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72
Adriatico
For the first five days of the trip, themaestralprevailed. It was not the cold and blustery aggressor that had laid siege to the island of Corsica the previous spring, but a temperate and dependable companion that propelled the Bavaria C42 effortlessly down the length of the Adriatic. With the seas calm and the wind blowing across the stern of his spacious vessel, Gabriel was able to provide Irene and Raphael with a smooth and pleasant introduction to maritime life. No one was more relieved than Chiara, who had prepared herself for six sun-drenched weeks of moaning, groaning, and seasickness.
Their days lacked shape, which was their intention. Most mornings Gabriel awakened early and got under way while Chiara and the children slept in the cabins beneath him. Sometime around noon he would drop his sails and lower the swim platform, and they would enjoy a long lunch at the cockpit table. In the evening they dined in portside restaurants—Italy one night, Croatia or Montenegro the next. Gabriel carried his Beretta whenever they went ashore. Chiara never addressed him by his given name.
When they reached the southern Adriatic port of Bari, they spent the night in a comfortable boutique hotel near the marina, did a largeload of laundry, and restocked their stores with food and plenty of local white wine. Late the following morning, when they rounded the heel of Italy, a warm and sultryjugowas blowing from the southeast. Gabriel rode it westward across the Ionian and arrived at the Sicilian port of Messina a day earlier than he had anticipated. The Museo Regionale was a short walk along the waterfront from the marina. In Room 10 were two monumental canvases executed by Caravaggio during his nine-month stay in Sicily.
“Is it true he used an actual corpse?” asked Chiara as she ponderedThe Raising of Lazarus.
“Unlikely,” answered Gabriel. “But certainly not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“It’s not one of his better efforts, is it?”
“Much of what you see was painted by studio assistants. The last restoration was about ten years ago. As you can no doubt tell from the quality of the work, I wasn’t available at the time.”
Chiara gave him a look of reproach. “I think I liked you better before you became a forger.”
“Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t attempt to forge a Caravaggio. You would have thrown me into the street.”
“I have to say, I rather enjoyed my afternoons with Orazio Gentileschi.”
“Not as much as he enjoyed his time with Danaë.”
“She would love to have lunch alone with you before this trip is over.”
“Our cabin is too close to the children’s.”
“In that case, how about a midnight snack instead?” Smiling, Chiara directed her gaze toward the Caravaggio. “Do you think you could paint one?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“And what about your rival? Is he capable of forging a Caravaggio?”
“He produced undetectable Old Master paintings from every school and period. A Caravaggio would be rather easy for him.”
“Who do you suppose he is?”
“The last person in the world anyone would ever suspect.”
Their midnight snack turned out to be a sumptuous feast several hours in length, and it was nearly ten in the morning by the time they set out for Limpari. Their next stop was a little cove along the Calabrian coast. Then, after an overnight sail that included a snack on the Bavaria’s foredeck, they arrived at the Amalfi Coast. From there, they island-hopped their way across the Gulf of Naples—first Capri, then Ischia—before venturing across the Tyrrhenian Sea to Sardinia.
To the north lay Corsica. Gabriel charted a course up the island’s western side, into the teeth of a fresheningmaestral. And two days later, on a cool and cloudless Wednesday evening, he guided the Bavaria into Porto’s tiny marina. Waiting on the quay, their arms raised in greeting, were Sarah Bancroft and Christopher Keller.
The sun had set by the time they reached the well-guarded home of Don Anton Orsati. Clad in the simple clothing of a Corsicanpaesanu, he greeted Irene and Raphael as though they were blood relatives. Gabriel explained to his children that the large, expansive figure with the dark eyes of a canine was a producer of the island’s finest olive oil. Irene, with her peculiar powers of second sight, was clearly dubious.
The don’s walled garden was strung with decorative lights and filled with members of his extended clan, including several who worked in the clandestine side of his business. It seemed the arrival of the Allon family after a long and perilous sea voyage was cause for celebration, as was the first visit to the island by Christopher’s American wife. Many Corsican proverbs were recited, and a great deal ofpale Corsican rosé was drunk. Sarah stared unabashedly at Raphael throughout dinner, entranced by the child’s uncanny resemblance to his father. Gabriel, for his part, stared at his wife. She had never looked happier—or more beautiful, he thought.
At the conclusion of the meal, the don invited Gabriel and Christopher upstairs to his office. Lying on the desk was the photograph of the man who had tried to kill Gabriel and Sarah at Galerie Georges Fleury in Paris.
“His name was Rémy Dubois. And you were right,” said Orsati. “He had a military background. He spent a couple of years fighting the crazies in Afghanistan, where he became quite familiar with improvised explosives. When he came home, he had trouble getting his life together.” The don glanced at Christopher. “Sound familiar?”
“Perhaps you should tell him about Rémy Dubois and leave me out of it.”
“The organization for which Dubois worked is known only as the Groupe. The other employees of this organization are all former soldiers and intelligence operatives. Most of their clients are wealthy businessmen. They’re very good at what they do. And quite expensive. We found Rémy in Antibes. A nice place near the Plage de Juan les Pins.”
“Do I have to ask where he is now?”
