by Daniel Silva
“The museum will never go for it. Besides,” the general added, “the painting can’t come from Italy. Otherwise, the person who has the Caravaggio might suspect my involvement.”
“You’ll never be able to prosecute anyone after something like this.”
“Prosecution is definitely second on my list of priorities. I want that Caravaggio back.”
The general lapsed into silence. Gabriel had to admit he was intrigued by the idea. “There’s no way I can front the operation,” he said after a moment. “My face is too well known.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to find a good actor to play the role. And if I were you, I’d hire some muscle, too. The underworld can be a dangerous place.”
“You don’t say.”
The general made no reply.
“Muscle doesn’t come cheap,” Gabriel said. “And neither do competent thieves.”
“Can you borrow some from your service?”
“Muscle or thieves?”
“Both.”
“Not a chance.”
“How much money do you need?”
Gabriel made a show of thought. “Two million, bare minimum.”
“I might have a million in the coffee can under my desk.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Actually,” said the general, smiling, “the money’s in an attaché case in the trunk of my car. I also have a copy of the Caravaggio case file. It will give you something to read while you’re waiting for Mr. Big to put his oar into the water.”
“What if he doesn’t bite?”
“I suppose you’ll have to steal something else.” The general shrugged. “That’s the wonderful thing about stealing masterpieces. It’s really not all that difficult.”
The money, as promised, was in the trunk of the general’s official sedan—a million euros in very used bills, the source of which he refused to specify. Gabriel placed the attaché case on the passenger seat of his own car and drove away without another word. By the time he reached the fringes of San Remo, he had completed the first preparatory sketches of his operation to recover the lost Caravaggio. He had funding and access to the world’s most successful art thief. All he needed now was someone to take a stolen painting to market. An amateur wouldn’t do. He needed an experienced operative who had been trained in the black arts of deception. Someone who was comfortable in the presence of criminals. Someone who could take care of himself if things got rough. Gabriel knew of just such a man across the water, on the island of Corsica. He was a bit like Maurice Durand, an old adversary who was now an accomplice, but there the similarities ended.
14
CORSICA
IT WAS APPROACHING MIDNIGHT WHEN the ferry drew into the port of Calvi, hardly the time to be making a social call in Corsica, so Gabriel checked into a hotel near the terminal and slept. In the morning he had breakfast at a small café along the waterfront; then he climbed into his car and set out along the rugged western coastline. For a time the rain persisted, but gradually the clouds thinned and the sea turned from granite to turquoise. Gabriel stopped in the town of Porto to purchase two bottles of chilled Corsican rosé and then headed inland along a narrow road lined with olive groves and stands of laricio pine. The air smelled of macchia—the dense undergrowth of rosemary, rockrose, and lavender that covered much of the island—and in the villages he saw many women cloaked in the black of widowhood, a sign they had lost male kin to the vendetta. Once the women might have pointed at him in the Corsican way in order to ward off the effects of the occhju, the evil eye, but now they avoided gazing at him for long. They knew he was a friend of Don Anton Orsati, and friends of the don could travel anywhere in Corsica without fear of reprisal.
For more than two centuries, the Orsati clan had been associated with two things on the island of Corsica: olive oil and death. The oil came from the groves that thrived on their large estates; the death came at the hands of their assassins. The Orsatis killed on behalf of those who could not kill for themselves: notables who were too squeamish to get their hands dirty; women who had no male kin to do the deed on their behalf. No one knew how many Corsicans had died at the hands of Orsati assassins, least of all the Orsatis themselves, but local lore placed the number in the thousands. It might have been significantly higher were it not for the clan’s rigorous vetting process. The Orsatis operated by a strict code. They refused to carry out a killing unless satisfied the party before them had indeed been wronged, and blood vengeance was required.
That changed, however, with Don Anton Orsati. By the time he gained control of the family, the French authorities had eradicated feuding and the vendetta in all but the most isolated pockets of the island, leaving few Corsicans with the need for the services of his taddunaghiu. With local demand in steep decline, Orsati had been left with no choice but to look for opportunities elsewhere—namely, across the water in mainland Europe. He now accepted almost every offer that crossed his desk, no matter how distasteful, and his killers were regarded as the most reliable and professional on the Continent. In fact, Gabriel was one of only two people ever to survive an Orsati family contract.
Don Anton Orsati lived in the mountains at the center of the island, surrounded by walls of macchia and rings of bodyguards. Two stood watch at his gate. Upon seeing Gabriel, they stepped aside and invited him to enter. A dirt road bore him through a grove of van Gogh olive trees and, eventually, to the gravel forecourt of the don’s immense villa. More bodyguards waited outside. They gave Gabriel’s possessions a cursory search, then one, a dark, pinch-faced killer who looked to be about twenty, escorted him upstairs to the don’s office. It was a large space with rustic Corsican furnishings and a terrace overlooking the don’s private valley. Macchia wood crackled in the stone fireplace. It perfumed the air with rosemary and sage.
