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“You probably passed over him as you approached Porto.”
“How much were you able to get out of him?”
“Chapter and verse. Apparently, the attempt on your life was a rush job.”
“Did he happen to mention when he got the order?”
“It was the Sunday before the bombing.”
“Sunday evening?”
“Morning, actually. He had to assemble the bomb so quickly that he didn’t have time to buy a burner phone to use as the detonator trigger. He used a phone he picked up on another job instead.”
“It belonged to a woman named Valerie Bérrangar. Dubois and his associates ran her car off the road south of Bordeaux.”
“So he said. He was also involved in the murder of Lucien Marchand.” Orsati inclined his head toward an unfinished Cézanne-inspired landscape leaning against the wall. “We found that in his apartment in Antibes.”
“Who paid for the bullet?” asked Gabriel.
“An American. Evidently, he was a former CIA officer. Dubois didn’t know his name.”
“It’s Leonard Silk. He lives on Sutton Place in Manhattan.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Number fourteen.”
“We have friends in New York.” Orsati fed the photograph into his shredder. “Good friends, in fact.”
“How much?”
“You insult me.”
“Money doesn’t come from singing,” said Gabriel, repeating one of the don’s favorite proverbs.
“And dew won’t fill the tank,” he replied. “But save your money for your children.”
“Little children, little worries. Big children, big worries.”
“But not tonight, my friend. Tonight we have no worries at all.”
Gabriel looked at Christopher and smiled. “We’ll see about that.”
Downstairs, Gabriel found Raphael and Irene propped against Chiara, their eyes glassy and unfocused. Don Orsati begged them to stay a little longer, but after a final exchange of Corsican proverbs he reluctantly acquiesced to their departure. He could not hide his disappointment, though, over Gabriel’s travel plans. The Allon family intended to spend a single night at Christopher’s villa, then set out for Venice first thing in the morning.
“Surely you can stay for a week or two.”
“The children begin school in mid-September. We’ll barely make it home in time as it is.”
“To where will you sail next year?” inquired the don.
“The Galápagos, I think.”
With that, they said their goodbyes and squeezed into Christopher’s battered old Renault hatchback for the drive to the next valley. Gabriel and Chiara sat in back with the children wedged between them. Sarah sat in the passenger seat next to her husband. Despite the gaiety of the evening, her mood was suddenly tense.
“Have you heard from Magdalena?” she asked in the overbright voice of one who feared imminent disaster.
“Magdalena who?” replied Gabriel as the headlamps illuminated the enormous horned goat standing in the center of the track near the three ancient olive trees owned by Don Casabianca.
Christopher applied the brakes, and the car slowed gently to a stop.
“Would you mind awfully if I had a cigarette?” asked Sarah. “I feel one coming on.”
