Keller was away on business. Mainland Europe, a country other than France—that was as far as the don would go. If all went according to plan, Keller would be back on Corsica that evening, the following morning at the latest. The don told Gabriel to stay at Keller’s villa and to make himself at home. He said he was sorry about what had happened “up in the north.” Keller had obviously given him a full account.
“So what brings you back to Corsica?” asked the don.
“I paid someone a large sum of money, and they didn’t deliver the merchandise as promised.”
“A very large sum,” the don agreed.
“What would you do if you were in my position?”
“I would have never agreed to help a man like Jonathan Lancaster in the first place.”
“It’s a complicated world, Don Orsati.”
“Indeed,” said the don philosophically. “As for your business problem, you have two choices. You can do your best to forget what happened to the English girl, or you can punish those responsible.”
“What would you do?”
“Here on Corsica we have an old proverb: a Christian forgives, an idiot forgets.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Nor a Christian,” said Orsati, “but I won’t hold that against you.”
The don asked Gabriel to stay on the line while he dealt with a minor crisis. It seemed a large shipment of oil to a restaurant in Zurich had gone missing. Gabriel could hear the don shouting at an underling in the Corsican dialect. Find the oil, he was saying, or heads will roll. At any other enterprise, the threat might have been dismissed as managerial bluster. But not at the Orsati Olive Oil Company.
“Where were we?” asked the don.
“You were saying something about Christians and idiots. And you were about to extract a steep price for the privilege of borrowing Keller.”
“He is my most valuable employee.”
“For obvious reasons.”
The don was silent for a moment. Gabriel could hear him slurping coffee.
“It is important that this be about more than just blood,” he said after a moment. “You have to recover the money as well.”
“And if I’m able to?”
“A small payment of tribute to your Corsican godfather would be in order.”
“How small?”
“One million should be sufficient.”
“That’s rather steep, Don Orsati.”
“I was going to ask for five.”
Gabriel thought about it for a moment and then accepted the terms. “But only if I can find the money,” he stipulated. “Otherwise, I’m free to use Keller as I see fit, at no charge.”
“Done,” said Orsati. “But make sure you bring him home in one piece. Remember, money doesn’t come from singing.”
Gabriel settled in on the terrace with the Sancerre and the thick dossier on the inner workings of Downing Street under Jonathan Lancaster. But within an hour he was restless, so he called Don Orsati again and asked for permission to walk. The don gave his blessing and told Gabriel where he could find one of Keller’s guns. A chunky HK 9mm, it was located in the drawer of a pretty French antique writing desk, directly beneath the Cézanne. “But be careful,” the don cautioned. “Christopher sets his trigger pressure very light. He’s a sensitive soul.”
Gabriel slipped the weapon into the waistband of his jeans and set out along the narrow track, toward the three ancient olive trees. Thankfully, the goat had yet to return to its sentry post, which meant Gabriel was able to proceed into the village unmolested. It was the uncertain hour between late afternoon and evening. The houses were shuttered and the streets had been abandoned to cats and children. They watched Gabriel with great interest as he made his way to the main square. On three sides there were shops and cafés, and on the fourth was the church. Gabriel purchased a scarf for Chiara in one of the shops and then took a table at the least forbidding-looking of the cafés. He drank strong coffee to counter the effects of the Sancerre; then, as the sky darkened softly and the breeze turned chill, he drank rough Corsican red wine to counter the effects of the coffee. The doors of the church hung ajar. From inside came the murmur of prayer.