“Germany.”
“She came to Britain during the war?”
“Right before,” said Keller. “She was taken in by a distant uncle who no longer considered himself Jewish. He gave her a proper Christian name and sent her to church. My mother didn’t know she had a Jewish past until she was in her mid-thirties.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Gabriel said, “but in my book, you’re Jewish.”
“To be honest with you, I’ve always felt a little Jewish.”
“You have an aversion to shellfish and German opera?”
“I was speaking in a spiritual sense.”
“You’re a professional assassin, Keller.”
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in God,” Keller protested. “In fact, I suspect I know more about your history and scripture than you do.”
“So why are you hanging around with that crazy mystic?”
“She isn’t crazy.”
“Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense.”
“How did she know we were looking for the girl?”
“I suppose the don must have told her.”
“No,” Keller said, shaking his head. “She saw it. She sees everything.”
“Like the water and the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“We’re in the south of France, Keller. I see water and mountains, too. In fact, I see them almost everywhere I look.”
“She obviously made you nervous with that talk about an old enemy.”
“I don’t get nervous,” said Gabriel. “As for old enemies, I can’t seem to walk out my front door without running into one.”
“Then perhaps you should move your front door.”
“Is that a Corsican proverb?”
“Just a friendly piece of advice.”
“We’re not exactly friends yet.”
Keller shrugged his square shoulders to convey indifference, injury, or something in between. “What did you do with the talisman she gave you?” he asked after a sulky silence.
Gabriel patted the front of his shirt to indicate that the talisman, which was identical to Keller’s, was hanging around his neck.
“If you don’t believe,” asked Keller, “why are you wearing it?”
“I like the way it accents my outfit.”
“Whatever you do, don’t ever take it off. It keeps the evil at bay.”
“I have a few people in my life I’d like to keep at bay.”
“Like Ari Shamron?”
Gabriel managed to hide his surprise. “How do you know about Shamron?” he asked.
“I met him when I came to Israel to train. Besides,” Keller added quickly, “everyone in the trade knows about Shamron. And everyone knows he wanted you to be the chief instead of Uzi Navot.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, Keller.”
“I have good sources,” said Keller. “And they tell me the job was yours for the taking but you turned it down.”
“You might find this hard to believe,” said Gabriel, staring wearily through the rain-spattered glass, “but I’m really not in the mood to take a stroll down memory lane with you.”
“I was just trying to help pass the time.”
“Perhaps we should enjoy a comfortable silence.”
“Another wisecrack?”
“You’d understand if you were Jewish.”
“Technically, I am Jewish.”
“Who do you prefer? Puccini or Wagner?”
“Wagner, of course.”
“Then you can’t possibly be Jewish.”
Keller lit a cigarette and waved out the match. A gust of wind hurled rain against the windshield, obscuring the view of the harbor. Gabriel lowered his own window a few inches to vent Keller’s smoke.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we should get a hotel room after all.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
“Why not?”
Keller flipped the wipers and pointed through the glass.
“Because Marcel Lacroix is headed our way.”
He wore a black tracksuit and neon-green trainers, and carried a Puma sports bag over one shoulder. Obviously, he had spent a good portion of the afternoon at the gym. Not that he needed it; Lacroix was at least six-foot-two and weighed well over two hundred pounds. His dark hair was oiled and pulled back into a short ponytail. He had studs in both ears and Chinese characters tattooed on the side of his thick neck, evidence he was a student of the Asian martial arts. His eyes never stopped moving, though they failed to register the two men seated in the battered Renault hatchback with fogged windows. Watching him, Gabriel sighed heavily. Lacroix would surely be a worthy opponent, especially within the tight confines of Moondance. Regardless of what anyone said, size mattered.
“No wisecracks?” asked Keller.
“I’m working on one.”
“Why don’t you let me handle it?”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knows you work for the don. And if you show up and start asking questions about Madeline Hart, he’ll know the don betrayed him, which will be detrimental to the don’s interests.”
“Let me worry about the don’s interests.”