Page 70 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

29

Ajaccio

At seven fifteen the following evening, Christopher Keller was seated at a waterfront café in the Corsican port of Ajaccio, an empty wineglass on the table before him, a freshly lit Marlboro burning between the first and second fingers of his sledgehammer right hand. He wore a pale gray suit by Richard Anderson of Savile Row, an open-neck white dress shirt, and handmade oxford shoes. His hair was sun-bleached, his skin was taut and dark, his eyes were bright blue. The notch in the center of his thick chin looked as though it had been cleaved with a chisel. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in an ironic half-smile.

His waitress had presumed him to be a European from the mainland and had greeted him accordingly, with apathy bordering on contempt. But when he addressed her in fluentcorsu, in the dialect of one from the northwestern corner of the island, she warmed to him instantly. They conversed in the Corsican way—about family and foreigners and the damage left by the springtime winds—and when he finished his first glass of rosé, she placed another before him without bothering to ask whether he wanted it.

It had done him no good, the second glass of wine, and neither hadthe cigarette, the fourth since his arrival at the café. It was a habit he had acquired while living under deep cover in Catholic West Belfast during one of the nastier periods of the Troubles. He now served in a clandestine operations unit of the Secret Intelligence Service sometimes referred to, incorrectly, as the Increment. His visit to Corsica, however, was entirely private in nature. A friend required the assistance of a man for whom Christopher had once worked—a certain Don Anton Orsati, patriarch of one of the island’s most notorious families. As the friend’s situation involved an attempt to kill Christopher’s wife, he was only too happy to oblige him.

Just then the prow of an arriving Corsica Linea ferry nosed into the inner harbor, past the ramparts of the ancient citadel. Christopher slid a twenty-euro banknote beneath the empty wineglass and crossed the Quai de la République to the car park opposite the port’s modern terminal. Behind the wheel of his battered Renault hatchback, he watched as the newly arrived passengers came spilling down the steps. Luggage-laden tourists. Returning Corsicans. Mainland French. A man of medium height and build dressed in a well-tailored Italian sport coat and gabardine trousers.

He tossed his overnight bag into the back of the Renault and dropped into the passenger seat. His emerald-green eyes stared with reproach at the cigarette burning in the ashtray.

“Must you?” he asked wearily.

“Yes,” said Christopher as he started the engine. “I’m afraid I must.”

They crossed the bony ridge of hills north of Ajaccio, then followed the twisting road down to the Golfu di Liscia. The waves somersaulting onto the small crescent beach were unusually large, driven by an approachingmaestral. It was how the Corsicans referred to the violent, unwelcome wind that blew in winter and springtime from the valleys of the Rhône.

“You arrived in the nick of time,” said Christopher, his elbow protruding from the open window. “If you’d waited another day, you would have had the ferry ride from hell.”

“It was bad enough as it was.”

“Why didn’t you fly from Paris?”

Gabriel removed the Beretta from its resting place at the small of his back and laid it on the center console.

“It’s good to know that some things don’t change.” Christopher gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “You need a haircut. Otherwise, you’re looking quite well for a man of your advanced age.”

“It’s the new me.”

“What was wrong with the old you?”

“I had a bit of excess baggage I needed to lose.”

“You and me both.” Christopher turned his head to watch the waves rolling in from the west. “But at this moment, I am suddenly reminded of the man I used to be.”

“The director of northern European sales for the Orsati Olive Oil Company?”

“Something like that.”

“Does His Holiness know that you’re back on the island?”

“We’re expected for dinner. As you might imagine, excitement is high.”

“Perhaps you should go alone.”

“The last person who declined an invitation to dine with Don Anton Orsati is somewhere out there.” Christopher gestured toward the waters of the Mediterranean. “In a concrete coffin.”

“Has he forgiven me for stealing you away from him?”

“He blames the British. As for forgiveness, Don Orsati is unfamiliar with the word.”

“I’m not in a terribly forgiving mood myself,” said Gabriel quietly.

“How do you think I feel?”

“Would you like to see a photograph of the man who tried to murder your wife?”