“I was told to take you to Ben Gurion.”
“Anything else?”
“They said you might want to make a stop along the way.”
“Who said that? Was it Uzi?”
“No,” replied the driver, shaking his head. “It was the Old Man.”
So, thought Gabriel. He remembered. He glanced at his watch again.
The date . .
.
“Well?” asked the driver.
“Take me to the airport,” replied Gabriel.
“No stops?”
“Just one.”
The driver slipped the car into gear and eased slowly from the curb, as though he were joining a funeral procession. He didn’t bother to ask where they were going. It was the twenty-seventh of September. And Shamron remembered.
T
hey drove to the Garden of Gethsemane and then followed the narrow, winding path up the slope of the Mount of Olives. Gabriel entered the cemetery alone and walked through the sea of headstones, until he arrived at the grave of Daniel Allon, born September 27, 1988, died January 13, 1991. Died on a snowy night in the First District of Vienna, in a blue Mercedes automobile that was blown to bits by a bomb. The bomb had been planted by a Palestinian master terrorist named Tariq al-Hourani, on the direct orders of Yasir Arafat. Gabriel had not been the target; that would have been too lenient. Tariq and Arafat had wanted to punish him by forcing him to watch the death of his wife and child, so that he would spend the rest of his life grieving, like the Palestinians. Only one element of the plot had failed. Leah had survived the inferno. She lived now in a psychiatric hospital atop Mount Herzl, trapped in a prison of memory and a body destroyed by fire. Afflicted with a combination of post-traumatic stress syndrome and psychotic depression, she relived the bombing constantly. Occasionally, however, she experienced flashes of lucidity. During one such interlude, she had granted Gabriel permission to marry Chiara.
Look at me, Gabriel. There’s nothing left of me. Nothing but a memory
.
Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch again. Not the date but the time. There was time for one last good-bye. One final torrent of tears. One final apology for failing to search the car for a bomb before allowing Leah to start the engine. Then he staggered from the garden of stone, on the day that used to be his favorite of the year, and climbed into the back of an Office sedan that was driven by a boy of twenty-five.
The boy had the good sense not to speak a word during the journey to the airport. Gabriel entered the terminal like a normal traveler but then went to a room reserved for Office personnel, where he waited for his flight to be called. As he settled into his first-class seat, he felt a wholly unprofessional urge to phone Chiara. Instead, using techniques taught to him in his youth by Shamron, he walled her from his thoughts. For now, there was no Chiara. Or Daniel. Or Leah. There was only Madeline Hart, the kidnapped mistress of British prime minister Jonathan Lancaster. As the plane rose into the darkening sky, she appeared to Gabriel, in oil on canvas, as Susanna bathing in her garden. And leering at her over the wall was a man with an angular face and a small, cruel mouth. The man without a name or country. The forgotten man.
CORSICA
T
he
Corsicans say that, when approaching their island by boat, they can smell its
unique scrubland vegetation long before they glimpse its rugged coastline rising
from the sea. Gabriel experienced no such revelation of Corsica, for he
journeyed to the island by air, arriving on the morning’s first flight from
Orly. It was only when he was behind the wheel of a rented Peugeot, heading
south from the airport at Ajaccio, that he caught his first whiff of gorse,
briar, rockrose, and rosemary spilling down from the hills. The Corsicans called
it the
macchia
. They cooked with it, heated their
homes with it, and took refuge in it in times of war and vendetta. According to
Corsican legend, a hunted man could take to the
macchia
and, if he wished, remain undetected there forever. Gabriel
knew just such a man. It was why he wore a red coral hand on a strand of leather
around his neck.
After a half hour of driving, Gabriel left the
coast road and headed inland. The scent of the
macchia
grew stronger, as did the walls surrounding the small hill
towns. Corsica, like the ancient land of Israel, had been invaded many
times—indeed, after the fall of the Roman Empire, the Vandals had plundered
Corsica so mercilessly that most of the island’s inhabitants fled the coasts and
retreated into the safety of the mountains. Even now, the fear of outsiders
remained intense. In one isolated village, an old woman pointed at Gabriel with
her index and little fingers in order to ward off the effects of the
occhju
, the evil eye.
Beyond the village, the road was little more than a
single-lane track bordered on both sides by thick walls of
macchia
. After a mile he came to the entrance of a private estate.
