Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (50)

“How?”

“It is not in my power to tell you that.”

Without another word, the signadora took hold of Gabriel’s hand and engaged in the familiar ritual. She recited the words of an ancient Corsican prayer. She wept as the evil passed from his body into hers. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. When at last she awoke, she instructed Gabriel to repeat the trial of the oil and the water. This time the oil coalesced into a single drop.

“Now you,” he said.

The old woman sighed and did as he asked. The oil shattered.

“Just like the door of the art gallery,” she said. “Don’t worry, the occhju won’t stay within me for long.”

Gabriel laid several banknotes on the table. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Paint four pictures,” said the old woman. “And she will come for you.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t contract the occhju from Don Casabianca’s goat.”



Upon his return to the villa, Gabriel informed Christopher that Don Orsati’s inquiries would bear no fruit and that Don Casabianca’s goat was the devil incarnate. Christopher questioned the accuracy of neither assertion, as both had come from the mouth of the signadora. He nevertheless advised against telling the don to preemptively break off his search. It was far better, he said, to allow the wheel to spin until the ball had dropped.

“Unless the wheel continues to spin for another week or two.”

“Trust me, it won’t.”

“There’s more, I’m afraid.”

Gabriel explained the old woman’s prophecy regarding the Spanish woman.

“Did she say how the don knows her?”

“She said it wasn’t in her power to tell me.”

“Or so she claimed. It’s her version of ‘no comment.’”

“Did you ever run across a Spanish woman when you were working for the don?”

“One or two,” said Christopher beneath his breath.

“How should we raise it with him?”

“With the utmost care. His Holiness doesn’t like anyone rummaging through his past. Especially the signadora.”

And so it was that two nights later, while seated beneath a cloud-draped moon in the garden of Villa Orsati, Gabriel feigned incredulity when told that the don’s operatives had failed to locate the man who had delivered the expertly constructed bomb to Galerie Fleury. Then, after a moment or two of companionable silence, he cautiously asked Don Orsati whether he had ever encountered a Spanish woman who might have ties to the criminal art world.

The don’s brown-streaked eyes narrowed with suspicion. “When did you speak to her?”

“The Spanish woman?”

“The signadora.”

“I thought the macchia sees all.”

“Do you want to know about the Spanish woman or not?”

“It was two days ago,” admitted Gabriel.

“I suppose she also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find the man you’re looking for.”

“I wanted to tell you, but Christopher said it would be a mistake.”

“Did he?” Don Orsati glared at Christopher before turning once more to Gabriel. “Several years ago, perhaps five or six, a woman came to see me. She was from Roussillon, up in the Lubéron. Late thirties, quite composed. One had the impression she was comfortable in the presence of criminals.”

“Name?”

“Fran?oise Vionnet.”

“Real?”

Don Orsati nodded.

“What was her story?”

“The man she lived with disappeared one afternoon while walking in the countryside outside Aix-en-Provence. The police found his body a few weeks later near Mont Ventoux. He’d been shot twice in the back of the head.”

“Vengeance was required?”

The don nodded.

“I assume you agreed to provide it.”

“Money doesn’t come from singing, my friend.” It was one of the don’s most cherished Corsican proverbs and the unofficial slogan of the Orsati Olive Oil Company. “Money is earned by accepting and then fulfilling contracts.”

“What was the name on this one?”

“Miranda álvarez. The Vionnet woman was confident it was an alias. She was able to give us a physical description and a profession, but little else.”

“Why don’t we start with her appearance.”

“Tall, dark hair, very beautiful.”

“Age?”

“At the time, she was in her mid-thirties.”

“And her profession?”

“She was an art dealer.”

“Based where?”

“Maybe Barcelona.” The don shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Maybe Madrid.”

“That isn’t much to go on.”

“I’ve accepted contracts based on less, provided the client agrees to confirm the target’s identity once the target is located.”

“Thus avoiding needless bloodshed.”

“In a business like mine,” said Don Orsati, “mistakes are permanent.”

“I take it you were never able to find her.”