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Authors: Daniel Silva
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head, your assassin gave me that.”
Gabriel nodded toward the talisman, which was lying
on Orsati’s desk next to the ledger. The don frowned. Then he picked up the
charm by the leather strand and allowed the red coral hand to sway back and
forth like the weight of a clock.
“It was a reckless thing to do,” the don said at
last.
“Leaving the talisman behind or letting me
live?”
Orsati smiled noncommittally. “We have an old
saying here in Corsica. I solda un vènini micca
cantendu : Money doesn’t come from singing. It comes from work. And
around here, work means fulfilling contracts, even when they are taken out on
famous violinists and Israeli intelligence officers.”
“So you returned the money to the men who retained
you?”
“They were Swiss bankers. Money was the last thing
they needed.” Orsati closed the ledger and laid the talisman on the cover. “As
you might expect, I’ve been keeping a close eye on you over the years. You’ve
been a very busy man since our paths crossed. In fact, some of your best work
has been done on my turf.”
“This is my first visit to Corsica,” Gabriel
demurred.
“I was referring to the south of France,” Orsati
replied. “You killed that Saudi terrorist Zizi al-Bakari in the Old Port of
Cannes. And then there was that bit of unpleasantness with Ivan Kharkov in
Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”
“It was my understanding Ivan was killed by other
Russians,” Gabriel said evasively.
“You killed Ivan,
Allon. And you killed him because he took your wife.”
Gabriel was silent. Again the Corsican smiled, this
time with the assurance of a man who knew he was right. “The macchia has no eyes,” he said, “but it sees all.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I assumed that was the case. After all, a man such
as you surely has no need of a professional killer. You do that quite well all
on your own.”
Gabriel withdrew a bundle of cash from his coat
pocket and placed it on Orsati’s ledger of death, next to the talisman. The don
ignored it.
“How can I help you, Allon?”
“I need some information.”
“About?”
Without a word, Gabriel laid the photograph of
Madeline Hart next to the money.
“The English girl?”
“You don’t seem surprised, Don Orsati.”
The Corsican said nothing.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No,” Orsati answered. “But I have a good idea who
took her.”
Gabriel held up the photo of the man from Les
Palmiers. Orsati nodded once.
“Who is he?” asked Gabriel.
“I don’t know. I met him only once.”
“Where?”
“It was in this office, a week before the English
girl vanished. He sat in the very same chair where you’re sitting now,” Orsati
added. “But he had more money than you, Allon. Much more.”
8
CORSICA
I t was lunchtime, Don Orsati’s favorite time of the day. They adjourned to the terrace outside his office and sat at a table laid with mounds of Corsican bread, cheese, vegetables, and sausage. The sun was bright, and through a gap in the laricio pine Gabriel could glimpse the sea shimmering blue-green in the distance. The savor of the macchia was everywhere. It hung on the cool air and rose from the food; even Orsati seemed to radiate it. He dumped several inches of bloodred wine into Gabriel’s glass and then set about hacking off several slices of the dense Corsican sausage. Gabriel didn’t inquire about the source of the meat. As Shamron liked to say, sometimes it was better not to ask.
“I’m glad we didn’t kill you,” Orsati said, raising his wineglass a fraction of an inch.
“I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.”
“More sausage?”
“Please.”
Orsati carved off two more thick slabs and deposited them on Gabriel’s plate. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and examined the photograph of the man from Les Palmiers. “He looks different in this picture,” he said after a moment, “but it’s definitely him.”
“What’s
Gabriel nodded toward the talisman, which was lying
on Orsati’s desk next to the ledger. The don frowned. Then he picked up the
charm by the leather strand and allowed the red coral hand to sway back and
forth like the weight of a clock.
“It was a reckless thing to do,” the don said at
last.
“Leaving the talisman behind or letting me
live?”
Orsati smiled noncommittally. “We have an old
saying here in Corsica. I solda un vènini micca
cantendu : Money doesn’t come from singing. It comes from work. And
around here, work means fulfilling contracts, even when they are taken out on
famous violinists and Israeli intelligence officers.”
“So you returned the money to the men who retained
you?”
“They were Swiss bankers. Money was the last thing
they needed.” Orsati closed the ledger and laid the talisman on the cover. “As
you might expect, I’ve been keeping a close eye on you over the years. You’ve
been a very busy man since our paths crossed. In fact, some of your best work
has been done on my turf.”
“This is my first visit to Corsica,” Gabriel
demurred.
“I was referring to the south of France,” Orsati
replied. “You killed that Saudi terrorist Zizi al-Bakari in the Old Port of
Cannes. And then there was that bit of unpleasantness with Ivan Kharkov in
Saint-Tropez a few years ago.”
“It was my understanding Ivan was killed by other
Russians,” Gabriel said evasively.
“You killed Ivan,
Allon. And you killed him because he took your wife.”
Gabriel was silent. Again the Corsican smiled, this
time with the assurance of a man who knew he was right. “The macchia has no eyes,” he said, “but it sees all.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I assumed that was the case. After all, a man such
as you surely has no need of a professional killer. You do that quite well all
on your own.”
Gabriel withdrew a bundle of cash from his coat
pocket and placed it on Orsati’s ledger of death, next to the talisman. The don
ignored it.
“How can I help you, Allon?”
“I need some information.”
“About?”
Without a word, Gabriel laid the photograph of
Madeline Hart next to the money.
“The English girl?”
“You don’t seem surprised, Don Orsati.”
The Corsican said nothing.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No,” Orsati answered. “But I have a good idea who
took her.”
Gabriel held up the photo of the man from Les
Palmiers. Orsati nodded once.
“Who is he?” asked Gabriel.
“I don’t know. I met him only once.”
“Where?”
“It was in this office, a week before the English
girl vanished. He sat in the very same chair where you’re sitting now,” Orsati
added. “But he had more money than you, Allon. Much more.”
8
CORSICA
I t was lunchtime, Don Orsati’s favorite time of the day. They adjourned to the terrace outside his office and sat at a table laid with mounds of Corsican bread, cheese, vegetables, and sausage. The sun was bright, and through a gap in the laricio pine Gabriel could glimpse the sea shimmering blue-green in the distance. The savor of the macchia was everywhere. It hung on the cool air and rose from the food; even Orsati seemed to radiate it. He dumped several inches of bloodred wine into Gabriel’s glass and then set about hacking off several slices of the dense Corsican sausage. Gabriel didn’t inquire about the source of the meat. As Shamron liked to say, sometimes it was better not to ask.
“I’m glad we didn’t kill you,” Orsati said, raising his wineglass a fraction of an inch.
“I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.”
“More sausage?”
“Please.”
Orsati carved off two more thick slabs and deposited them on Gabriel’s plate. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon reading glasses and examined the photograph of the man from Les Palmiers. “He looks different in this picture,” he said after a moment, “but it’s definitely him.”
“What’s
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