Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (51)

The don shook his head. “Fran?oise Vionnet begged me to continue looking, but I told her there was no point. I refunded her money, excluding the deposit and the expenses for the search, and we went our separate ways.”

“Did she ever tell you why her partner was murdered?”

“Apparently, it was a business dispute.”

“He was an art dealer as well?”

“A painter, actually. Not a successful one, mind you. But she spoke highly of his work.”

“Do you happen to remember his name?”

“Lucien Marchand.”

“And where might Christopher and I find Fran?oise Vionnet?”

“The Chemin de Joucas in Roussillon. If you like, I can get you the address.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

It was upstairs in his office, said Don Orsati. In his leather-bound ledger of death.





33

Le Lubéron




The next mainland-bound car ferry departed Ajaccio at half past eight the following evening and arrived in Marseilles shortly after dawn. Gabriel and Christopher, having passed the night in adjoining cabins, rolled into the port in a rented Peugeot and made their way to the A7 Autoroute. They headed north through Salon-de-Provence to Cavaillon, then followed a caravan of tour buses into the Lubéron. The honey-colored houses of Gordes, perched on a limestone hilltop overlooking the valley, sparkled in the crystalline morning light.

“That’s where Marc Chagall used to live,” said Christopher.

“In an old girls’ school on the rue de la Fontaine Basse. He and his wife, Bella, were reluctant to leave after the German invasion. They finally fled to the United States in 1941 with the help of the journalist and academic Varian Fry and the Emergency Rescue Committee.”

“I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery instead.”

Christopher lit a Marlboro. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to make your approach?”

“To Fran?oise Vionnet? I thought I’d start with bonjour and hope for the best.”

“How cunning.”

“Maybe I’ll tell her I was sent by a mystical Corsican woman who cured me of the occhju. Or better yet, I’ll say that I’m a friend of the Corsican organized crime figure she hired to kill a Spanish art dealer.”

“That should win her over.”

“How much do you suppose the don charged her?” asked Gabriel.

“For a job like that? Not much.”

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe a hundred thousand.”

“How much was the contract on my life?”

“Seven figures.”

“I’m flattered. And Anna?”

“You two were part of a package deal.”

“Is there a discount for that sort of thing?”

“The don is unfamiliar with that word as well. But it warms my heart that you two have rekindled your relationship after all these years.”

“There was no kindling involved. And we don’t have a relationship.”

“Did you or did you not borrow a million euros from her to buy that fake Cuyp riverscape?”

“The money was repaid three days later.”

“By my wife,” said Christopher. “As for your approach to the aforementioned Fran?oise, I suggest you fly a false flag. In my experience, respectable residents of the Lubéron don’t hand over briefcases filled with cash to someone like His Holiness Don Anton Orsati.”

“Are you suggesting that Fran?oise Vionnet and Lucien Marchand, an unknown painter with no established sales record, might have been involved in a criminal enterprise of some sort?”

“I’d bet my Cézanne on it, too.”

“You don’t own a Cézanne.”

They rounded a bend in the road, and the Lubéron Valley revealed itself as a patchwork quilt of vineyards and orchards and fields ablaze with wildflowers. The brick-colored buildings of Roussillon’s ancient center occupied a ridge of ocher-rich clay on the southern rim. Christopher approached the village along the narrow Chemin de Joucas and eased onto the grassy verge at the point where the slope of the hill met the valley floor. On one side of the road was newly plowed cropland. On the other, partially hidden from view behind an unkempt wall of vegetation, was a small single-level villa. From somewhere came the muted baritone bark of a large dog.

“But of course,” murmured Gabriel.

“Better a canine than a caprine.”

“Caprines don’t bite.”

“Wherever did you get an idea like that?” asked Christopher, and turned into the drive. Instantly a barrel-shaped dog with the jaws of a Rottweiler shot from the front door. Next there appeared a languorous barefoot girl in her early twenties. She wore leggings and a wrinkled cotton pullover. Her light brown hair swung long and loose in the Proven?al light.

“She’s too young,” said Gabriel.

“What about that one?” asked Christopher as an older version of the girl emerged from the villa.

“She looks like a Fran?oise to me.”

“I agree. But how are you going to play it?”