The gate was open but in the breach stood an off-road vehicle occupied by a pair
of security guards. Gabriel switched off the engine and, placing his hands atop
the steering wheel, waited for the men to approach. Eventually, one climbed out
and came slowly over. He had a gun in one hand and another shoved into the
waistband of his trousers. With only a movement of his thick eyebrows, he
inquired about the purpose of Gabriel’s visit.
“I wish to see the don,” Gabriel said in
French.
“The don is a very busy man,” the guard replied in
the Corsican dialect.
Gabriel removed the talisman from his neck and
handed it over. The Corsican smiled.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I
t had
never taken much to spark a blood feud on the island of Corsica. An insult. An
accusation of cheating in the marketplace. The dissolution of an engagement. The
pregnancy of an unmarried woman. After the initial spark, unrest inevitably
followed. An ox would be killed, a prized olive tree would topple, a cottage
would burn. Then the murders would start. And on it would go, sometimes for a
generation or more, until the aggrieved parties had settled their differences or
given up the fight in exhaustion.
Most Corsican men were more than willing to do
their killing themselves. But there were some who needed others to do their
blood work for them: notables who were too squeamish to get their hands dirty,
or who were unwilling to risk arrest or exile; women who could not kill for
themselves or had no male kin to do the deed on their behalf. People like these
relied on professional killers known as
taddunaghiu
.
Usually, they turned to the Orsati clan.
The Orsatis had fine land with many olive trees,
and their oil was regarded as the sweetest in all of Corsica. But they did more
than produce olive oil. No one knew how many Corsicans had died at the hands of
Orsati assassins down through the ages, least of all the Orsatis themselves, but
local lore placed the number in the thousands. It might have been significantly
higher were it not for the clan’s rigorous vetting process. The Orsatis operated
by a strict code. They refused to carry out a killing unless satisfied the party
before them had indeed been wronged and blood vengeance was required.
That changed, however, with Don Anton Orsati. By
the time he gained control of the family, the French authorities had managed to
eradicate feuding and the vendetta in all but the most isolated pockets of the
island, leaving few Corsicans with the need for the services of his
taddunaghiu
. With local demand in steep decline,
Orsati had been left with no choice but to look for opportunities elsewhere,
namely, across the water in mainland Europe. He now accepted almost every job
offer that crossed his desk, no matter how distasteful, and his killers were
regarded as the most reliable and professional on the Continent. In fact,
Gabriel was one of only two people ever to survive an Orsati family
contract.
Though Orsati descended from a family of Corsican
notables, in appearance he was indistinguishable from the
paesanu
who guarded the entrance to his estate. Entering the don’s
large office, Gabriel found him seated at his desk wearing a bleached white
shirt, loose-fitting trousers of pale cotton, and a pair of dusty sandals that
looked as though they had been purchased at the local outdoor market. He was
staring down at an old-fashioned ledger, his heavy face set in a frown. Gabriel
could only wonder at the source of the don’s displeasure. Long ago, Orsati had
merged his two businesses into a single seamless enterprise. His modern-day
taddunaghiu
were all employees of the Orsati
Olive Oil Company, and the murders they carried out were booked as orders for
product.
Rising, Orsati extended a granite hand toward
Gabriel without a trace of apprehension. “It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur
Allon,” he said in French. “Frankly, I expected to see you long ago. You have a
reputation for dealing harshly with your enemies.”
“My enemies were the Swiss bankers who hired you to
kill me, Don Orsati. Besides,” Gabriel added, “instead of giving me a bullet in
the head, your assassin gave me that.”
Gabriel nodded toward the talisman, which was lying
on Orsati’s desk next to the ledger. The don frowned. Then he picked up the
charm by the leather strand and allowed the red coral hand to sway back and
forth like the weight of a clock.
“It was a reckless thing to do,” the don said at
last.
“Leaving the talisman behind or letting me
live?”
Orsati smiled noncommittally. “We have an old
saying here in Corsica.
I solda un vènini micca
cantendu
: Money doesn’t come from singing. It comes from work. And
around here, work means fulfilling contracts, even when they are taken out on
famous violinists and Israeli intelligence officers.”
“So you returned the money to the men who retained
you?”
“They were Swiss bankers. Money was the last thing
they needed.” Orsati closed the ledger and laid the talisman on the cover. “As
you might expect, I’ve been keeping a close eye on you over the years. You’ve
been a very busy man since our paths crossed. In fact, some of your best work
has been done on my turf.”
