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Authors: Daniel Silva
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Orsati’s taste. Still, he was a superb assassin, the finest Orsati had ever known. He had been trained by the most efficient killers on the planet, and Orsati had learned much from him. He was also perfectly suited to certain assignments on the continent, which is why Anton Orsati came calling on the Englishman’s villa that afternoon with an armful of groceries.
ORSATIwas a descendant of a family of notables, but in dress and appetite he was not much different than the paesanu working his patch down the valley road. He wore a bleached white shirt, unbuttoned to the center of his barrel chest, and dusty leather sandals. The “lunch” that he brought with him consisted of a loaf of coarse bread, a flask of olive oil, a chunk of aromatic Corsican ham, and a lump of strong cheese. The Englishman provided the wine. The afternoon was warm, so they ate outside on the terrace overlooking the cul-de-sac valley, in the dappled shade of a pair of towering Corsican pines.
Orsati handed the Englishman a check bearing the imprint of Orsati Olive Oil. All of Orsati’s assassins were officially employees of the company. The Englishman was a vice president for marketing, whatever that meant. “Your share of the fee for the Spain assignment.” Orsati swirled a piece of the bread in oil and shoved it into his mouth. “Any problems?”
“The girl was working for the Spanish security service.”
“Which girl?”
“The girl Navarra was seeing.”
“Oh, shit. What did you do?”
“She saw my face.”
Orsati contemplated this news while he sawed off a slice of the ham and placed it on the Englishman’s plate. Neither man liked collateral casualties. They were usually bad for business.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired.”
“Still not sleeping well?”
“Not while I’m in a foreign country killing a man.”
“And here?”
“Better.”
“You should try to get some rest tonight instead of sitting up all hours with the old ones in the village.”
“Why?”
“Because I have another job for you.”
“I just finished a job. Give it to one of the others.”
“It’s too sensitive.”
“You have a dossier?”
Orsati finished his lunch and swam lazy laps in the pool while the Englishman read. When he finished, he looked up. “What has this man done to deserve to die?”
“Apparently, he stole something quite valuable.”
The Englishman closed the file. He had no compunction about killing someone who stole for a living. In the Englishman’s opinion, a thief was earth’s lowest life-form.
“So why does this job require me?”
“Because the contractors would like the target dead and his business destroyed. The men who trained you at Hereford taught you how to use explosives. My men are comfortable with more conventional weapons.”
“Where am I going to get a bomb?”
Orsati climbed out of the pool and vigorously toweled his thick silver hair. “Do you know Pascal Debré?”
Unfortunately, the Englishman did know Pascal Debré. He was an arsonist who did jobs for a Marseilles-based criminal enterprise. Debré would have to be handled carefully.
“Debré knows to expect you. He’ll give you whatever you need for the job.”
“When do I leave?”
8
COSTA DE PRATA, PORTUGAL
B Y ALL APPEARANCESthe woman who had settled in the refurbished old monastery on the steep hill overlooking the sea had taken a vow to live the sequestered existence of an ascetic. For a long time no one in the village knew even her name. Senhora Rosa, the scandalmonger checkout clerk at the market, decided she was a woman scorned, and she inflicted her dubious theory on anyone unfortunate enough to pass by her register. It was Rosa who christened the woman Our Lady of the Hillside. The moniker clung to her, even after her real name became known.
She came to the village each morning to do her marketing, sweeping down the hill on her bright-red motor scooter, her blond ponytail flying behind her like a banner.
ORSATIwas a descendant of a family of notables, but in dress and appetite he was not much different than the paesanu working his patch down the valley road. He wore a bleached white shirt, unbuttoned to the center of his barrel chest, and dusty leather sandals. The “lunch” that he brought with him consisted of a loaf of coarse bread, a flask of olive oil, a chunk of aromatic Corsican ham, and a lump of strong cheese. The Englishman provided the wine. The afternoon was warm, so they ate outside on the terrace overlooking the cul-de-sac valley, in the dappled shade of a pair of towering Corsican pines.
Orsati handed the Englishman a check bearing the imprint of Orsati Olive Oil. All of Orsati’s assassins were officially employees of the company. The Englishman was a vice president for marketing, whatever that meant. “Your share of the fee for the Spain assignment.” Orsati swirled a piece of the bread in oil and shoved it into his mouth. “Any problems?”
“The girl was working for the Spanish security service.”
“Which girl?”
“The girl Navarra was seeing.”
“Oh, shit. What did you do?”
“She saw my face.”
Orsati contemplated this news while he sawed off a slice of the ham and placed it on the Englishman’s plate. Neither man liked collateral casualties. They were usually bad for business.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired.”
“Still not sleeping well?”
“Not while I’m in a foreign country killing a man.”
“And here?”
“Better.”
“You should try to get some rest tonight instead of sitting up all hours with the old ones in the village.”
“Why?”
“Because I have another job for you.”
“I just finished a job. Give it to one of the others.”
“It’s too sensitive.”
“You have a dossier?”
Orsati finished his lunch and swam lazy laps in the pool while the Englishman read. When he finished, he looked up. “What has this man done to deserve to die?”
“Apparently, he stole something quite valuable.”
The Englishman closed the file. He had no compunction about killing someone who stole for a living. In the Englishman’s opinion, a thief was earth’s lowest life-form.
“So why does this job require me?”
“Because the contractors would like the target dead and his business destroyed. The men who trained you at Hereford taught you how to use explosives. My men are comfortable with more conventional weapons.”
“Where am I going to get a bomb?”
Orsati climbed out of the pool and vigorously toweled his thick silver hair. “Do you know Pascal Debré?”
Unfortunately, the Englishman did know Pascal Debré. He was an arsonist who did jobs for a Marseilles-based criminal enterprise. Debré would have to be handled carefully.
“Debré knows to expect you. He’ll give you whatever you need for the job.”
“When do I leave?”
8
COSTA DE PRATA, PORTUGAL
B Y ALL APPEARANCESthe woman who had settled in the refurbished old monastery on the steep hill overlooking the sea had taken a vow to live the sequestered existence of an ascetic. For a long time no one in the village knew even her name. Senhora Rosa, the scandalmonger checkout clerk at the market, decided she was a woman scorned, and she inflicted her dubious theory on anyone unfortunate enough to pass by her register. It was Rosa who christened the woman Our Lady of the Hillside. The moniker clung to her, even after her real name became known.
She came to the village each morning to do her marketing, sweeping down the hill on her bright-red motor scooter, her blond ponytail flying behind her like a banner.
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