The English Girl: A Novel

by Daniel Silva

  With that, the scandal fell into a predictable cycle of leaks, counterleaks, and naked political warfare. The opposition leader declared his revulsion and demanded Lancaster’s resignation. But when a head count in the Commons revealed that Lancaster would narrowly survive a vote of no confidence, the opposition leader didn’t bother to schedule one. Even Jeremy Fallon seemed to have weathered the storm. After all, there was no proof he had accepted any payment from Volgatek, only the word of a Russian oil executive who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

  And there it all might have ended, with the Lancaster-Fallon marriage badly damaged but still intact, were it not for the edition of the Daily Telegraph that landed with a thud on Simon Hewitt’s doorstep on the second Tuesday of January. On the front page, next to an article by Samantha Cooke, was a photograph of Jeremy Fallon entering a small private bank in Zurich. A few hours later Lancaster again appeared alone outside the famous black door of 10 Downing Street, this time to announce the firing of his chancellor of the exchequer. A few minutes later Scotland Yard announced that Fallon was now the target of a bribery-and-fraud investigation. Once again, Fallon declared his innocence. Not a single member of the Whitehall press corps believed him.

  He left Downing Street for the last time at sunset and returned to his empty bachelor’s apartment in Notting Hill, which was surrounded, it seemed, by every reporter and cameraman in London. The inquest would never determine how or when he eluded them, though a CCTV camera captured a clear image of his stricken face at 2:23 the next morning as he walked along a deserted stretch of Park Lane, one end of a rope already tied around his neck. Using a nautical knot taught to him by his father, he tied the other end of the rope to a lamppost at the center of the Westminster Bridge. No one happened to see Fallon hurl himself over the edge, and so he hung there through the long night, until the sun finally shone upon his slowly swaying body. Thus lending proof to an ancient and wise Corsican proverb: He who lives an immoral life dies an immoral death.

  61

  CORSICA

  But who had been the source of the damning photograph that drove Jeremy Fallon from office and over the railing of Westminster Bridge? It was a question that would dominate British political circles for months to come; but on the enchanted island where the scandal had its genesis, only a few north-looking sophisticates gave much thought to it. Occasionally, a couple would have their photograph taken at Les Palmiers, posed as Madeline Hart and Pavel Zhirov on the afternoon of their fateful lunch, but for the most part the island did its best to forget the small role it had played in the death of a senior British statesman. As the winter took hold, the Corsicans instinctively returned to the old ways. They burned the macchia for warmth. They waggled their fingers at strangers to ward off the evil eye. And in an isolated valley near the southwestern coast, they turned to Don Anton Orsati for help when they could turn to no one else.

  On a blustery afternoon in the middle of February, while seated at the oaken desk in his large office, he received an unusual telephone call. The man at the other end was not looking to have someone eliminated—hardly surprising, thought the don, for the man was more than capable of seeing to his own killing. Instead, he was looking for a villa where he might spend a few weeks alone with his wife. It had to be in a place where no one would recognize him and where he had no need of bodyguards. The don had just the place. But there was one problem. There was only one road in and out—and the road passed the three ancient olive trees where Don Casabianca’s wretched palomino goat made his encampment.

  “Is there any way it can have a tragic accident before we arrive?” asked the man on the telephone.

  “Sorry,” replied Don Orsati. “But here on Corsica some things never change.”

  They arrived on the island three days later, having flown from Tel Aviv to Paris and then from Paris to Ajaccio. Don Orsati had left a car at the airport, a shiny gray Peugeot sedan that Gabriel drove with Corsican abandon southward down the coast, then inland through the valleys thick with macchia. When they arrived at the three ancient olive trees, the goat rose menacingly from its resting place and blocked their path. But it quickly gave ground after Chiara spoke a few soothing words into its tattered ear.

  “What did you say to it?” asked Gabriel when they were driving again.

  “I told him you were sorry for being mean to him.”

  “But I’m not sorry. He was definitely the aggressor.”

  “He’s a goat, darling.”

  “He’s a terrorist.”

  “How can you possibly run the Office if you can’t get along with a goat?”

  “Good question,” he said glumly.

  The villa was a mile or so beyond the goat’s redoubt. It was small and simply furnished, with pale limestone floors and a granite terrace. Laricio pine shaded the terrace in the morning, but in the afternoon the sun beat brightly upon the stones. The days were cold and pleasant; at night the wind whistled in the pines. They drank Corsican red wine by the fire and watched the swaying of the trees. The fire burned blue-green from the macchia wood and smelled of rosemary and thyme. Soon, Gabriel and Chiara smelled of it, too.

  They had no plan other than to do little of anything at all. They slept late. They drank their morning coffee in the village square. They ate fish for lunch by the sea. In the afternoon, if it was warm, they would sun themselves on the granite terrace; and if it was cold they would retreat to their simple bedroom and make love until they slept with exhaustion. Shamron left numerous plaintive messages that Gabriel happily ignored. In a year his every waking moment would be consumed by the job of protecting Israel from those who wished to destroy it. For now, though, there was only Chiara, and the cold sun and the sea, and the intoxicating smell of the pine and the macchia.

