35 Villa Orsati

35 Villa Orsati

Philippe Lambert's external hard drives contained more than merely a list of the shell companies created by the law firm of

Harris Weber & Company. He had also saved the contents of Charlotte Blake's missing mobile phone—the metadata, the geolocation

data, the Internet browsing history, the emails and text messages. They left no doubt that she had been involved in an affair

with Leonard Bradley, a wealthy high-frequency trader who owned a substantial clifftop home not far from the spot where she

was murdered.

There was also a copy of Professor Blake's provenance for an untitled portrait of a woman, oil on canvas, 94 by 66 centimeters, by Pablo Picasso. It was purchased, she discovered, from Galerie Paul Rosenberg in June 1939 by the businessman and collector Bernard Lévy. In July 1942, one week after the Paris Roundup, Lévy entrusted the painting to his lawyer, Hector Favreau, and went into hiding in the south with his wife and daughter. Favreau kept the painting until 1944, when he sold it to André Delacroix, a senior official in the collaborationist Vichy regime. The painting remained in the Delacroix family until 2015, when it was put up for sale at the venerable Christie's auction house in London. It fetched a mere fifty-two million pounds, in part because of concerns about its past. The buyer was OOC Group, Ltd., of Road Town, the British Virgin Islands. Charlotte Blake, a former employee of Christie's, had a photocopy of the sales agreement to prove it.

But how had Trevor Robinson known of Professor Blake's explosive findings? The most likely explanation was that Robinson had

been tipped off by someone, probably in mid-December. Gabriel searched the professor's emails and text messages but found

nothing to suggest she had shared the information with anyone. The phone's geolocation data indicated that she had spent the

long winter academic break in isolation at her cottage in Cornwall. Her only travel during this period was a three-day visit

to London, where, on the afternoon of December 15, she spent ninety minutes at the Courtauld Gallery.

It occurred to Gabriel that Sarah Bancroft, a member of the Courtauld's board of trustees, might know something about Professor

Blake's visit to the gallery. He reached her at Isherwood Fine Arts, where she was showing a painting to a prospective buyer.

She sounded relieved to hear his voice.

"Please tell me you didn't kill him," she said.

"Who?"

She delivered her answer in a stage whisper. "Monsieur Ricard."

"We should probably postpone this discussion until I get back to London."

"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?"

"Quite."

"Were you the target?"

"The man in the back seat," replied Gabriel. "He's a computer hacker who works for a dirty law firm in Monaco."

"Who wanted him dead?"

"The dirty law firm."

"What about the pretty blond woman?"

"She used to be a professional thief."

"And now?"

"Hard to say, really. She's still a work in progress."

The don held up the passport between two thick fingers. "Are you keeping this for any reason?"

"Sentimental value, mainly."

"In that case, perhaps we should get rid of it." Don Orsati carried the passport over to the large stone fireplace and dropped

it on the stack of macchia wood burning on the grate. "And how can we at the Orsati Olive Oil Company be of service to you?"

"I require protection for the computer hacker."

"For how long?"

"Long enough for me to pull a heist at the dirty law firm."

"And if the heist goes sideways?"

"I'm confident it won't."

"Why?"

"The pretty blond woman."

***

Gabriel told Anton Orsati the rest of the story outside on the terrace, over a bottle of pale Corsican rosé. He omitted none

of the salient details, including the fact that he was working in collusion with two European police forces and the security

and intelligence service of Switzerland. The don, who made his living in part by avoiding entanglements with law enforcement,

was predictably appalled.

"And when the police ask their star witness, this Philippe Lambert fellow, where he went into hiding after the attempt on

his life? What happens then?"

"It is my hope, Don Orsati, that it doesn't come to that."

"We have a proverb here on Corsica about hope."

"And for nearly every other occasion as well," added Gabriel.

"He who lives on hope," said Don Orsati, undeterred, "dies on shit. And he who answers the door to the police lives to regret

it. Especially if that person is in my line of work."

"I'm quite certain that's not an actual Corsican proverb."

"Its sentiments are sacred and correct, all the same."

"But he who sleeps," said Gabriel, quoting a proverb of his own, "cannot catch fish. And he who seeks, finds."

"And what exactly are you hoping to find at the law firm of Harris Weber & Company in Monaco?"

"Several million pages of incriminating documents."

"Which will lead to the recovery of the missing Picasso?"

Gabriel nodded. "It will also lead to the prosecution of the firm's founding partners, not to mention a great number of extremely

wealthy people who have used unethical or in some cases illegal methods to conceal hundreds of billions of dollars' worth

of their wealth in offshore tax havens."

"This might come as a shock to you, Gabriel, but I believe that what a man does with his money is his business, not his government's.

That said, I will agree to look after Lambert until the threats to his life have been eliminated. I will, however, expect

to be reimbursed for his room and board, not to mention the extra manpower costs for his security."

"He has several million dollars at a bank in the British Virgin Islands."

"A good start." Orsati smiled. "The question is, where shall we put him?"

"For the time being, he can stay with me at Christopher's place."

"While you plan this heist of yours?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Does Christopher know what you're up to?"

"He doesn't have a clue."

"It might be wise to include him."

"Christopher is no longer an employee of the Orsati Olive Oil Company. He is an officer of His Majesty's Secret Intelligence

Service."

"And?"

"One of the founding partners of Harris Weber is British, and the firm is incorporated in the British Virgin Islands, which

is a British overseas territory."

"Is that a problem?"

"As a general rule, Western intelligence services are forbidden to spy on their own people."

"But you're not spying on the firm. You're simply going to steal its files."

"It's rather the same thing."

"I don't care how good your pretty friend is," said Orsati. "You can't send her into that office alone. You need at least

one more person, preferably a professional."

"Anyone come to mind?"

"What about the man who gave you a ride to Corsica?"

"Can you arrange it?"

"Consider it done." Orsati lifted his gaze toward the darkening sky. "When storms roll in, dogs make beds."

"What about goats?" asked Gabriel.

"Is there a problem?"

"He had a go at my car this morning. Someone has to pay for the damage, and it isn't going to be me."

Don Orsati sighed. "Coins are round and come and go."

"So do goats," said Gabriel darkly.

"Not one hair on its head. Otherwise, there will be a feud."

"That's not a proverb, either, Don Orsati."