In the center of the room was the large oaken table at which the don worked. On it stood a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil, a telephone he rarely used, and a leather-bound ledger that contained the secrets of his unique business. His taddunaghiu were all employees of the Orsati Olive Oil Company, and the murders they carried out were booked as orders for product, which meant that, in Orsati’s world, oil and blood flowed together in a single seamless enterprise. All of his assassins were of Corsican descent except one. Owing to his extensive training, he handled only the most difficult assignments. He also served as director of sales for the lucrative central European market.
The don was a large man by Corsican standards, well over six feet tall and broad through the back and shoulders. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting trousers, dusty leather sandals, and a crisp white shirt that his wife ironed for him each morning, and again in the afternoon when he rose from his nap. His hair was black, as were his eyes. His hand, when grasped by Gabriel, felt as though it were chiseled from stone.
“Welcome back to Corsica,” Orsati said as he relieved Gabriel of the two bottles of rosé. “I knew you couldn’t stay away for long. Don’t take this the wrong way, Gabriel, but I always thought you had a little Corsican blood in your veins.”
“I can assure you, Don Orsati, that’s not the case.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re practically one of us now.” The don lowered his voice and added, “Men who kill together develop a bond that cannot be broken.”
“Is that another one of your Corsican proverbs?”
“Our proverbs are sacred and correct, which is a proverb in and of itself.” The don smiled. “I thought you were supposed to be in Venice with your wife.”
“I was,” replied Gabriel.
“So what brings you back to Corsica? Business or pleasure?”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
“What is it this time?”
“A favor.”
“Another one?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Here on Corsica,” the don said, frowning in disapproval, “we believe a man’s fate is written at birth. And you, my friend, seem fated to be forever solvi
ng problems for other people.”
“There are worse fates, Don Orsati.”
“Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
“How charitable,” said Gabriel.
“Charity is for priests and fools.” The Corsican looked at the attaché case hanging from Gabriel’s hand. “What’s in the bag?”
“A million euros in used bills.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A friend in Rome.”
“An Italian?”
Gabriel nodded.
“At the end of many disasters,” said Don Orsati darkly, “there is always an Italian.”
“I happen to be married to one.”
“Which is why I light many candles on your behalf.”
Gabriel tried but failed to suppress a smile.
“How is she?” asked the don.
“I seem to annoy her to no end. Otherwise, she’s quite well.”
“It’s the pregnancy,” said the don with a thoughtful nod. “Once the children are born, everything will be different.”
“How so?”
“It will be as though you don’t exist.” The Corsican looked at the attaché case again. “Why are you walking around with a million euros in used bills?”
“I’ve been asked to find something valuable, and it’s going to take a lot of money to get it back.”
“Another missing girl?” asked the don.
“No,” replied Gabriel. “This.”
Gabriel handed Orsati a photograph of an empty frame hanging above the altar of the Oratorio di San Lorenzo. A look of recognition flashed across the heavy features of the Corsican’s face.
“The Nativity?” he asked.
“I never realized you were a man of the arts, Don Orsati.”
“I’m not,” he admitted, “but I’ve followed the case carefully over the years.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I happened to be in Palermo the night the Caravaggio was stolen. In fact,” Don Orsati added, smiling, “I’m almost certain I was the one who discovered it was missing.”
On the terrace overlooking the valley, Don Anton Orsati recounted how, in the late summer of 1969, there came to Corsica a Sicilian businessman named Renato Francona. The Sicilian wanted vengeance for his beautiful young daughter, who had been murdered a few weeks earlier by Sandro di Luca, an important member of the Cosa Nostra. Don Carlu Orsati, then the chief of the Orsati clan, wanted no part of it. But his son, a gifted assassin called Anton, eventually convinced his father to allow him to carry out the contract personally. Everything went as planned that night except for the weather, which made it impossible to leave Palermo. Having nothing better to do, young Anton went in search of a church to confess his sins. The church he entered was the Oratorio di San Lorenzo.
“And this,” Orsati said, holding up the photograph of the empty frame, “is exactly what I saw that night. As you might expect, I didn’t report the theft to the police.”
“Whatever happened to Renato Francona?”
“The Cosa Nostra killed him a few weeks later.”
“They assumed he was behind the murder of di Luca?”
Orsati nodded gravely. “But at least he died with honor.”
“How so?”
“Because he had avenged the murder of his daughter.”
“And one wonders why Sicily isn’t the economic and intellectual powerhouse of the Mediterranean.”
“Money doesn’t come from singing,” said the don.
“Your point?”
“The vendetta has kept this family in business for generations,” answered the don. “And the killing of Sandro di Luca proved we could operate outside Corsica without detection. My father remained opposed to it until his death. But once he was gone, I took the family business international.”
“If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”
“Is that a Jewish proverb?”
“Probably,” replied Gabriel.
The table was laid with a traditional Corsican lunch of macchia-flavored foods. Gabriel helped himself to the vegetables and cheeses but ignored the sausage.
“It’s kosher,” the don said as he forked several pieces of the meat onto Gabriel’s plate.
“I didn’t realize there were any rabbis on Corsica.”
