“Not when your name is Christopher Keller and you’re supposed to be dead.”
Gabriel drank some of his wine. “I didn’t include you on the team because I needed your help,” he said after a moment. “I wanted to show you that there’s more to life than killing people for money.”
“You wanted to restore me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s a natural instinct of mine.”
“Some things are beyond repair.” Keller paused, then added, “Beyond redemption.”
“How many men have you killed?”
“I don’t know,” Keller shot back. “How many have you killed?”
“Mine are different. I’m a soldier. A secret soldier, but a soldier nevertheless.” He looked at Keller seriously for a moment. “And you can be one, too.”
“Are you offering me a job?”
“You’d have to become an Israeli citizen and learn to speak Hebrew to work for the Office.”
“I’ve always felt a little Jewish.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, “you mentioned that before.”
Keller smiled, and a silence fell between them. The afternoon wind was starting to get up.
“There is one other possibility, Christopher.”
“What’s that?”
“Did you happen to notice who was just named the new director-general of MI6?”
Keller made no reply.
“I’ll go on the record for you with Graham. He can give you a new identity. A new life.”
Keller raised his wineglass to the valley. “I have a life. A very nice life, in fact.”
“You’re a hired gun. You’re a criminal.”
“I’m an honorary bandit. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever you say.” Gabriel added a half inch of wine to his glass.
“Is this why you came to Corsica? To talk me into going home again?”
“I suppose it is.”
“If I let you restore the Cézanne, will you promise to leave me alone?”
“No,” answered Gabriel.
“Then maybe we should enjoy the silence.”
62
CORSICA
Three days later the don invited Gabriel to drop by his office for a chat. It was not truly an invitation, for invitations can be politely declined. It was a Shamronian commandment, chiseled into stone, inviolable.
“How about lunch?” asked Gabriel, knowing that Orsati was likely to be in a good mood then.
“Fine,” answered the don. Then he added ominously, “But perhaps it would be better if you came alone.”
Gabriel left the villa shortly after noon. The goat allowed him to pass without a confrontation, for it recognized him as an associate of the beautiful Italian woman. The guards outside Don Orsati’s estate allowed him to pass, too, for the don had left word that the Israelite was expected. He found the don in his large office, hunched over his ledger books.
“How’s business?” asked Gabriel.
“Never better,” replied Orsati. “I have more orders than I can possibly fill.”
Whether the don was speaking of blood or oil, he did not say. Instead, he led Gabriel to a dining room where a table had been laid with a Corsican feast. With its whitewashed walls and simple furnishings, the room reminded Gabriel of the pope’s private dining room in the Apostolic Palace. There was even a heavy wooden crucifix on the wall behind the chair reserved for the don.
“Does it bother you?” asked Orsati.
“Not at all,” replied Gabriel.
“Christopher tells me you know your way around Catholic churches.”
“What else did he tell you?”
Orsati frowned but said nothing more as he filled Gabriel’s plate with food and his glass with wine.
“The villa is to your liking?” he asked finally.
“It’s perfect, Don Orsati.”
“And your wife is happy here?”
“Very.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“As long as you’ll have me.”
The don was curiously silent.
“Have I worn out my welcome already, Don Orsati?”
“You can stay here on the island as long as you like.” The don paused, then added, “So long as you don’t involve yourself in matters that affect my business.”
“You’re obviously referring to Keller.”
“Obviously.”
“I meant no disrespect, Don Orsati. I was just—”
“Meddling in affairs that don’t concern you.”
The don’s mobile phone buzzed softly. He ignored it.
“Did I not help you when you first came to the island looking for the English girl?”
“You did,” said Gabriel.
“And did I not give you Keller free of charge to help you find her?”
“I couldn’t have done it without him.”
“And did I not overlook the fact that I was never offered any of the ransom money you surely recovered?”
“The money is in the bank account of the Russian president.”
“So you say.”
“Don Orsati . . .”
The don waved his hand dismissively.
“Is that what this is about? Money?’
“No,” the don admitted. “It’s about Keller.”