with luxury yachts. Now, most of the restaurants were tightly shuttered and there were plenty of berths available in the harbor.
Chiara left Gabriel on the boat and walked a few blocks to the rue d'Antibes to rent a car. While she was away, Gabriel untied the hands and feet of the unconscious boat captain. Chiara had given him an injection four hours earlier, which meant he would remain unconscious for several more hours.
Gabriel went back up to the deck and waited for Chiara. A few minutes later, a Peugeot hatchback pulled into a parking space on the Quai St-Pierre. Chiara stepped out of the car long enough to wave in Gabriel's direction and slide over into the passenger seat. Gabriel climbed down off the boat and got behind the wheel.
'Any problems?' he asked.
She shook her head.
'We need clothes.'
'Ah, shopping on the Croisette. Just what I need after spending all night and half the day on the damned boat. I can't decide between Gucci and Versace.'
'I was thinking of something a little more ordinary. Maybe one of those nice places along the boulevard Carnot where the real people go to buy their clothes.'
'Oh, how pedestrian.'
'Exactly.'
Gabriel wound his way across the old town, and a few minutes later they were heading north up the boulevard Carnot, the main thoroughfare linking the waterfront of Cannes to the inland towns. The mistral was howling; a few brave souls were out, backs bent, hands on their hats. The air was filled with dust and paper. After a few blocks, Gabriel spotted a small department store next to a bus stop. Chiara frowned. He pulled into an empty parking space, gave her a wad of cash, and recited his sizes. Chiara climbed out and walked the rest of the way.
Gabriel left the engine running and listened to the news. Still no sign of the suspected papal assassin. Italian police had stepped up security at the nation's airports and border crossings. He switched
off the radio.
Chiara emerged from the store twenty minutes later, a bulging plastic sack swinging from each hand. The wind was at her back,
blowing her hair over her face. Because of the bags of clothing, she was defenseless to do anything about it.
She tossed the bags into the backseat and got in. Gabriel headed up the boulevard Carnot. Ten minutes later, he came to a large traffic circle and followed the signs for Grasse. A four-lane highway stretched before them, rising up the slope of the hills toward the base of the Maritime Alps. Chiara reclined the seat, pulled off her fleece shirt, and shimmied out of the heavy waterproof pants. Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the road. She dug through the bags of clothing until she found the clean underwear and bra she had bought for herself.
'Don't look.'
'I wouldn't dream of it.'
'Really? Why not?'
'Just hurry up and get some clothing on, please.'
'That's the first time a man has ever said that to me.'
'I can see why.'
She swatted his arm and quickly changed into jeans, a sweater with a thick turtleneck, and fashionable black leather boots with square toes and thick heels. She looked very much like the attractive young woman he had seen for the first time in the ghetto in Venice. When she was finished, she sat up. 'Your turn. Pull over and I'll drive while you change.'
Gabriel did as she asked. From a purely fashion perspective, he did not fare as well: a pair of loose fitting blue cotton trousers with an elastic waist, a thick wool fisherman's sweater, a pair of tan espadrilles that scratched his feet. He looked like a man who spent his days idling in the town square playing boule.
'I look ridiculous.'
'I think you look very handsome. More importantly, you can
walk through any town in Provence and no one will think you're anything but a local.'
For ten minutes, Chiara navigated the winding road through olive trees and eucalyptus. They came to the medieval town of Val-bonne. Gabriel directed her northward, to a town called Opio, and from Opio to Le Rouret. She parked outside a tabac and waited in the car while Gabriel went inside. Behind the counter was a dark-complected man with tightly curled hair and Algerian features. When Gabriel asked whether he knew an Italian woman called Carcassi, the clerk shrugged his shoulders and suggested that Gabriel speak to Marc, the bartender next-door at the brasserie.
Gabriel found Marc polishing glasses with a dirty towel. When he put the same question to him, the bartender shook his head. He knew of no one named Carcassi in the village, but there was an Italian woman who lived on the road that led to the entrance of the nature park. He tossed his towel over his shoulder and stepped outside to point Gabriel in the right direction. Gabriel thanked him and rejoined Chiara.
'That way,' he said. 'Across the main road, past the gendarmerie, then up the hill.'
The road was narrow, little more than a one-lane paved track, and the grade of the hill was steep. There were villas among the olive and pepper trees. Some were modest homes owned by locals; others were opulent, well-tended, and shielded by hedges and high stone walls.
The villa where the Italian woman purportedly lived fell into the second category. It was a stately old estate house with a turret 'sing above the main entrance. The garden was a terraced affair, surrounded by a stone wall. There was no name on the daunting, iron gate.
When Gabriel pressed the button on the intercom, dogs began to bark. A few seconds later, a pair of Belgian shepherds came galloping from the back of the villa, teeth bared, barking fanatically They charged the gate and snapped at Gabriel through the bars. He took a quick step back and put a hand on the door latch of the car He did not like dogs to begin with, and not long ago he'd had a run-in with an Alsatian that had left him with a broken arm and several dozen stitches. He inched forward cautiously so as not to further incite the dogs and pressed the intercom button once again. This time he received a response: a woman's voice, barely audible above the wild barking.
'Out?'
'Madame Carcassi?'
'My name is Huber now. Carcassi was my maiden name.'
'Was your mother Regina Carcassi from Tolmezzo in the north of Italy?'
A moment's hesitation, then: 'Who is this, please?'
The dogs, hearing the note of anxiety in their master's voice, began to bark even more ferociously. During the night, Gabriel had been unable to decide how to make his approach to the daughter of Regina Carcassi. Now, with the shepherds trying to tear his legs off and a gale-force wind beating down on him from the Alps, he had little patience for subterfuge and cover stories. He reached out and pressed the button once more.
'My name is Gabriel,' he said, shouting over the commotion of the dogs. 'I work for the government of Israel. I believe I know who killed your mother, and I believe I know why.'
There was no response from the intercom, only the rapid snarling of the dogs. Gabriel feared he had taken it too far too quickly. He
reached for the intercom button again but stopped himself when he saw the front door swing open and a woman step into the courtyard. She stood there a moment, black hair flying in the wind, arms folded beneath her breasts, then walked slowly across the courtyard and examined Gabriel through the bars of the gate. Satisfied, she looked down at the dogs and scolded them in rapid French. They stopped barking and trotted off, disappearing behind the villa. Then she reached into her coat pocket, produced the remote for the gate, and pressed it with her thumb. The gate slowly opened, and she gestured them to come inside.
SHE SERVED coffee and steamed milk in a rectangular sitting room with a terracotta floor and damask- covered furniture. The French doors rattled in the mistral. Several times Gabriel found himself looking at the doors to see if someone was trying to get in, but he saw only the elaborate garden writhing in the wind.
Her name was Antonella Huber, an Italian woman, married to a German businessman, living in the south of France--a member of that itinerant class of European wealthy who are comfortable in many countries and many