“Many,” the don assured him.
Gabriel moved the sausage aside and asked the don whether he still went to church after taking a life.
“If I did,” the Corsican replied, “I’d spend more time on my knees than a washerwoman. Besides, at this point I’m beyond redemption. God can do with me as he wishes.”
“I’d love to see the conversation between you and God.”
“May it be conducted over a Corsican lunch.” Orsati smiled and refilled Gabriel’s glass with the rosé. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, returning the bottle to the center of the table. “Most of the people we kill deserve to die. In our own small way, the Orsati clan has made the world a much better place.”
“Would you feel that way if you’d killed me?”
“Don’t be silly,” answered the don. “Allowing you to live was the best decision I ever made.”
“As I recall, Don Orsati, you had nothing to do with the decision to let me live. In fact,” added Gabriel pointedly, “you were steadfastly opposed to it.”
“Even I, the infallible Don Anton Orsati, make mistakes from time to time, though I’ve never done anything so foolish as agreeing to find a Caravaggio for the Italians.”
“I didn’t really have much choice in the matter.”
“It’s a fool’s errand.”
“My specialty.”
“The Carabinieri have been looking for that painting for more than forty years, and they’ve never been able to find it. In my opinion, it was probably destroyed a long time ago.”
“That’s not the word on the street.”
“What are you hearing?”
Gabriel answered the question by giving the don the same briefing he had given to General Ferrari in San Remo. Then he explained his plan for getting the painting back. The don was clearly intrigued.
“What does this have to do with the Orsatis?” he asked.
“I need to borrow one of your men.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“The director of central European sales.”
“What a surprise.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“And if I agree?”
“One hand washes the other,” said Gabriel, “and both hands wash the face.”
The don smiled. “Maybe you’re a Corsican after all.”
Gabriel gazed out at the valley and smiled. “No such luck, Don Orsati.”
15
CORSICA
AS IT HAPPENED, THE MAN whom Gabriel needed to find the Caravaggio was away from the island on business. Don Orsati would not say where he was or whether his business concerned oil or blood, only that he would return in two days’ time, three at most. He gave Gabriel a Tanfoglio pistol and the keys to a villa in the next valley where he would wait in the interim. Gabriel knew the villa well. He had stayed there with Chiara after their last operation and, on its sun-dappled terrace, had learned she was pregnant with his children. There was only one problem with the house; to reach it Gabriel had to pass the three ancient olive trees where Don Casabianca’s wretched palomino goat stood its eternal watch, challenging all those who dared to encroach on its territory. The old goat was a malevolent creature in general but seemed to reserve a particular loathing for Gabriel, with whom it had numerous confrontations filled with mutual threats and insults. Don Orsati, at the conclusion of lunch, promised to have a word with Don Casabianca on Gabriel’s behalf.
“Perhaps he can reason with the beast,” the don added skeptically.
“Or perhaps he could turn the goat into a handbag and a pair of shoes.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” the don cautioned. “If you touch one hair on that miserable goat’s
head, there’ll be a feud.”
“What if it just disappears?”
“The macchia has no eyes,” warned the don, “but it sees all.”
With that, the don walked Gabriel downstairs and saw him into his car. He followed the road inland until it turned to dirt, and then he followed it a little farther; and when he came to the sharp left-hand bend he saw Don Casabianca’s goat tethered to one of the three ancient olive trees, a look of humiliation on its grizzled face. Gabriel lowered his window and, in Italian, hurled a string of insults at the goat regarding its appearance, its ancestry, and the degradation of its current predicament. Then, laughing, he headed up the slope of the hill toward the villa.
It was small and tidy, with a red-tile roof and large windows overlooking the valley. As Gabriel entered, it was instantly obvious that he and Chiara had been its last occupants. His sketch pad lay on the coffee table in the sitting room, and in the refrigerator he found an unopened bottle of Chablis that had been given to him by Don Orsati’s absent director of European sales. The shelves of the pantry were otherwise bare. Gabriel opened the French doors to the afternoon breeze and sat on the terrace, working his way through the general’s Caravaggio file, until the cold drove him back inside. By then, it was a few minutes after four o’clock and the sun seemed balanced atop the rim of the valley. He showered quickly, changed into clean clothing, and drove to the village to do a bit of marketing before the shops closed.
There had been a town in this isolated corner of Corsica since the dark days after the fall of the Roman Empire, when the Vandals ravaged the coastlines so ruthlessly that terrified native islanders had no choice but to take to the hills for survival. A single ancient street spiraled its way past cottages and apartment buildings to a broad square at the highest point of the village. On three sides were shops and cafés; on the fourth was the old church. Gabriel found a parking space and started toward the market but decided he needed the fortification of a coffee first. He entered one of the cafés and took a table where he could watch the men playing boules in the square by the light of an iron streetlamp. One of the men recognized Gabriel as a friend of Don Orsati and invited him to join the game. Gabriel feigned a sore shoulder and, in French, said he would prefer to remain a spectator. He didn’t mention anything about having to shop. In Corsica, the women still saw to the marketing.