The English Girl. Daniel Silva
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“How much did the don tell you?” asked Gabriel.
“Enough to know that you have no business approaching a man like Marcel Lacroix without backup.”
“I take it you know him?”
“He gave me a ride once.”
“Before or after?”
“Both,” said Keller. “Lacroix did a stretch in the French army. He’s also spent time in some of the toughest prisons in the country.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“‘If you know your enemies and know yourself, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss.’”
“Sun Tzu,” said Gabriel.
“You cited that passage during your lecture in Tel Aviv.”
“So you were listening after all.”
Gabriel slipped past Keller and entered the large great room of the villa. The furnishings were rustic and, like Keller, covered in white fabric. Piles of books stood on every flat surface, and on the walls hung several quality paintings, including lesser works by Cézanne, Matisse, and Monet.
“No security system?” asked Gabriel, looking around the room.
“None needed.”
Gabriel walked over to the Cézanne, a landscape painted in the hills near Aix-en-Provence, and ran his fingertip gently over the surface.
“You’ve done very well for yourself, Keller.”
“It pays the bills.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“You disapprove of the way I earn my living?”
“You kill people for money.”
“So do you.”
“I kill for my country,” replied Gabriel. “And only as a last resort.”
“Is that why you blew Ivan Kharkov’s brains all over that street in Saint-Tropez? For your country?”
Gabriel turned from the Cézanne and stared directly into Keller’s eyes. Any other man would have wilted under the intensity of Gabriel’s gaze, but not Keller. His powerful arms were folded casually across his chest, and one corner of his mouth was lifted into a half smile.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all,” said Gabriel.
“I know the players and I know the terrain. You’d be a fool not to use me.”
Gabriel made no reply. Keller was right; he was the perfect guide to the French criminal underground. And his physical and tactical skills would surely prove valuable before this affair was over.
“I can’t pay you,” said Gabriel.
“I don’t need money,” replied Keller, looking around the beautiful villa. “But I do need you to answer a few questions before we leave.”
“We have five days to find her, or she dies.”
“Five days is an eternity for men like us.”
“I’m listening.”
“Who are you working for?”
“The British prime minister.”
“I didn’t realize you were on speaking terms.”
“I was retained by someone inside British intelligence.”
“On the prime minister’s behalf?”
Gabriel nodded.
“What’s the prime minister’s connection to this girl?”
“Use your imagination.”
“My goodness.”
“Goodness has very little to do with this.”
“Who’s the prime minister’s friend inside British intelligence?”
Gabriel hesitated and then answered the question truthfully. Keller smiled.
“You know him?” asked Gabriel.
“I worked with Graham in Northern Ireland. He’s a pro’s pro. But like everyone else in England,” Keller added quickly, “Graham Seymour thinks I’m dead. Which means he can never know that I’m working with you.”
“You have my word.”
“There’s something else I want.”
Keller held out his hand. Gabriel surrendered the talisman.
“I’m surprised you kept it,” Keller said.
“It has sentimental value.”
Keller slipped the talisman around his neck. “Let’s go,” he said, smiling. “I know where we can get you another.”
The signadora lived in a crooked house in the center of the village, not far from the church. Keller arrived without an appointment, but the old woman did not seem surprised to see him. She wore a black frock and a black scarf over her tinder-dry hair. With a worried smile, she touched Keller’s cheek softly. Then, fingering the heavy cross around her neck, she turned her gaze toward Gabriel. Her task was to care for those afflicted with the evil eye. It was obvious she feared Keller had brought the very incarnation of the evil one into her home.
“Who is this man?” she asked.
“A friend,” replied Keller.
“Is he a believer?”
“Not like us.”
“Tell me his name, Christopher—his real name.”
“His name is Gabriel.”
“Like the archangel?”
“Yes,” said Keller.
She studied Gabriel’s face carefully. “He is an Israelite, yes?”
When Keller nodded his head, the old woman gave a mild frown of disapproval. Doctrinally, she regarded the Jews as heretics, but personally she had no quarrel with them. She opened the front of Keller’s shirt and touched the talisman hanging around his neck.
“Isn’t this the one you lost several years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the bottom of a very crowded drawer.”
The signadora shook her head reproachfully. “You’re lying to me, Christopher,” she said. “When will you learn that I can always tell when you’re lying?”
Keller smiled but said nothing. The old woman released her hold on the talisman and again touched Keller’s cheek.
“You’re leaving the island, Christopher?”
“Tonight.”
The signadora did not ask why; she knew exactly what Keller did for a living. In fact, she had once hired a young taddunaghiu named Anton Orsati to avenge the murder of her husband.
With a movement of her hand, she invited Keller and Gabriel to sit at the small wooden table in her parlor. Before them she placed a plate filled with water and a vessel of olive oil. Keller dipped his forefinger in the oil; then he held it over the plate and allowed three drops to fall onto the water. By the laws of physics, the oil should have gathered into a single gobbet. Instead, it shattered into a thousand droplets and soon there was no trace of it.
“The evil has returned, Christopher.”
“I’m afraid it’s