Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (74 page)

Eva finished her toes and returned to her novel. Peterson placed his empty plate and cutlery on the night table and switched off the light. A moment later, Schultzie smashed headfirst through the door and began lapping the bits of egg and grease from Eva’s precious hand-painted china. Peterson closed his eyes. Eva licked the tip of her index finger and turned another page.

“How was Bern?” she asked.

35

CORSICA

N
EWS OF THE
E
NGLISHMAN’S
dark mood spread rapidly round the little valley. On market day he moved through the village square in silence, joylessly selecting his olives and his cheeses. Evenings he sat with the old ones, but he avoided conversation and refused to be baited into a game of
boule,
even when his honor was called into question. So preoccupied was the Englishman that he seemed not to notice the boys on their skateboards.

His driving was dramatically worse. He was seen tearing along the valley road in his battered jeep at unprecedented speeds. Once, he was forced to swerve to avoid the wretched goat of Don Casabianca and ended up in a ditch at the side of the road. At that point Anton Orsati intervened. He told the Englishman about an infamous feud that had taken place between two rival clans over the accidental death of a hunting dog. Four people died before peace was finally made—two at the hands of Orsati
taddunaghiu.
It had happened a hundred years ago, but Orsati stressed that the lessons were still relevant today. His skilled use of Corsican history worked to perfection, as he knew it would. The next morning, the Englishman presented Casabianca with a large ham and apologized for frightening his goat. After that his driving was noticeably slower.

Still, something was clearly wrong. A few of the men from the square were so concerned that they paid a visit to the
signadora.
“He hasn’t been here in some time. But when he does come, you can be sure I won’t reveal his secrets to you jackasses. This house is like a confessional. Go, now!” And she chased them away with the business end of a stick broom.

Only Don Orsati knew the source of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl—a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo—but the Englishman refused.

Three days after the Englishman’s return from Lyons, Don Orsati invited him to dinner. They ate in a restaurant near the square and afterward walked arm in arm through the narrow streets of the dark town. Twice, villagers appeared out of the gloom, and twice they quickly turned in the opposite direction. Everyone knew that when Don Orsati was speaking privately with the Englishman it was best to walk away. It was then that Don Orsati told him about the assignment in Venice.

“If you want me to send one of the other boys—”

“No,” the Englishman said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I hoped you’d say that. None of the others are truly capable of a job like this. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the assignment. There’s a long tradition of our work in Venice. I’m sure you’ll find the setting rather inspiring.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“There’s a friend of mine there called Rossetti. He’ll give you all the help you require.”

“You have the dossiers?”

Only a man as powerful as Anton Orsati could leave the dossiers for two people he planned to murder on the front seat of a car, but such was the nature of life in the Corsican village. The Englishman read them by lamplight in the square. When he opened the second file, a look of recognition flashed through his eyes that even Orsati was able to detect.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I know this man—from another life.”

“Is that a problem?”

He closed the file. “Not at all.”

T
HE
Englishman stayed up late, listening to the audiotape he had taken from the professor’s apartment in Lyons. Then he read the stack of clippings and obituaries he had collected by trolling newspaper websites on the Internet, followed by the dossiers Anton Orsati had just given him. He slept for a few hours; then, before dawn the next morning, he placed a small overnight bag in the back of his jeep and drove into the village.

He parked in a narrow street near the church and walked to the house where the
signadora
lived. When he knocked softly on the door, she pushed open the shutters in the second-floor window and peered down at him like a gargoyle.

“I had a feeling it was you. The scirocco is blowing. It brings dust and evil spirits.”

“Which one am I?”

“I can see the
occhju
from here. Wait there, my child. I’ll just be a moment.”

The Englishman smoked a cigarette while he waited for the old woman to dress and come downstairs. She answered the door in a widow’s plain black frock and pulled him inside by the wrist, as though she feared there were wild animals about. They sat on opposite sides of the rough wooden table. He finished his cigarette while the old women tended to her oil and water.

“Three drops, though I’m certain I already know the answer.”

He dipped his finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the water. When the oil shattered, the old woman embarked on her familiar routine of blessings and prayers. When he repeated the test, the oil coalesced into a single ball, floating on the surface of the water. This pleased the old woman.

“That’s a neat trick you’ve got there,” said the Englishman.

“It’s not a trick. You of all people should know that.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“I know. Even though you are not a Corsican by birth, you have the soul of a Corsican. You are a true believer. Do you wish to have something to drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?”

“It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

The old woman tilted her head, as if to say,
So what.

“You should be at home in bed,” she said. Then she added: “With a woman. And not the whores that Don Orsati brings you. A real woman who will give you children and see to your clothes.”

“The women of Don Orsati are the only ones who will have me.”

“You think a decent woman wouldn’t have you because you are a
taddunaghiu?
”

The Englishman folded his arms.

“I want to tell you a story.”

He opened his mouth to object, but the old woman was on her feet before he could utter a sound and shuffling into the kitchen for the wine. The bottle was dark green and had no label. Her hand shook as she poured out two glasses.

“My husband was very good with his hands,” the
signadora
said. “He was a cobbler and a mason. He used to work sometimes for Don Tomasi in the next valley. Have you heard of the Tomasi clan?”

