He left London the following morning on the 5:40 Eurostar to Paris. It arrived at a quarter past nine, leaving Keller the better part of two hours to determine whether he was being watched. Using the techniques taught to him by Mayhew and Quill at the Fort—and a few others he had picked up on the streets of West Belfast—he established beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not.
His next train, the TGV to Marseilles, departed the Gare de Lyon at half past eleven. He passed the journey working diligently on his laptop for the sake of his cover while beyond his window the Cézanne colors of the south—chrome yellow, burnt sienna, viridian, ultramarine—flashed through his peripheral vision like a pleasant memory from childhood. He arrived in Marseilles at two and spent the next hour wandering the grimy, familiar streets of the city center until certain his arrival had gone unnoticed. Finally, in the Place de la Joliette, he entered a Société Générale private bank, where Monsieur Laval, his account manager, granted him access to his safe-deposit box. From it he took his false French passport, along with five thousand euros in cash. In it he placed his MI6 phone, passport, driver’s permit, credit cards, and laptop computer.
Outside, he walked a short distance along the Quai du Lazaret to the ferry terminal, where he purchased a ticket for the overnight crossing to Corsica, with first-class accommodations. The man at the counter thought nothing of the fact he paid in cash. This was Marseilles, after all, and the ferry was bound for Ajaccio. In a nearby café he ordered a bottle of Bandol rosé and drank it halfway down the label while reading Le Figaro, content for the first time in many months. An hour later, alert but pleasantly inebriated, he was standing at the prow of the ferry as it carved its way southward into the Mediterranean, the words of an ancient proverb running through his thoughts. He who has two women loses his soul. But he who has two homes loses his mind.
Shortly before dawn, Keller woke to the smell of rosemary and lavender drifting through the half-open window of his cabin. Rising, he dressed in his gray-and-white English clothing and, twenty minutes later, filed off the ferry in the company of a family of lumpy Corsicans, who were more ill tempered than usual due to the earliness of the hour. In a bar across the street from the terminal, he asked if he could use the telephone to place a local call. Under normal circumstances, the proprietor might have shrugged his shoulders in dismay at such a request from a foreigner. Or, if so moved, he might have explained that the telephone had been out of order since the last sirocco. But Keller delivered his request flawlessly in the dialect of the island. And the proprietor was so shocked he actually smiled while placing the phone atop the bar. Then, unsolicited, he prepared for Keller a cup of strong coffee and a small glass of cognac, for it was very cold that morning and a man couldn’t face such weather without a little something to fortify the blood.
The number Keller dialed was unknown to all but a few residents of the island and, more important, to the French authorities. The man who answered seemed pleased by the sound of Keller’s voice and, curiously, not at all surprised. He instructed Keller to remain at the café; he would dispatch a car to collect him. It arrived an hour later, driven by a young man named Giancomo. Keller had known him since he was a boy. It was Giancomo’s wish to be a taddunaghiu like Keller, whom he idolized. For now, he was an errand boy for the don. On Corsica there were worse things for a young man of twenty-five to be.
“The don said you were never coming back.”
“Even the don,” said Keller philosophically, “is wrong on occasion.”
Giancomo scowled, as though Keller had uttered a heresy. “The don is like the Holy Father. He is infallible.”
“Now and forever,” said Keller quietly.
They were driving along the island’s western coast. At the town of Porto, they headed inland along a road lined with olive groves and laricio pine, and began the long, winding climb into the mountains. Keller lowered his window. There it was again, rosemary and lavender, the smell of the macchia. It covered Corsica from west to east, stem to stern, a dense and tangled carpet of undergrowth that defined the very identity of the island. The Corsicans seasoned their foods with the macchia, heated their homes with it in winter, and took refuge in it in times of war and vendetta. According to Corsican legend, a hunted man could take to the macchia and, if he wished, remain there undetected forever. Keller knew this to be true.
Eventually, they came to the ancient village of the Orsatis, a cluster of sandstone-colored houses with red-tile roofs, huddled around the bell tower of a church. It had been there, or so it was said, since the time of the Vandals, when people from the coasts took to the hills for safety. Beyond it, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island’s finest oil, was Don Orsati’s estate. Two armed guards stood watch at the entrance. They touched their distinctive Corsican caps respectfully as Giancomo turned through the gate and started up the long drive.
He parked in the deep shadow of the forecourt, and Keller, alone, entered the villa and climbed the cold stone steps to the don’s office. He was seated at a large oaken table, peering into an open leather-bound ledger. He was a large man by Corsican standards, well over six feet 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. At his elbow was a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil—olive oil being the legitimate front through which the don laundered the profits of death.
“How’s business?” asked Keller at last.
“Which part? Blood or oil?” In Don Orsati’s world, blood and oil flowed together in a single seamless enterprise.
“Both.”
“Oil, not so good. This no-growth economy is killing me. And the British with this Brexit nonsense!” He waved his hand as though dispersing a foul odor.
“And blood?” asked Keller.
“Did you happen to see the story about the German businessman who disappeared from the Carlton Hotel in Cannes last week?”
“Where is he?”
