The Heist (12 page)

“The Cosa Nostra killed him a few weeks later.”

“They assumed he was behind the murder of di Luca?”

Orsati nodded gravely. “But at least he died with honor.”

“How so?”

“Because he had avenged the murder of his daughter.”

“And one wonders why Sicily isn’t the economic and intellectual powerhouse of the Mediterranean.”

“Money doesn’t come from singing,” said the don.

“Your point?”

“The vendetta has kept this family in business for generations,” answered the don. “And the killing of Sandro di Luca proved we could operate outside Corsica without detection. My father remained opposed to it until his death. But once he was gone, I took the family business international.”

“If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”

“Is that a Jewish proverb?”

“Probably,” replied Gabriel.

The table was laid with a traditional Corsican lunch of
macchia
-flavored foods. Gabriel helped himself to the vegetables and cheeses but ignored the sausage.

“It’s kosher,” the don said as he forked several pieces of the meat onto Gabriel’s plate.

“I didn’t realize there were any rabbis on Corsica.”

“Many,” the don assured him.

Gabriel moved the sausage aside and asked the don whether he still went to church after taking a life.

“If I did,” the Corsican replied, “I’d spend more time on my knees than a washerwoman. Besides, at this point I’m beyond redemption. God can do with me as he wishes.”

“I’d love to see the conversation between you and God.”

“May it be conducted over a Corsican lunch.” Orsati smiled and refilled Gabriel’s glass with the rosé. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, returning the bottle to the center of the table. “Most of the people we kill deserve to die. In our own small way, the Orsati clan has made the world a much better place.”

“Would you feel that way if you’d killed me?”

“Don’t be silly,” answered the don. “Allowing you to live was the best decision I ever made.”

“As I recall, Don Orsati, you had nothing to do with the decision to let me live. In fact,” added Gabriel pointedly, “you were steadfastly opposed to it.”

“Even I, the infallible Don Anton Orsati, make mistakes from time to time, though I’ve never done anything so foolish as agreeing to find a Caravaggio for the Italians.”

“I didn’t really have much choice in the matter.”

“It’s a fool’s errand.”

“My specialty.”

“The Carabinieri have been looking for that painting for more than forty years, and they’ve never been able to find it. In my opinion, it was probably destroyed a long time ago.”

“That’s not the word on the street.”

“What are you hearing?”

Gabriel answered the question by giving the don the same briefing he had given to General Ferrari in San Remo. Then he explained his plan for getting the painting back. The don was clearly intrigued.

“What does this have to do with the Orsatis?” he asked.

“I need to borrow one of your men.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“The director of central European sales.”

“What a surprise.”

Gabriel said nothing.

“And if I agree?”

“One hand washes the other,” said Gabriel, “and both hands wash the face.”

The don smiled. “Maybe you’re a Corsican after all.”

Gabriel gazed out at the valley and smiled. “No such luck, Don Orsati.”

A
S IT HAPPENED, THE MAN
whom Gabriel needed to find the Caravaggio was away from the island on business. Don Orsati would not say where he was or whether his business concerned oil or blood, only that he would return in two days’ time, three at most. He gave Gabriel a Tanfoglio pistol and the keys to a villa in the next valley where he would wait in the interim. Gabriel knew the villa well. He had stayed there with Chiara after their last operation and, on its sun-dappled terrace, had learned she was pregnant with his children. There was only one problem with the house; to reach it Gabriel had to pass the three ancient olive trees where Don Casabianca’s wretched palomino goat stood its eternal watch, challenging all those who dared to encroach on its territory. The old goat was a malevolent creature in general but seemed to reserve a particular loathing for Gabriel, with whom it had numerous confrontations filled with mutual threats and insults. Don Orsati, at the conclusion of lunch, promised to have a word with Don Casabianca on Gabriel’s behalf.

“Perhaps he can reason with the beast,” the don added skeptically.

“Or perhaps he could turn the goat into a handbag and a pair of shoes.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” the don cautioned. “If you touch one hair on that miserable goat’s head, there’ll be a feud.”

“What if it just disappears?”

“The
macchia
has no eyes,” warned the don, “but it sees all.”

With that, the don walked Gabriel downstairs and saw him into his car. He followed the road inland until it turned to dirt, and then he followed it a little farther; and when he came to the sharp left-hand bend he saw Don Casabianca’s goat tethered to one of the three ancient olive trees, a look of humiliation on its grizzled face. Gabriel lowered his window and, in Italian, hurled a string of insults at the goat regarding its appearance, its ancestry, and the degradation of its current predicament. Then, laughing, he headed up the slope of the hill toward the villa.

It was small and tidy, with a red-tile roof and large windows overlooking the valley. As Gabriel entered, it was instantly obvious that he and Chiara had been its last occupants. His sketch pad lay on the coffee table in the sitting room, and in the refrigerator he found an unopened bottle of Chablis that had been given to him by Don Orsati’s absent director of European sales. The shelves of the pantry were otherwise bare. Gabriel opened the French doors to the afternoon breeze and sat on the terrace, working his way through the general’s Caravaggio file, until the cold drove him back inside. By then, it was a few minutes after four o’clock and the sun seemed balanced atop the rim of the valley. He showered quickly, changed into clean clothing, and drove to the village to do a bit of marketing before the shops closed.

There had been a town in this isolated corner of Corsica since the dark days after the fall of the Roman Empire, when the Vandals ravaged the coastlines so ruthlessly that terrified native islanders had no choice but to take to the hills for survival. A single ancient street spiraled its way past cottages and apartment buildings to a broad square at the highest point of the village. On three sides were shops and cafés; on the fourth was the old church. Gabriel found a parking space and started toward the market but decided he needed the fortification of a coffee first. He entered one of the cafés and took a table where he could watch the men playing
boules
in the square by the light of an iron streetlamp. One of the men recognized Gabriel as a friend of Don Orsati and invited him to join the game. Gabriel feigned a sore shoulder and, in French, said he would prefer to remain a spectator. He didn’t mention anything about having to shop. In Corsica, the women still saw to the marketing.

