Page 73 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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Villa Orsati

Gabriel laid two photographs on Don Orsati’s desk. Same time stamp, slightly different angle. The don contemplated them as though they were Old Master paintings. He was a connoisseur of death and the men who dispensed it for a living.

“Do you recognize him?”

“I’m not sure his own mother would recognize him in that ridiculous disguise.” The don glanced up at Christopher. “You would have never been caught dead looking like that.”

“Never,” he agreed. “One has to maintain certain standards.”

Smiling, Don Orsati returned his gaze to the photographs. “Is there anything you can tell me about him?”

“The taxi driver said he spoke French like a native,” answered Gabriel.

“The driver would have said the same about Christopher.” The don’s eyes narrowed. “He looks like a former soldier to me.”

“I thought so, too. He certainly seems to know his way around explosive devices.”

“Unless someone else built it for him. There are many fine bombmakers in this business of ours.” Orsati once again turned to Christopher. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not as many as there used to be. But let’s not dwell on the past.”

“Perhaps we should,” said Gabriel. Then he added quietly, “Just for a moment or two.”

The don bunched his hands beneath his chin. “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

“There was a similar incident in Paris about twenty years ago. The gallery was owned by a Swiss dealer who was trading in paintings looted by the Nazis during the war. The bomb was delivered by a former British commando who—”

“I remember it well,” interjected Don Orsati.

“As do I.”

“And now you’re wondering whether the man in these photographs works for my organization.”

“I suppose I am.”

Orsati’s expression darkened. “You may rest assured, my old friend, that any man who offered me money to kill you would not leave this island alive.”

“It’s possible they thought I was someone else.”

“With all due respect, I doubt that. For a man of the secret world, you have a rather famous face.” Don Orsati looked at Christopher and exhaled heavily. “As for the former British commando, his fair hair, blue eyes, perfect English, and elite military training allowed him to fulfill contracts that were far beyond the skill level of my Corsican-borntaddunaghiu. Needless to say, my business has suffered as a result of his decision to return home.”

“Because you’ve turned down job offers where the risk of exposure was too high?”

“More than I can count.” Orsati tapped the cover of his leather-bound ledger of death. “And my profits have fallen sharply as a result.Oh, don’t get me wrong. I still get plenty of criminal and vengeance work. But my higher-profile clients have gone elsewhere.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“An exclusive new organization that offers white-glove concierge service to the sort of men who travel in private aircraft and dress like Christopher.”

“Wealthy businessmen?”

“That’s the rumor. This organization specializes in accidents and apparent suicides, the sort of thing the Orsati Olive Oil Company never bothered with. It is said that they’re quite accomplished when it comes to staging crime scenes, perhaps because they employ several former police officers. They are also rumored to possess certain technical capabilities.”

“Phone and computer hacking?”

The don shrugged his heavy shoulders. “This is your area of expertise. Not mine.”