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“Not while I’m driving,” said Christopher. “I’m liable to kill us both.”
By the time they reached the town of Porto, the sun was an orange disk balanced atop the dark rim of the sea. Christopher headed inland along a road lined with laricio pine and started the long climb into the mountains. The air smelled of themacchia, the dense undergrowth of gorse, briar, rockrose, rosemary, and lavender that covered much of the island’s interior. The Corsicans seasoned their foods with themacchia, heated their homes with it in winter, and took refuge in it during times of war and vendetta. It had no eyes, went one often-repeated Corsican proverb, but themacchiasaw everything.
They passed through the hamlets of Chidazzu and Marignana and arrived in the village of the Orsatis a few minutes after ten o’clock. It had been there, or so it was said, since the time of the Vandals, when people from the coasts took to the hills for safety. Beyond it, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island’s finest oil, was the don’s sprawling estate. Two heavily armed men stood watch at the entrance. They touched their distinctive Corsican caps respectfully as Christopher turned through the gate.
Several more bodyguards stood like statuary in the floodlit forecourt of the palatial villa. Gabriel left his Beretta in the Renault and followed Christopher up a flight of stone steps to Don Orsati’s office. Entering, they found him seated at a large oaken table, before an open leather-bound ledger. As usual, he was wearing a bleached white shirt, loose-fitting cotton trousers, and a pair of dusty leather sandals that looked as though they had been purchased at the local outdoor market. At his elbow was a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil—oliveoil being the legitimate front through which the don laundered the profits of death.
Laboriously he rose to his feet. He was a large man by Corsican standards, well over six feet and broad through the back and shoulders, with coal-black hair, a dense mustache, and the brown-streaked eyes of a canine. They settled first on Christopher, inhospitably. He addressed him incorsu.
“I accept your apology.”
“For what?”
“The wedding,” answered the don. “Never in my life have I been so insulted. And from you of all people.”
“My new employers might have found it odd if you had been there.”
“How do you explain your eight-million-pound flat in Kensington?”
“It’s a maisonette, actually. And it cost me eight and a half.”
“All of which you earned working for me.” The don frowned. “Did you at least receive my wedding gift?”
“The fifty thousand pounds’ worth of Baccarat crystal? I sent you a rather lengthy handwritten note of gratitude.”
Don Orsati turned to Gabriel and in French said, “I assumeyouwere in attendance.”
“Only because they needed someone to give away the bride.”
“Is it true she’s an American?”
“Barely.”
“What does that mean?”
“She spent most of her childhood in England and France.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“At least she’s not Italian,” said Gabriel knowingly.
“At the end of many disasters,” said Don Orsati, reciting a Corsican proverb, “there is always an Italian. But your lovely wife is definitely the exception to the rule.”
“I’m confident you’ll feel the same about Sarah.”
“She’s intelligent?”
“She has a PhD from Harvard.”
“Attractive?”
“Stunningly beautiful.”
“Is she good to her mother?”
“When they’re on speaking terms.”
Don Orsati looked at Christopher in horror. “What kind of woman doesn’t speak to her mother?”