“This is my first visit to Corsica,” Gabriel
demurred.
“I was referring to the south of France,” Orsati
replied. “You killed that Saudi terrorist Zizi al-Bakari in the Old Port of
Cannes. And then there was that bit of unpleasantness with Ivan Kharkov in
Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”
“It was my understanding Ivan was killed by other
Russians,” Gabriel said evasively.
“You
killed Ivan,
Allon. And you killed him because he took your wife.”
Gabriel was silent. Again the Corsican smiled, this
time with the assurance of a man who knew he was right. “The
macchia
has no eyes,” he said, “but it sees all.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I assumed that was the case. After all, a man such
as you surely has no need of a professional killer. You do that quite well all
on your own.”
Gabriel withdrew a bundle of cash from his coat
pocket and placed it on Orsati’s ledger of death, next to the talisman. The don
ignored it.
“How can I help you, Allon?”
“I need some information.”
“About?”
Without a word, Gabriel laid the photograph of
Madeline Hart next to the money.
“The English girl?”
“You don’t seem surprised, Don Orsati.”
The Corsican said nothing.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No,” Orsati answered. “But I have a good idea who
took her.”
Gabriel held up the photo of the man from Les
Palmiers. Orsati nodded once.
“Who is he?” asked Gabriel.
“I don’t know. I met him only once.”
“Where?”
“It was in this office, a week before the English
girl vanished. He sat in the very same chair where you’re sitting now,” Orsati
added. “But he had more money than you, Allon. Much more.”
CORSICA
I
t was lunchtime, Don Orsati’s favorite time of the day. They adjourned to the terrace outside his office and sat at a table laid with mounds of Corsican bread, cheese, vegetables, and sausage. The sun was bright, and through a gap in the laricio pine Gabriel could glimpse the sea shimmering blue-green in the distance. The savor of the
macchia
was everywhere. It hung on the cool air and rose from the food; even Orsati seemed to radiate it. He dumped several inches of bloodred wine into Gabriel’s glass and then set about hacking off several slices of the dense Corsican sausage. Gabriel didn’t inquire about the source of the meat. As Shamron liked to say, sometimes it was better not to ask.
“I’m glad we didn’t kill you,” Orsati said, raising his wineglass a fraction of an inch.
“I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.”
“More sausage?”
“Please.”
Orsati carved off two more thick slabs and deposited them on Gabriel’s plate. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and examined the photograph of the man from Les Palmiers. “He looks different in this picture,” he said after a moment, “but it’s definitely him.”
“What’s different?”
“The way he’s wearing his hair. When he came to see me, it was oiled and combed close to the scalp. It was subtle,” Orsati added, “but very effective.”
“Did he have a name?”
“He called himself Paul.”
“Last name?”
“For all I know, that
was
his last name.”
“What language did our friend Paul speak?”
“French.”
“Local?”
“No, he had an accent.”
“What kind?”
“I couldn’t place it,” the don said, furrowing his heavy brow. “It was as if he learned his French from a tape recorder. It was perfect. But at the same time it wasn’t quite right.”
“I assume he didn’t find your name in the telephone book.”
“No, Allon, he had a reference.”
“What sort of reference?”
“A name.”
“Someone who hired you in the past.”
“That’s the usual kind.”
“What kind of job was it?”
“The kind where two men enter a room and only one man comes out. And don’t bother asking me the name of the reference,” Orsati added quickly. “We’re talking about my business.”
With a slight inclination of his head, Gabriel indicated he had no desire to pursue the matter further, at least for the moment. Then he asked the don why the man had come to see him.
“Advice,” answered Orsati.
“About what?”
“He told me he had some product to move. He said he needed someone with a fast boat. Someone who knew the local waters and could move at night. Someone who knew how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Product?”
“This might surprise you, but he didn’t go into specifics.”
“You assumed he was a smuggler,” said Gabriel, more a statement of fact than a question.
“Corsica is a major transit point for heroin moving from the Middle East into Europe. For the record,” the don added quickly, “the Orsatis do not deal in narcotics, though, on occasion, we have been known to eliminate prominent members of the trade.”
“For a fee, of course.”
“The bigger the player, the bigger the fee.”
“Were you able to accommodate him?”
“Of course,” the don said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Sometimes we have to move things at night ourselves, Allon.”
“Things like dead bodies?”