“Five miles due west of Ajaccio.” The don smiled. “Or thereabouts.”
“Alive one hour,” said Keller, quoting a Corsican proverb, “dead the next.”
“Remember, Christopher, life is just as long as the time it takes to pass by a window.” The don closed the ledger with a coffin finality and regarded Keller thoughtfully. “I didn’t expect to see you back on the island so soon. Are you having second thoughts about your new life?”
“Third and fourth,” replied Keller.
This pleased the don. He was still appraising Keller with his black eyes. It was like being studied by a canine.
“I hope your friends in British intelligence don’t know you’re here.”
“It’s possible,” said Keller candidly. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with them.”
“I don’t have the luxury of not worrying. As for the British,” said the don, “they’re not to be trusted. You’re the only inhabitant of that dreadful island I’ve ever cared for. If only they’d stop coming here for their summer holidays, everything would be right with the world.”
“It’s good for the island’s economy.”
“They drink too much.”
“A cultural affliction, I’m afraid.”
“And now,” said the don, “you’re one of them again.”
“Almost.”
“They’ve given you a new name?”
“Peter Marlowe.”
“I prefer your old name.”
“It wasn’t available. Poor chap’s deceased, you see.”
“And your new employers?” asked the don.
“Every bed has lice,” said Keller.
“Only the spoon,” replied the don, “knows the pot’s sorrows.”
With that, a companionable silence settled between them. There was only the wind in the laricio pine and the crackling of the macchia-wood fire, which perfume
d the air of the don’s large office. At length, he asked why Keller had returned to Corsica; and the Englishman, with an indifferent movement of his head, implied he had come for reasons having to do with his new line of work.
“You were sent here by the British secret service?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t speak to me in riddles, Christopher.”
“I didn’t have an appropriate proverb at my fingertips.”
“Our proverbs,” said the don, “are sacred and correct. Now tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m looking for a man. A Moroccan who calls himself the Scorpion.”
“And if I agree to help you?” The don tapped the leather cover of his ledger.
Keller said nothing.
“Money doesn’t come from singing, Christopher.”
“I was hoping you might do it as a personal favor.”
“You abandon me, and now you want to utilize my services free of charge?”
“Is that a proverb, too?”
The don frowned. “And if I can find this man? What then?”
“My friends in British intelligence think it might be a good idea for me to go into business with him.”
“What line of work is he in?”
“Drugs, apparently. But in his spare time he supplies guns to ISIS.”
“ISIS?” Don Orsati shook his head gravely. “I suppose this has something to do with the attacks in London.”
“I suppose it does.”
“In that case,” said the don, “I’ll do it for nothing.”
8
Corsica
The average life span of Capra aegagrus hircus, otherwise known as the domestic goat, is fifteen to eighteen years. Therefore, the old goat belonging to Don Casabianca, a notable who owned much of the valley adjacent to the Orsatis’, had most definitely overstayed its earthly welcome. By Keller’s calculation the beast had been consuming valuable oxygen for more than twenty-four years, much of it in the shade of the three ancient olive trees that stood just before the sharp left-hand turn in the dirt-and-gravel track that led to Keller’s villa. A nameless creature with the markings of a palomino and a red beard, it blocked the path whenever it saw fit, denying access to those of whom it did not approve. For Keller, a mainlander with no Corsican blood in his veins, it harbored a particular resentment. Theirs was a long-simmering contest of wills, and more often than not it was the goat that had got the better of it. Keller, on many occasions, had contemplated ending the standoff with a well-placed shot between the goat’s malevolent eyes. But that would have been a grave mistake. The goat enjoyed the protection of Don Casabianca. And if Keller were to harm one hair on its wretched head, there would be a feud. One never knew where a feud might end. It might be settled amicably over a glass of wine, with an apology or restitution of some sort. Or it might go on for months or even years. Consequently, Keller had no choice but to wait patiently for the goat’s passing. He felt like a shiftless son who counted his inheritance while his wealthy father, purely out of spite, clung stubbornly to life.
“I was hoping,” said Keller morosely, “to avoid this scene.”
“He had a scare in October.” Giancomo tapped a finger impatiently on the steering wheel. “Or maybe it was November.”
“Really?”
“Cancer. Or maybe it was an infection of the bowels. Don Casabianca brought in the priest to administer last rites.”
“What happened?”
“A miracle,” said Giancomo, shrugging.
“How unfortunate.” Keller and the goat exchanged a long, tense look. “Try honking the horn.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It might work this time.”
“Obviously,” said Giancomo, “you’ve been away for a while.”
With a heavy exhalation, Keller climbed out of the car. The goat raised its chin defiantly and stood its ground while Keller, fingertips squeezing the bridge of his nose, pondered his options. His usual tactic was a full-frontal assault of shouted invective and waved arms; and in most cases the old goat would cede its ground and flee into the macchia, the hiding place of scoundrels and bandits. But on that morning, Keller had no stomach for a confrontation. He was travel-weary and a touch seasick from the ferry. Besides, the goat, battered old bastard that he was, had had a rough time of it lately, what with the cancer and the problem with its bowels and the extreme unction performed by the village priest. And since when did the Church countenance the dispensation of holy sacraments to cloven-hoofed bovidae? Only on Corsica, thought Keller.