  For the first few days, they avoided the newspapers, the Internet, and the television. But gradually Gabriel reconnected with a world of problems that would soon be his. The head of the IAEA, the UN’s nuclear watchdog agency, predicted Iran would be a nuclear power within a year. The next day there was a report the regime in Syria had transferred chemical weapons to Hezbollah. And the day after that the Muslim Brother who now ran Egypt was caught on tape talking about a new war with Israel. Indeed, the only good news Gabriel could find occurred in London, where Jonathan Lancaster, having survived the Downing Street Affair, appointed Graham Seymour to be the next chief of MI6. Gabriel called him that evening to offer his congratulations. Mainly, though, he was curious about Madeline.

  “She’s doing better than I expected,” said Seymour.

  “Where is she?”

  “It seems a friend offered her a cottage by the sea.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a bit unorthodox,” Seymour conceded, “but we decided it was as good a place as any.”

  “Just don’t turn your back on her, Graham. The SVR has a very long reach.”

  It was because of that long reach that Gabriel and Chiara kept a deliberately low profile on the island. They rarely left the villa after dark, and several times each night Gabriel stepped onto the terrace to listen for movement in the valley. A week into their stay, he heard the familiar rattle of a Renault hatchback, then, a moment later, saw lights burning for the first time in Keller’s villa. He waited until the following afternoon before dropping by unannounced. Keller was wearing a pair of loose-fitting white trousers and a white pullover. He opened a bottle of Sancerre, and they drank it outside in the sun. Sancerre in the afternoon, Corsican red in the evening—Gabriel thought he could get used to this. But there was no turning back now. His people needed him. He had an appointment with history.

  “The Cézanne could use a bit of work,” Gabriel said offhandedly. “Why don’t you let me clean it up for you while I’m in town?”

  “I like the Cézanne exactly the way it is. Besides,” Keller added, “you came here to rest.”

  “You don’t need any?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rest,”
answered Gabriel.

  Keller said nothing.

  “Where have you been, Christopher?”

  “I had a business trip.”

  “Olive oil or blood?”

  When Keller raised an eyebrow to indicate it was the latter, Gabriel shook his head reproachfully.

  “Money doesn’t come from singing,” said Keller quietly.

  “There are other ways of making money, you know.”

  “Not when your name is Christopher Keller and you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Gabriel drank some of his wine. “I didn’t include you on the team because I needed your help,” he said after a moment. “I wanted to show you that there’s more to life than killing people for money.”

  “You wanted to restore me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It’s a natural instinct of mine.”

  “Some things are beyond repair.” Keller paused, then added, “Beyond redemption.”

  “How many men have you killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Keller shot back. “How many have you killed?”

  “Mine are different. I’m a soldier. A secret soldier, but a soldier nevertheless.” He looked at Keller seriously for a moment. “And you can be one, too.”

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  “You’d have to become an Israeli citizen and learn to speak Hebrew to work for the Office.”

  “I’ve always felt a little Jewish.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel, “you mentioned that before.”

  Keller smiled, and a silence fell between them. The afternoon wind was starting to get up.

  “There is one other possibility, Christopher.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did you happen to notice who was just named the new director-general of MI6?”

  Keller made no reply.

  “I’ll go on the record for you with Graham. He can give you a new identity. A new life.”

  Keller raised his wineglass to the valley. “I have a life. A very nice life, in fact.”

  “You’re a hired gun. You’re a criminal.”

  “I’m an honorary bandit. There’s a difference.”

  “Whatever you say.” Gabriel added a half inch of wine to his glass.

  “Is this why you came to Corsica? To talk me into going home again?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “If I let you restore the Cézanne, will you promise to leave me alone?”

  “No,” answered Gabriel.

  “Then maybe we should enjoy the silence.”

  62

  CORSICA

  Three days later the don invited Gabriel to drop by his office for a chat. It was not truly an invitation, for invitations can be politely declined. It was a Shamronian commandment, chiseled into stone, inviolable.

  “How about lunch?” asked Gabriel, knowing that Orsati was likely to be in a good mood then.

  “Fine,” answered the don. Then he added ominously, “But perhaps it would be better if you came alone.”

  Gabriel left the villa shortly after noon. The goat allowed him to pass without a confrontation, for it recognized him as an associate of the beautiful Italian woman. The guards outside Don Orsati’s estate allowed him to pass, too, for the don had left word that the Israelite was expected. He found the don in his large office, hunched over his ledger books.

  “How’s business?” asked Gabriel.

  “Never better,” replied Orsati. “I have more orders than I can possibly fill.”

