Page 87 of A Death in Cornwall

“Where are you now?”

In coded language, Gabriel informed Sarah that he had borrowed her husband’s villa on Corsica. Then he told her about the ninety minutes that Professor Charlotte Blake had spent at the Courtauld Gallery in mid-December.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps she wanted to see a painting.”

“As far as I can tell, she was in one spot the entire time.”

“And you’re sure it was the fifteenth?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was at the Courtauld the same day. Bloody board meeting. Three hours of unmitigated tedium, after which I went home and crawled into my empty bed.”

“Is it still empty?”

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, and rang off.

***

At one fifteen that afternoon Gabriel unleashed Proteus on Trevor Robinson’s mobile phone. In less than an hour, the hacking malware had seized control of the device’s operating system. After downloading the former MI5 officer’s emails and text messages, Gabriel instructed Ingrid to locate and delete Philippe Lambert’s inferior Macedonian malware. Armed with Proteus, it took her all of five minutes.

“Would you mind if I made a copy of this stuff for myself?”

“I would, actually. But you can have this.” Gabriel handed Ingrid the HK tactical pistol. “I have to run an errand. Shoot anyone who comes within fifty meters of the villa.”

Outside, Gabriel climbed into the damaged rental car and set off down the unpaved track. Don Casabianca’s wretched goat was reclining in the shade of the three ancient olive trees. The beast remained there, vigilant but motionless, as Gabriel braked to a halt and lowered his window. He addressed his adversary in French.

“Listen, I don’t know what my friend said to you earlier, but nothing about this situation between us is my fault. In fact, this is one of the few disputes in my life where I am entirely blameless. Therefore, I am the one who is owed an apology, not you. And tell your master, the loathsome Don Casabianca, that I expect him to pay for the damage you inflicted on my automobile.”

And with that, Gabriel raised his window and rolled away in a cloud of dust. He followed the road over the hill and into the neighboring valley, and a moment later slowed to a stop at the entrance of the grand estate. The two guards regarded the front of the car with expressions of mild bemusement. They did not bother to ask for an explanation. Gabriel’s long feud with Don Casabianca’s ill-mannered caprine was now part of the island’s lore.

The guards opened the gate, and Gabriel headed up a long drive lined with Van Gogh olive trees. Don Anton Orsati’s office was located on the second floor of his fortresslike villa. As usual, he received Gabriel while seated behind the heavy oaken table he used for his desk. He wore a pair of loose-fitting trousers, dusty leather sandals, and a crisp white shirt. At his elbow was a bottle of Orsati olive oil—olive oil being the legitimate front through which the don laundered the profits of his real business, which was murder for hire. Gabriel was one of only two people who had managed to survive an Orsati family contract. The other was Anna Rolfe.

Rising, Don Orsati offered Gabriel a granite hand. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“Forgive me, Your Holiness. But I had to attend to an urgent matter.”

The don regarded him skeptically with a pair of black eyes. It was like being studied by a canine. “The urgent matter wasn’t that pretty blond woman, was it?”

“The man in the back seat.”

“Rumor has it you gave René Monjean a thousand euros to get him out of Marseilles.”

“What else does rumor have?”

“A worker at a vineyard north of Saint-Tropez stumbled on a body early this morning. A motorcyclist, no identification or phone. The police seem to think someone must have run him off the road.”

“Do they have a suspect?”

The don shook his head. “It’s quiet up there this time of year. Apparently, no one saw a thing.”

Gabriel wordlessly tossed the German passport onto the tabletop. Don Orsati opened it to the first page.

“A professional?”

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