The Englishman nodded and sipped his wine. They were still notorious troublemakers.

“Don Tomasi hired my husband to build a new wall around his garden. It was a thing of beauty, I assure you, but Don Tomasi said it was flawed and refused to pay my husband for his work. They quarreled violently, and the don ordered a pair of his gunmen to drag my husband off his property. It’s still there, by the way.”

“The wall around the garden?”

“Indeed!” The old woman drank some wine and gathered herself for the rest of the story. “My husband was a good worker, but he was a gentle man. An
agnello.
Do you know this term?”

“A lamb.”

The
signadora
nodded. “He was not the kind of man to fight with his fists or a knife. Word of his treatment at the hands of Don Tomasi spread through the village. My husband became a laughingstock. Two nights after the incident he was baited into a fight in the square. He suffered a stab wound in his abdomen and died.”

Something flashed behind the old woman’s eyes. Anger. Hatred.

“Clearly, blood vengeance was required,” she said calmly. “But who? The oaf who murdered my husband in the square? He was not the one who was
truly
responsible for his death. It was Don Tomasi who had blood on his hands. But how was I supposed to kill Don Tomasi? He lived in a large house on the top of a hill, surrounded by vicious dogs and armed men. There was no way for me to kill him! So I went to see Anton Orsati’s father, and I hired a
taddunaghiu
to do the deed for me. It cost me every bit of money I had, but it was worth it. The
taddunaghiu
slipped through Don Tomasi’s defenses and slit his throat while he slept—killed him like the pig that he was. Justice was done.”

She reached across the table and laid her palm on the back of his hand.

“Sometimes, Christopher, a
taddunaghiu
can do good things. Sometimes, he can right a terrible wrong. Sometimes, he can dispense justice as well as vengeance. Remember the things I’ve told you.”

“I will,” he said.

He gave her a thick roll of money. Without looking at it, the old woman said, “It’s too much. It’s always too much.”

“You give me peace. Peace is priceless.”

He stood up to leave, but she grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. “Sit with me while I drink my wine. I still miss my husband, you know. Even after all these years.”

And so he sat there, watching the candlelight flickering in the creases of her face, while she finished the last of the wine. Then her eyes closed and her chin fell forward onto her chest.

The Englishman carried her upstairs and laid her gently in her bed. She awoke briefly. Her hand reached up, and she fingered the talisman hanging from his neck: the red coral hand. Then she touched his face and drifted back to sleep.

He went downstairs and climbed into his jeep, then drove to Calvi and boarded the first ferry for Marseille. There, he collected a car Orsati had left for him near the waterfront and set out for Venice.

36

VENICE

T
HE
I
TALIAN PRESS
had come alive. There was an avalanche of speculation about which pieces Anna Rolfe would perform. Would she attempt her signature piece, Giuseppe Tartini’s demonic sonata, “The Devil’s Trill”? Surely, the music writers speculated, Miss Rolfe would not try such a difficult composition after being away from the stage for so long.

There were appeals to move the recital to a larger venue. It was scheduled to take place in the upper hall of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, a room which seated only six hundred, and competition for tickets had deteriorated into something of a scrum among the Venetian well-to-do. Zaccaria Cordoni, the promoter, refused to consider moving the recital, though in an effort to preserve his good standing in Venice he adroitly laid blame at the feet of Anna Rolfe. Miss Rolfe had requested a small venue, he said, and he was a mere prisoner to the demands of the artist. A magazine with Socialist leanings printed a hysterical editorial arguing that once again music had been hijacked by the moneyed classes. It called for demonstrations outside the San Rocco on the night of the concert. Fiona Richardson, Anna Rolfe’s agent and manager, released a statement in London promising that Miss Rolfe’s considerable appearance fee would be donated to the preservation of the
scuola
and its magnificent artwork. All of Venice breathed a sigh of relief over the gesture, and the controversy receded as gently as the evening tide.

There was also speculation about where Anna Rolfe would stay in Venice. The
Gazzettino
reported that the Hotel Monaco, the Grand Canal, and the Gritti Palace were locked in a titanic struggle to attract her, while the
Nuova Venezia
suggested that Miss Rolfe would avoid the distractions of a hotel by accepting an invitation to stay at a privately owned palazzo. As it turned out, neither newspaper was correct, because at midday on a rainy Friday, the day before the performance, Anna and Gabriel arrived by water taxi at the private dock of the Luna Hotel Baglioni, a quiet establishment on the Calle dell’Ascencione, not far from the tourist mayhem of the Piazza San Marco.

Anna appeared briefly at the front desk and was greeted by the hotel’s shining senior staff. She introduced Gabriel as Monsieur Michel Dumont, her friend and personal assistant. As if to reinforce this image, Gabriel made a point of carrying two violins into the lobby. In French-accented English, he reiterated Miss Rolfe’s desire for complete privacy. The chief concierge, a polished man called Signore Brunetti, assured him that Miss Rolfe’s presence in the hotel would be the most closely guarded secret in Venice. Gabriel thanked him warmly and signed the registry.

“Miss Rolfe will be staying in the Giorgione suite on the fifth floor. It’s one of our finest rooms. Your room is right next door. I trust these arrangements are satisfactory?”