeed, not five minutes after they sat down, the first knife-edged blast of the maestral arrived from the northwest. With the help of the don’s bodyguards, they beat a hasty retreat to the dining room, and the meal resumed, though now it was accompanied by the howl and scrape of the much-despised intruder from across the sea.