The English Spy. Daniel Silva
in the evening, when he played boules with the men in the village square, he gave the same disgusted shake of his head whenever someone spoke of the French or, heaven forbid, the Italians. Once the people of the village had called him “the Englishman.” Now he was merely Christopher. He was one of them.
The historic estate of the Orsati clan lay just beyond the village, in a small valley of olive trees that produced the island’s finest oil. Two armed guards stood watch at the entrance; they touched their Corsican flat caps respectfully as Keller turned through the gate and started up the long drive toward the villa. Laricio pine shaded the forecourt, but in the walled garden bright sunlight shone upon the long table that had been laid for the family’s traditional Sunday lunch. For now, the table was unoccupied. The clan was still at Mass, and the don, who no longer set foot in church, was upstairs in his office. He was seated at a large oaken table, peering into an open leather-bound ledger, when Keller entered. At his elbow was a decorative bottle of Orsati olive oil—olive oil being the legitimate business through which the don laundered the profits of death.
“How was Berlin?” he asked without looking up.
“Cold,” said Keller. “But productive.”
“Any complications?”
“No.”
Orsati smiled. The only thing he disliked more than complications were the French. He closed the ledger and settled his dark eyes on Keller’s face. As usual, Don Orsati was dressed in a crisp white shirt, loose-fitting trousers of pale cotton, and leather sandals that looked as though they had been purchased at the local outdoor market, which was indeed the case. His heavy mustache had been trimmed, and his head of bristly gray-black hair glistened with tonic. The don always took inordinate care with his grooming on Sunday. He no longer believed in God but insisted on keeping the Sabbath sacred. He refrained from foul language on the Lord’s Day, he tried to think good thoughts, and, most important, he forbade his taddunaghiu from fulfilling contracts. Even Keller, who had been raised an Anglican and was therefore considered a heretic, was bound by the don’s edicts. Recently, he had been forced to spend an additional night in Warsaw because Don Orsati would not grant him dispensation to kill the target, a Russian mobster, on the day of rest.
“You’ll stay for lunch,” the don was saying.
“Thank you, Don Orsati,” Keller said formally, “but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You? Impose?” The Corsican waved his hand dismissively.
“I’m tired,” said Keller. “It was a rough crossing.”
“You didn’t sleep on the ferry?”
“Evidently,” said Keller, “you haven’t been on a ferry recently.”
It was true. Anton Orsati rarely ventured beyond the well-guarded walls of his estate. The world came to him with its problems, and he made them go away—for a substantial fee, of course. He picked up a thick manila envelope and placed it in front of Keller.
“What’s that?”
“Consider it a Christmas bonus.”
“It’s October.”
The don shrugged. Keller lifted the flap of the envelope and peered inside. It was packed with bundles of hundred-euro notes. He lowered the flap and pushed the envelope toward the center of the table.
“Here on Corsica,” the don said with a frown, “it is impolite to refuse a gift.”
“The gift isn’t necessary.”
“Take it, Christopher. You’ve earned it.”
“You’ve made me rich, Don Orsati, richer than I ever dreamed possible.”
“But?”
Keller sat silently.
“A closed mouth catches neither flies nor food,” said the don, quoting from his seemingly bottomless supply of Corsican proverbs.
“Your point?”
“Speak, Christopher. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Keller was staring at the money, consciously avoiding the don’s gaze.
“Are you bored with your work?”
“It’s not that.”
“Maybe you should take a break. You could focus your energies on the legitimate side of the business. There’s plenty of money to be made there.”
“Olive oil isn’t the answer, Don Orsati.”
“So there is a problem.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” The don regarded Keller carefully. “When you pull a tooth, Christopher, it will stop hurting.”
“Unless you have a bad dentist.”
“The only thing worse than a bad dentist is a bad companion.”
“It is better to be alone,” said Keller philosophically, “than to have bad companions.”
The don smiled. “You might have been born an Englishman, Christopher, but you have the soul of a Corsican.”
Keller stood. The don pushed the envelope across the tabletop.
“Are you sure you won’t stay for lunch?”
“I have plans.”
“Whatever they are,” the don said, “they’ll have to wait.”
“Why?”
“You have a visitor.”
Keller didn’t have to ask the visitor’s name. There were only a handful of people in the world who knew he was still alive, and only one who would dare to call on him unannounced.
“When did he arrive?”
“Last night,” answered the don.
“What does he want?”
“He wasn’t at liberty to say.” The don scrutinized Keller with the watchful eyes of a canine. “Is it my imagination,” he asked finally, “or has your mood suddenly improved?”
Keller departed without answering. Don Orsati watched him go. Then he looked down at the tabletop and swore softly. The Englishman had forgotten to take the envelope.
CHRISTOPHER KELLER HAD ALWAYS TAKEN great care with his money. By his own calculation he had earned more than $20 million working for Don Anton Orsati and, through prudent investing, had made himself vastly wealthy. The bulk of his fortune was held by banks in Geneva and Zurich, but there were also accounts in Monaco, Liechtenstein, Brussels, Hong Kong, and the Cayman Islands. He even kept a small amount of money at a reputable bank in London. His British account manager believed him to be a reclusive resident of Corsica who, like Don Orsati, left the island infrequently. The government of France was of the same opinion. Keller paid taxes on his legitimate investment earnings and on the respectable salary he earned from the Orsati Olive Oil Company, where he served as director of central European sales. He voted in French elections, donated to French charities, rooted for French sports teams, and, on occasion, had been forced to utilize the services of the French national health care authority. He had never been charged with a crime of any sort, a noteworthy achievement for a man of the south, and his driving record was impeccable. All in all, with one significant exception, Christopher Keller was a model citizen.
An expert skier and climber, he had been quietly shopping for a chalet in the French Alps for some time. At present, he maintained a single residence,