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31
Haute-Corse
The villa had a red tile roof, a large blue swimming pool, and a broad terrace that received the sun in the morning and in the afternoon was shaded by laricio pine. When Gabriel rose the following morning, the granite paving stones were strewn with tree limbs and other assorted flora. In the well-appointed kitchen, he found Christopher, in hiking boots and a waterproof anorak, preparing café au lait on a butane camp stove. A local newscast issued from a battery-powered radio.
“We lost power around three a.m. The winds reached eighty miles per hour last night. They say it’s the worst springtimemaestralin living memory.”
“Was there any mention of an incident involving an Englishman and an elderly goat?”
“Not yet. But thanks to you, it’s all anyone’s talking about in London.” Christopher handed Gabriel a bowl of coffee. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”
“Not a wink. You?”
“I’m a combat veteran. I can sleep through anything.”
“How long will it last?”
“Three days. Maybe four.”
“I guess that rules out windsurfing.”
“But not a hike up Monte Rotondo. Care to join me?”
“As tempting as that sounds,” said Gabriel, “I think I’ll spend the morning in front of a fire with a good book.”
He carried his coffee into the comfortably furnished sitting room. Several hundred volumes of fiction and history lined the shelves, and upon the walls hung a modest collection of modern and Impressionist paintings. The most valuable piece was a Provençal landscape by Monet, which Christopher, through an intermediary, had acquired at Christie’s in Paris. On that morning, however, Gabriel’s eye was caught by the painting hanging next to it—another landscape, this one by Paul Cézanne.
He took down the painting and removed it from the frame. The stretcher appeared similar to those used by Cézanne in the mid-1880s, as did the canvas itself. There was no signature—not unusual, as Cézanne only signed works he considered truly finished—and the varnish was the color of nicotine. Otherwise, the painting appeared to be in good condition.
And yet...
Gabriel propped the painting in a rhombus of brilliant morning sunlight streaming through the French doors, then snapped a magnified detail image with his phone. With thumb and forefinger, he enlarged the photograph further and examined the brushwork. His reverie was so complete he failed to notice that Christopher, a gifted surveillance artist, had stolen into the room.
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
“Looking for something to read,” said Gabriel absently.
Christopher took down Ben McIntyre’s biography of Kim Philby. “You might find this more interesting.”
“Though somewhat incomplete.” Gabriel looked down at the painting again.
“Is there a problem?”
“Where did you purchase it?”
“A gallery in Nice.”
“Does the gallery have a name?”
“Galerie Edmond Toussaint.”
“Did you seek the opinion of a professional?”
“Monsieur Toussaint gave me a certificate of authentication.”
“May I see it? The provenance as well.”
Christopher went upstairs to his study. Returning, he handed Gabriel a large business envelope, then slung a nylon rucksack over his powerful right shoulder.
