The English Assassin

takeaway containers for something that hadn’t spoiled or grown a beard of mold. In one grease-spotted carton, he struck gold: a little mound of noodle and bacon raclette. On the bottom shelf, hidden behind a container of green ricotta cheese, lay two eggs. He scrambled them and heated the raclette in the microwave. Then he poured himself a very large glass of red wine and walked back into the bedroom. Eva was buffing her toenails.

He divided his food carefully, so that with each bite of egg he would have an accompanying scoop of raclette. Eva found this habit annoying, which partially explained why he did it. On the television there was more mayhem. Friends of the slain criminals had now avenged their comrades’ death by killing the police detectives. More evidence of Herr Gessler’s theory of life’s circular quality.

“Stefan has a soccer match tomorrow.” She blew on her toes. “He’d like you to come.”

“I can’t. Something’s come up at the office.”

“He’s going to be disappointed.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

“What’s so important at the office that you can’t go see your son’s soccer game? Besides, nothing important ever happens in this country.”

I have to arrange the murder of Anna Rolfe, he thought. He wondered how she would react if he said it aloud. He considered saying it, just to test her-to see whether she ever listened to a word he said.

Eva finished her toes and returned to her novel. Peterson placed his empty plate and cutlery on the night table and switched off the light. A moment later, Schultzie smashed head-first through the door and began lapping the bits of egg and grease from Eva’s precious hand-painted china. Peterson closed his eyes. Eva licked the tip of her index finger and turned another page.

“How was Bern?” she asked.

35

CORSICA

NEWS OF THE ENGLISHMAN’S dark mood spread rapidly round the little valley. On market day he moved through the village square in silence, joylessly selecting his olives and his cheeses. Evenings he sat with the old ones, but he avoided conversation and refused to be baited into a game of boule, even when his honor was called into question. So preoccupied was the Englishman that he seemed not to notice the boys on their skateboards.

His driving was dramatically worse. He was seen tearing along the valley road in his battered jeep at unprecedented speeds. Once, he was forced to swerve to avoid the wretched goat of Don Casabianca and ended up in a ditch at the side of the road. At that point Anton Orsati intervened. He told the Englishman about an infamous feud that had taken place between two rival clans over the accidental death of a hunting dog. Four people died before peace was finally made-two at the hands of Orsati taddunaghiu. It had happened a hundred years ago, but Orsati stressed that the lessons were still relevant today. His skilled use of Corsican history worked to perfection, as he knew it would. The next morning, the Englishman presented Casabianca with a large ham and apologized for frightening his goat. After that his driving was noticeably slower.

Still, something was clearly wrong. A few of the men from the square were so concerned that they paid a visit to the signadora. “He hasn’t been here in some time. But when he does come, you can be sure I won’t reveal his secrets to you jackasses. This house is like a confessional. Go, now!” And she chased them away with the business end of a stick broom.

Only Don Orsati knew the source of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl-a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo -but the Englishman refused.

Three days after the Englishman’s return from Lyons, Don Orsati invited him to dinner. They ate in a restaurant near the square and afterward walked arm in arm through the narrow streets of the dark town. Twice, villagers appeared out of the gloom, and twice they quickly turned in the opposite direction. Everyone knew that when Don Orsati was speaking privately with the Englishman it was best to walk away. It was then that Don Orsati told him about the assignment in Venice.

“If you want me to send one of the other boys-”

“No,” the Englishman said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I hoped you’d say that. None of the others are truly capable of a job like this. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the assignment. There’s a long tradition of our work in Venice. I’m sure you’ll find the setting rather inspiring.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“There’s a friend of mine there called Rossetti. He’ll give you all the help you require.”

“You have the dossiers?”

Only a man as powerful as Anton Orsati could leave the dossiers for two people he planned to murder on the front seat of a car, but such was the nature of life in the Corsican village. The Englishman read them by lamplight in the square. When he opened the second file, a look of recognition flashed through his eyes that even Orsati was able to detect.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I know this man-from another life.”

“Is that a problem?”

He closed the file. “Not at all.”

THE Englishman stayed up late, listening to the audiotape he had taken from the professor’s apartment in Lyons. Then he read the stack of clippings and obituaries he had collected by trolling newspaper websites on the Internet, followed by the dossiers Anton Orsati had just given him. He slept for a few hours; then, before dawn the next morning, he placed a small overnight bag in the back of his jeep and drove into the village.

He parked in a narrow street near the church and walked to the house where the signadora lived. When he knocked softly on the door, she pushed open the shutters in the second-floor window and peered down at him like a gargoyle.

“I had a feeling it was you. The scirocco is blowing. It brings dust and evil spirits.”

“Which one am I?”

“I can see the occhju from here. Wait there, my child. I’ll just be a moment.”

The Englishman smoked a cigarette while he waited for the old woman to dress and come downstairs. She answered the door in a widow’s plain black frock and pulled him inside by the wrist, as though she feared there were wild animals about. They sat on opposite sides of the rough wooden table. He finished his cigarette while the old women tended to her oil and water.

“Three drops, though I’m certain I already know the answer.”

He dipped his finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the water. When the oil shattered, the old woman embarked on her familiar routine of blessings and prayers. When he repeated the test, the oil coalesced into a single ball, floating on the surface of the water. This pleased the old woman.