red wine from an earthen pitcher. It was then that the Englishman confessed that he had acted with dishonor during the Rolfe affair.
Orsati poured himself some more of the wine and smiled. “When the
“I gave it to Anna Rolfe.”
“How?”
The Englishman told him.
Orsati was impressed. “I’d say you won that confrontation on points. How did you get the blazer?”
“I borrowed it from a security guard at the
“What happened to him?”
The Englishman looked into the fire.
Orsati murmured, “Poor devil.”
“I asked nicely once.”
“The question is, why? Why did you betray me, Christopher? Haven’t I been good to you?”
The Englishman played the tape he’d taken from Emil Jacobi in Lyons. Then he gave Orsati the dossier he had prepared based on his own investigation and went into the kitchen to clean up the dishes from lunch. The Corsican was a notoriously slow reader.
When he returned, Orsati was finishing the dossier. He closed the file, and his dark gaze settled on the Englishman. “Professor Jacobi was a very good man, but we are paid to kill people. If we spent all our time wrestling with questions of right and wrong, no work would ever get done.”
“Is that the way your father conducted his business? And his father? And his?”
Orsati pointed his thick forefinger like a gun at the Englishman’s face. “My family is none of your affair, Christopher. You work
It was the first time Orsati had spoken to him in anger.
“I meant no disrespect, Don Orsati.”
The Corsican lowered his finger. “None taken.”
“Do you know the story of the
“You know much about the history of this place, but not everything. How do you think the
“You take care of her?”
Orsati gave a slow nod.
“She told me that sometimes a
“This is true. Don Tomasi certainly deserved to die.”
“I know a man who deserves to die.”
“The man in your dossier?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds as though he’s very well protected.”
“I’m better than any of them.”
Orsati held his glass up to the fire and watched the light dancing in the ruby-colored wine. “You’re very good, but killing a man like that will not be easy. You’ll need my help.”
Orsati swallowed the last of his wine. “Who do you think climbed Don Tomasi’s mountain and slit his evil throat?”
50
CARLOS THE VINEYARD KEEPER was the first to see him arrive. He looked up from his work as the car pulled into the gravel drive and watched as the art restorer named Gabriel was greeted by the one called Rami. They exchanged a few words; Rami touched the scars on the art restorer’s face. This Carlos could see from his post at the base of the vineyard. He was not a military man, but Carlos recognized a changing of the guard when he saw one. Rami was leaving, and not soon enough. Rami had tired of Our Lady’s antics, as Carlos knew he would. Our Lady needed a man of unending patience to watch over her. Our Lady needed the restorer.
He watched as Gabriel crossed the drive and disappeared into the villa. Our Lady was upstairs in her room, practicing. Surely the restorer did not intend to interrupt her. For a moment Carlos considered running up the terrace to intervene, but then he thought better of it. The restorer needed to learn a lesson, and some lessons are best learned the hard way.
So he laid down his pruning shears and found the flask of
THE sound of her violin filled the villa as Gabriel climbed the stairs to her room. He entered without knocking. She played a few more notes, then stopped suddenly. Without turning around she shouted: “God damn you, Rami! How many fucking times have I told you-”
And then she turned and saw him. Her mouth fell open, and for an instant she released her grip on the Guarneri. Gabriel lunged forward and snatched it out of the air before it could hit the floor. Anna seized him in her arms.
“I never thought I’d see you again, Gabriel. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been assigned to your security detail.”
“Thank God! Rami and I are going to kill each other.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“How many people on the new team?”
“I thought I’d leave that decision in your hands.”
“I think one man would be enough, if that’s all right with you.”
“That would be fine,” he said. “That would be perfect.”
51
OTTO GESSLER PROPELLED himself through silken water, gliding forward in perpetual darkness. He had swum well that day, two lengths more than usual-one hundred and fifty meters in all, quite an accomplishment for a man of his age. Blindness required him to carefully count each stroke,