Just then, the bells of the church tolled five o’clock. A few minutes later its heavy wooden door swung open and a priest in a black cassock emerged onto the steps. He stood there smiling benevolently as several parishioners, old women mainly, filed into the square. One of the women, after absently nodding good evening to the priest, stopped suddenly, as if she alone had been alerted to the presence of danger. Then she resumed walking and disappeared through the door of a crooked little house adjoining the rectory.

Gabriel ordered another coffee. Then he changed his mind and ordered a glass of red wine instead. The dusk was a memory; lights burned warmly in the shops and in the windows of the crooked little house next to the rectory. A boy of ten with long curly hair was now standing at the door, which was open only a few inches. A small pale hand poked through the breach clutching a slip of blue paper. The boy seized the paper and carried it across the square to the café, where he placed it on Gabriel’s table next to the glass of red wine.

“What is it this time?” he asked.

“She didn’t say,” replied the boy. “She never does.”

Gabriel gave the boy a few coins to buy a sweet and drank the wine as night fell hard upon the square. Finally, he picked up the slip of paper and read the single line that had been written there:

Gabriel smiled, slipped the note into his pocket, and sat there finishing the last of his wine. Then he rose and headed across the square.

She was standing in the doorway to receive him, a shawl around her frail shoulders. Her eyes were bottomless pools of black; her face was as white as baker’s flour. She regarded him warily before finally offering her hand. It was warm and weightless. Holding it was like cradling a songbird.

“Welcome back to Corsica,” she said.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I know everything.”

“Then tell me how I arrived on the island.”

“Don’t insult me.”

Gabriel’s skepticism was pretense. He had long ago relinquished any doubts about the old woman’s ability to glimpse both the past and future. She held his hand tightly and closed her eyes.

“You were living in the city of water with your wife and working in a church where a great painter is buried. You were happy, truly happy, for the first time in your life. Then a one-eyed creature from Rome appeared and—”

“All right,” said Gabriel. “You’ve proven your point.”

She released Gabriel’s hand and gestured toward the small wooden table in her parlor. On it was a shallow plate of water and a vessel of olive oil. They were the tools of her trade. The old woman was a
signadora.
The Corsicans believed she had the power to heal those infected by the
occhju
, the evil eye. Gabriel had once suspected she was nothing more than a conjurer, but that was no longer the case.

“Sit,” she said.

“No,” replied Gabriel.

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t believe in such things.”

“Israelites?”

“Yes,” he said. “Israelites.”

“But you did it before.”

“You told me things about my past, things you couldn’t possibly have known.”

“So you were curious?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you’re not curious now?”

The woman sat in her usual place at the table and lit a candle. After a moment’s hesitation, Gabriel sat down opposite. He pushed the vessel of oil toward the center of the table and folded his hands obstinately. The old woman closed her eyes.

“The one-eyed creature has asked you to find something on his behalf, yes?”

“Yes,” answered Gabriel.

“It’s a painting, is it not? The work of a madman, a murderer. It was taken from a small church many years ago, on an island across the water.”

“Did Don Orsati tell you that?”

The old woman opened her eyes. “I’ve never spoken to the don about this matter.”

“Go on.”

“The painting was stolen by men such as the don, only far worse. They treated it very badly. Much of it has been destroyed.”

“But the painting survives?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “It survives.”

“Where is it now?”

“It’s close.”

“Close to what?”

“It is not in my power to tell you that. But if you will perform the test of the oil and the water,” she added with a glance at the center of the table, “perhaps I can be of help.”

Gabriel remained motionless.

“What are you afraid of?” the old woman asked.

“You,” answered Gabriel truthfully.

“You have the strength of God. Why should you fear someone as frail and old as me?”

“Because you have powers, too.”

“Powers of sight,” she said. “But not earthly powers.”

“The ability to see the future is a great asset.”

“Especially for someone in your line of work.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel, smiling.

“So why won’t you perform the test of the oil and the water?”

Gabriel was silent.

“You have lost many things,” the old woman said kindly. “A wife, a son, your mother. But your days of grief are behind you.”

“Will my enemies ever try to kill my wife?”

“No harm will come to her or your children.”

The old woman nodded toward the vessel of olive oil. This time, Gabriel dipped his forefinger into it 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.

“You are infected with the
occhju
,” the old woman pronounced gravely. “You would be wise to let me draw it from your system.”

“I’ll take two aspirin instead.”

The old woman peered into the plate of water and oil. “The painting for which you are searching depicts the Christ Child, does it not?”

“Yes.”

“How curious that a man such as yourself would search for our Lord and savior.” Again she lowered her gaze toward the plate of water and oil. “The painting has been moved from the island across the water. It looks different than it did before.”

“How so?”

“It has been repaired. The man who did the work is now dead. But you already know this.”

“Someday you’re going to have to show me how you do that.”

“It’s not something that can be taught. It is a gift from God.”

“Where is the painting now?”

“I cannot say.”

“Who has it?”

“It is beyond my powers to give you his name. The woman can help you find it.”

“What woman?”

“I cannot say. Do not let any harm come to her, or you will lose everything.”

The old woman’s head fell toward her shoulder; the prophecy had exhausted her. Gabriel slipped several bills beneath the plate of water and oil.

“I have one more thing to tell you before you go,” the old woman said as Gabriel rose

“What is it?”

“Your wife has left the city of water.”