“Listen,” he said at last, leaning against the hood of the car, “life is too short for this sort of nonsense.” He might have added that life is just as long as it takes to pass by a window, but he didn’t think the goat, who was just a goat after all, would understand the analogy. Instead, Keller spoke of the importance of friends and family. He confessed that he had made many mistakes in life and that now, after many years in the wilderness, he was home again and almost happy. He had but one unresolved relationship, this one, and it was his wish to set it right before it was too late. Time the conqueror could not be kept at bay forever.
At this, the goat tilted its head to one side in the manner of a man whom Keller, many years earlier, had been hired to kill. Then it took a few steps forward and licked the back of Keller’s hand before retreating to the shade of the three ancient olive trees. The sun shone brightly upon Keller’s villa as Giancomo turned into the drive. The air smelled of rosemary and lavender.
Inside, Keller found his possessions—his extensive library, his modest collection of French Impressionist paintings—precisely as he had left them, though coated with a fine powdery layer of dust. It was Saharan dust, he reckoned, carried across the Mediterranean by the last sirocco. Tunisian, Algerian, perhaps Moroccan, just like the man whom Don Orsati had undertaken to find on Keller’s behalf.
Entering the kitchen, he discovered the pantry and refrigerator provisioned with supplies. Somehow, the don had advance warning of Keller’s return. He poured a glass of pale Corsican rosé and carried it upstairs to his bedroom. A loaded Tanfoglio pistol lay on the bedside table, atop a volume of McEwan. Several business suits hung neatly in the closet, the attire of the former director of northern European sales for the Orsati Olive Oil Company, and behind a concealed door was a large selection of clothing for any occasion or assassination. The tattered denim and wool of the wandering bohemian, the silk and gold of a jet-setting one-percenter, the fleece and Gore-Tex of a mountain-climbing outdoorsman. There was even the clerical suit and Roman collar of a Catholic priest, along with a breviary and traveling mass kit. It occurred to Keller that the disguises, like his false French passports, might prove useful in his new line of work, too. He thought of his MI6 mobile phone and laptop computer expiring slowly in a bank vault in Marseilles. Surely Vauxhall Cross was now aware the devices had not moved in more than twelve hours. At some point, Keller would have to tell Graham Seymour he was alive and well. At some point, he thought again.
Keller changed into a pair of wrinkled chinos and a rough woolen sweater, and carried the wine and the volume of McEwan downstairs to the terrace. Stretched on the wrought-iron chaise, he resumed reading the novel where he had left off, in midsentence, as though his interruption had been a few minutes instead of many months. It was the story of a young woman, a student at Cambridge, drawn into British intelligence in the early 1970s. Keller found he had little in common with the character, but enjoyed the book nonetheless. A shadow soon encroached on the page. He dragged the chaise across the terrace and placed it against the balustrade and remained there until the darkness and cold drove him inside. That night an icy tramontana blew from the northeast, loosening several tiles from Keller’s roof. He wasn’t displeased. It would give him something to do while he waited for the don to find the man called the Scorpion.
He passed the next few days without plan or purpose. The repair of the roof consumed only a portion of one morning
, including the two hours he spent at the hardware store in Porto discussing the recent spate of winds with several men from the surrounding villages. It seemed the tramontana, which came from the Po, had blown more often than usual, as had the maestrale, which is how the fiercely independent Corsicans referred to the wind that came down from the Rhône Valley. All agreed it had been a difficult winter, which, according to Corsican proverbs, promised a benign spring. Keller, whose future was uncertain, declined comment.
Afternoons he climbed the rugged peaks at the center of the island—Rotondo, d’Oro, Renoso—and hiked across sunlit valleys of macchia. Most evenings he took his dinner with Don Orsati at the estate. Afterward, over brandy in the don’s office, he would gently probe for details concerning the search for the Scorpion. The don spoke only in proverbs, and Keller, who was under the discipline of an intelligence service, answered with proverbs of his own. Mainly, they listened to the tramontana and the maestrale prowling in the eaves, which is how Corsican men preferred to pass the evening.
On the sixth morning of Keller’s stay there was an attack in Germany, a single suicide bomber in a Stuttgart train terminal, two killed, twenty wounded. The usual questions ensued. Was the attacker a lone wolf, or was he acting at the behest of ISIS central command in the caliphate? The one they called Saladin. Keller watched the television coverage until midafternoon, when he climbed into his battered Renault station wagon and drove into the village. The central square lay at the town’s highest point. On three sides were shops and cafés, on the fourth was an old church. Keller took a table at one of the cafés and watched a game of boules until the church bell tolled five o’clock. Its door opened a moment later and several parishioners, mostly elderly, came tremulously down the steps. One, an old woman dressed entirely in black, paused for a moment and glanced in Keller’s direction before entering the crooked little house adjoining the rectory. Keller finished the last of his wine as darkness settled over the village. Then he laid a few coins on the table and headed across the square.