Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (47)

It was after midnight when Don Orsati finally tossed his napkin onto the table, signaling that the evening had reached its end. Rising, Gabriel thanked the don for his hospitality and asked him to conduct his search with discretion. The don replied that he would use only his most trusted operatives. He was confident of a successful resolution.

“If it is your wish, I’ll have my men bring him back here to Corsica. That way you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“It’s never bothered me before. Besides,” said Gabriel with a glance in Christopher’s direction, “I have him.”

“Christopher is a respectable English spy now. A man of distinction who resides at one of London’s poshest addresses. He couldn’t possibly get mixed up in a nasty business like this.”

With that, Gabriel and Christopher went into the windblown night and climbed into the Renault. Leaving the estate, they headed eastward into the next valley. Christopher’s secluded villa stood at the end of a dirt-and-gravel track lined on both sides by high walls of macchia. When the car’s headlamps fell upon three ancient olive trees, he lifted his foot from the throttle and leaned anxiously over the steering wheel.

“Surely it’s dead by now,” said Gabriel.

“We’ll know in a minute.”

“You didn’t ask the don?”

“And spoil an otherwise delightful evening?”

Just then a horned domestic goat, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, emerged from the macchia and established itself in the center of the track. It had the markings of a palomino and a red beard, and was scarred from old battles. Its eyes shone defiantly in the glare of the headlamps.

“It has to be a different goat.”

“No,” answered Christopher as he applied the brakes. “Same bloody goat.”

“Careful,” said Gabriel. “I think it heard you.”

The enormous goat, like the three ancient olive trees, belonged to Don Casabianca. It regarded the track as its private property and demanded tribute from those who traveled it. For Christopher, an Englishman with no Corsican blood in his veins, it harbored a particular resentment.

“Perhaps you could have a word with him on my behalf,” he suggested.

“Our last conversation didn’t go terribly well.”

“What did you say to him?”

“It’s possible I insulted his ancestry.”

“On Corsica? What were you thinking?” Christopher inched the car forward, but the goat lowered its head and stood its ground. A tap of the horn was no more effective. “You won’t mention any of this to Sarah, will you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” vowed Gabriel.

Christopher slipped the car into park and exhaled heavily. Then he flung open his door and charged the goat in his bespoke Richard Anderson suit, flailing his arms like a madman. The tactic usually resulted in an immediate capitulation. But on this night, the first night of a maestral, the animal fought gamely for a minute or two before finally fleeing into the macchia. Fortunately, Gabriel captured the entire confrontation on video, which he immediately dispatched to Sarah in London. All in all, he thought, it was a fine start to their holiday on Corsica.





31

Haute-Corse




The villa had a red tile roof, a large blue swimming pool, and a broad terrace that received the sun in the morning and in the afternoon was shaded by laricio pine. When Gabriel rose the following morning, the granite paving stones were strewn with tree limbs and other assorted flora. In the well-appointed kitchen, he found Christopher, in hiking boots and a waterproof anorak, preparing café au lait on a butane camp stove. A local newscast issued from a battery-powered radio.

“We lost power around three a.m. The winds reached eighty miles per hour last night. They say it’s the worst springtime maestral in living memory.”

“Was there any mention of an incident involving an Englishman and an elderly goat?”

“Not yet. But thanks to you, it’s all anyone’s talking about in London.” Christopher handed Gabriel a bowl of coffee. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

“Not a wink. You?”

“I’m a combat veteran. I can sleep through anything.”

“How long will it last?”

“Three days. Maybe four.”

“I guess that rules out windsurfing.”

“But not a hike up Monte Rotondo. Care to join me?”

“As tempting as that sounds,” said Gabriel, “I think I’ll spend the morning in front of a fire with a good book.”

He carried his coffee into the comfortably furnished sitting room. Several hundred volumes of fiction and history lined the shelves, and upon the walls hung a modest collection of modern and Impressionist paintings. The most valuable piece was a Proven?al landscape by Monet, which Christopher, through an intermediary, had acquired at Christie’s in Paris. On that morning, however, Gabriel’s eye was caught by the painting hanging next to it—another landscape, this one by Paul Cézanne.

He took down the painting and removed it from the frame. The stretcher appeared similar to those used by Cézanne in the mid-1880s, as did the canvas itself. There was no signature—not unusual, as Cézanne only signed works he considered truly finished—and the varnish was the color of nicotine. Otherwise, the painting appeared to be in good condition.