  Whether the don was speaking of blood or oil, he did not say. Instead, he led Gabriel to a dining room where a table had been laid with a Corsican feast. With its whitewashed walls and simple furnishings, the room reminded Gabriel of the pope’s private dining room in the Apostolic Palace. There was even a heavy wooden crucifix on the wall behind the chair reserved for the don.

  “Does it bother you?” asked Orsati.

  “Not at all,” replied Gabriel.

  “Christopher tells me you know your way around Catholic churches.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  Orsati frowned but said nothing more as he filled Gabriel’s plate with food and his glass with wine.

  “The villa is to your liking?” he asked finally.

  “It’s perfect, Don Orsati.”

  “And your wife is happy here?”

  “Very.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “As long as you’ll have me.”

  The don was curiously silent.

  “Have I worn out my welcome already, Don Orsati?”

  “You can stay here on the island as long as you like.” The don paused, then added, “So long as you don’t involve yourself in matters that affect my business.”

  “You’re obviously referring to Keller.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Don Orsati. I was just—”

  “Meddling in affairs that don’t concern you.”

  The don’s mobile phone buzzed softly. He ignored it.

  “Did I not help you when you first came to the island looking for the English girl?”

  “You did,” said Gabriel.

  “And did I not give you Keller free of charge to help you find her?”

  “I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  “And did I not overlook the fact that I was never offered any of the ransom money you surely recovered?”

  “The money is in the bank account of the Russian president.”

  “So you say.”

  “Don Orsati . . .”

  The don waved his hand dismissively.

  “Is that what this is about? Money?’

  “No,” the don admitted. “It’s about Keller.”

  A gust of wind beat against the French doors leading to Don Orsati’s garden. It was the libeccio, a wind from the southeast. Usually, it brought rain in winter, but for now the sky was clear.

  “Here on Corsica,” the don said after a moment’s silence, “our traditions are very old. For example, a young man would never dream of proposing marriage to a woman without first asking her father for permission. Do you see my point, Gabriel?”

  “I believe I do, Don Orsati.”

  “You should have spoken to me before talking to Christopher about going back to England.”

  “It was a mistake on my part.”

  Orsati’s expression softened. Outside the libeccio overturned a table and chair in the don’s garden. He shouted something at the ceiling in the Corsican dialect, and a few seconds later a mustachioed man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder came scampering into the garden to put it back in order.

  “You don’t know what your friend Christopher was like when he arrived here after leaving Iraq,” Orsati was saying. “He was a mess. I gave him a home. A family. A woman.”

  “And then you gave him a job,” said Gabriel. “Many jobs.”

  “He’s very good at it.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Better than you.”

  “Who said that?”

  The don smiled. A silence fell between them, which Gabriel allowed to linger while he chose his next words with great care.

  “It’s not a proper way for a man like Christopher to earn a living,” he said at last.

  “People in glass houses, Allon.”

  “I never realized that was a Corsican proverb.”

  “All things wise come from Corsica.” The don pushed his plate away and rested his heavy forearms on the tabletop. “There’s something you don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Christopher is more than just my best taddunaghiu. I love him like a son. And if he ever left . . .” The don’s voice trailed off. “I would be heartbroken.”

  “His real father thinks he’s dead.”

  “There was no other way.”

  “How would you feel if the roles were reversed?”

  Orsati had no answer. He changed the subject.

  “Do you really think this friend of yours fro
m British intelligence would be interested in bringing Christopher back to England?”

  “He’d be a fool not to.”

  “But he might say no,” the don pointed out. “And by raising the matter with him, you might endanger Christopher’s position here on Corsica.”

  “I’ll do it in a way that poses no threat to him.”

  “He is a man of trust, this friend of yours?”

  “I’d trust him with my life. In fact,” said Gabriel, “I’ve done it many times before.”

  The don exhaled heavily in resignation. He was about to give Gabriel’s unusual proposition his blessing when his mobile phone rang again. This time he answered it. He listened in silence for a moment, spoke a few words in Italian, and then returned the phone to the tabletop.

  “Who was that?” asked Gabriel.

  “Your wife,” replied the don.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “She wants to take a walk into the village.”

  Gabriel started to rise.

  “Stay and finish your lunch,” said Orsati. “I’ll send a couple of my boys to keep an eye on her.”

  Gabriel sat down again. The libeccio was wreaking havoc in Orsati’s garden. The don watched it sadly for a moment.

  “I’m still glad we didn’t kill you, Allon.”

  “I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.”

  The wind chased Chiara down the narrow track, past the shuttered houses and the cats, and finally to the main square, where it swirled in the arcades and vandalized the display tables of the shopkeepers. She went to the market and filled her straw basket with a few things for dinner. Then she took a table at one of the cafés and ordered a coffee. In the center of the square, a few old men were playing boules amid tiny cyclones of dust, and on the steps of the church an old woman in black was handing a slip of blue paper to a young boy. The boy had long, curly hair and was very pretty. Looking at him, Chiara smiled sadly. She imagined that Gabriel’s son Dani might have looked like the boy if he had lived to be ten years of age.