The don shrugged. “They are an unfortunate byproduct of our business,” he said philosophically. “Usually, we try to leave them where they fall. But sometimes the clients pay a bit extra to make them disappear forever. Our preferred method is to put them into concrete coffins and send them to the bottom of the sea. Only God knows how many are down there.”
“How much did Paul pay?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“What was the split?”
“Half for me, half for the man with the boat.”
“Only half?”
“He’s lucky I gave him that much.”
“And when you heard the English girl had gone missing?”
“Obviously, I was suspicious. And when I saw Paul’s picture in the newspapers . . .” The don’s voice trailed off. “Let’s just say I wasn’t pleased. The last thing I need is trouble. It’s bad for business.”
“You draw the line at kidnapping young women?”
“I suspect you do, too.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“I meant no offense,” the don said genuinely.
“None taken, Don Orsati.”
The don loaded his plate with roasted peppers and eggplant and doused them in Orsati olive oil. Gabriel drank some of the wine, paid a compliment to the don, and then asked for the name of the man with the fast boat who knew the local waters. He did so as if it were the furthest thing from his thoughts.
“We’re getting into sensitive territory,” replied Orsati. “I do business with these people all the time. If they ever find out I betrayed them to someone like you, things would get messy, Allon.”
“I can assure you, Don Orsati, they will never know how I obtained the information.”
Orsati appeared unconvinced. “Why is this girl so important that the great Gabriel Allon is looking for her?”
“Let’s just say she has powerful friends.”
“Friends?” Orsati shook his head skeptically. “If you’re involved, there’s more to it than that.”
“You are very wise, Don Orsati.”
“The
macchia
has no eyes,” the don said cryptically.
“I need his name,” Gabriel said quietly. “He’ll never know where I got it.”
Orsati picked up his glass of the bloodred wine and lifted it to the sun. “If I were you,” he said after a moment, “I’d talk to a man named Marcel Lacroix. He might know something about where the girl went after she left Corsica.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Marseilles,” replied Orsati. “He keeps his boat in the Old Port.”
“Which side?”
“The south, opposite the art gallery.”
“What’s the boat called?”
“Moondance
.”
“Nice,” said Gabriel.
“I can assure you there’s nothing nice about Marcel Lacroix or the men he works for. You need to watch your step in Marseilles.”
“This might come as a surprise to you, Don Orsati, but I’ve done this a time or two before.”
“That’s true. But you should have been dead a long time ago.” Orsati handed Gabriel the talisman. “Put it around your neck. It wards off more than just the evil eye.”
“Actually,” replied Gabriel, “I was wondering whether you had something a bit more powerful.”
“Like what?”
“A gun.”
The don smiled. “I have something better than a gun.”
G
abriel followed the road until it turned to dirt, and then he followed it a little farther. The old goat was waiting exactly where Don Orsati had said it would be, just before the sharp left-hand turn, in the shade of three ancient olive trees. As Gabriel approached, it rose from its resting place and stood in the center of the narrow track, its chin raised defiantly, as if daring Gabriel to attempt to pass. It had the markings of a palomino and a red beard. Like Gabriel, it was scarred from old battles.
He inched the car forward, hoping the goat would surrender its position without a fight, but the beast stood its ground. Gabriel looked at the gun Don Orsati had given to him. A Beretta 9mm, it was lying on the front passenger seat, fully loaded. One shot between the goat’s battered horns was all it would take to end the standoff, but it was not possible; the goat, like the three ancient olive trees, belonged to Don Casabianca. And if Gabriel so much as touched one hair on its wretched head, there would be a feud, and blood would be spilled.
Gabriel tapped the car horn twice, but the goat did not budge. Then, sighing heavily, he climbed out and attempted to reason with the beast—first in French, then Italian, and then, exasperated, in Hebrew. The goat responded by lowering its head and aiming it like a battering ram toward Gabriel’s midsection. But Gabriel, who believed the best defense was a good offense, charged first, flailing his arms and shouting like a madman. Surprised, the goat gave ground instantly and vanished through a gap in the
macchia
.
Gabriel quickly started back toward the open car door but stopped when he heard a sound, like the cackling of a mockingbird, in the distance. Turning, he looked up toward the ocher-colored villa anchored to the side of the next hill. Standing on the terrace was a blond-haired man dressed entirely in white. And though Gabriel could not be certain, it appeared the man was laughing uncontrollably.