Page 75 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

The distinctive scent of themacchiarose from the sumptuous feast that awaited them downstairs in Don Orsati’s garden. They did not remain there long. Indeed, not five minutes after they sat down, the first knife-edged blast of themaestralarrived from the northwest. With the help of the don’s bodyguards, they beat a hasty retreat to the dining room, and the meal resumed, though now it was accompanied by the howl and scrape of the much-despised intruder from across the sea.

It was after midnight when Don Orsati finally tossed his napkin onto the table, signaling that the evening had reached its end. Rising, Gabriel thanked the don for his hospitality and asked him to conduct his search with discretion. The don replied that he would use only his most trusted operatives. He was confident of a successful resolution.

“If it is your wish, I’ll have my men bring him back here to Corsica. That way you won’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“It’s never bothered me before. Besides,” said Gabriel with a glance in Christopher’s direction, “I have him.”

“Christopher is a respectable English spy now. A man of distinction who resides at one of London’s poshest addresses. He couldn’t possibly get mixed up in a nasty business like this.”

With that, Gabriel and Christopher went into the windblown night and climbed into the Renault. Leaving the estate, they headed eastward into the next valley. Christopher’s secluded villa stood at the end of a dirt-and-gravel track lined on both sides by high walls ofmacchia. When the car’s headlamps fell upon three ancient olive trees, he lifted his foot from the throttle and leaned anxiously over the steering wheel.

“Surely it’s dead by now,” said Gabriel.

“We’ll know in a minute.”

“You didn’t ask the don?”

“And spoil an otherwise delightful evening?”

Just then a horned domestic goat, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, emerged from themacchiaand established itself in the center of the track. It had the markings of a palomino and a red beard, and was scarred from old battles. Its eyes shone defiantly in the glare of the headlamps.

“It has to be a different goat.”

“No,” answered Christopher as he applied the brakes. “Same bloody goat.”

“Careful,” said Gabriel. “I think it heard you.”

The enormous goat, like the three ancient olive trees, belonged to Don Casabianca. It regarded the track as its private property and demanded tribute from those who traveled it. For Christopher, an Englishman with no Corsican blood in his veins, it harbored a particular resentment.

“Perhaps you could have a word with him on my behalf,” he suggested.

“Our last conversation didn’t go terribly well.”

“What did you say to him?”

“It’s possible I insulted his ancestry.”

“On Corsica? What were you thinking?” Christopher inched the car forward, but the goat lowered its head and stood its ground. A tap of the horn was no more effective. “You won’t mention any of this to Sarah, will you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” vowed Gabriel.

Christopher slipped the car intoparkand exhaled heavily. Then he flung open his door and charged the goat in his bespoke Richard Anderson suit, flailing his arms like a madman. The tactic usually resulted in an immediate capitulation. But on this night, the firstnight of amaestral, the animal fought gamely for a minute or two before finally fleeing into themacchia. Fortunately, Gabriel captured the entire confrontation on video, which he immediately dispatched to Sarah in London. All in all, he thought, it was a fine start to their holiday on Corsica.