37 Haute-Corse

37 Haute-Corse

In the autumn of 1989, Gabriel reluctantly agreed to deliver a lecture in Tel Aviv to a visiting delegation of officers from

the Special Air Service, Britain's elite commando regiment. The topic was the April 1988 targeted killing of Abu Jihad, the

PLO's second-in-command, at his seaside villa in Tunis, an operation that Gabriel had carried out. At the conclusion of his

presentation, he had posed for a photograph with the members of his audience, wearing a hat and sunglasses to conceal his

identity. After the last picture was snapped, the handsome British officer standing next to him thrust out his hand and said,

"My name's Keller, by the way. Christopher Keller. I imagine we'll be meeting again someday."

From the moment he arrived at SAS headquarters in Herefordshire, it was obvious that Christopher was different. His scores in the Killing House, an infamous facility where recruits practice close-quarters combat and hostage rescue, were the highest ever recorded. His most remarkable achievement, though, was the time he posted for the Endurance, a forty-mile march across the windswept moorland known as the Brecon Beacons. Laden with a fifty-five-pound rucksack and a ten-pound assault rifle, Christopher shattered the course record by thirty minutes, a mark that stands to this day.

He was assigned to a Sabre squadron specializing in mobile desert warfare, but his intelligence and ability to improvise on

his feet soon brought him to the attention of the SAS's Special Reconnaissance Unit. After eight weeks of intense training,

he arrived in war-torn Northern Ireland as a plainclothes surveillance specialist. The subtleties of local accents required

most of his colleagues to utilize the services of a Fred—the unit's term for a local helper—when tracking IRA members or engaging

in street surveillance. But Christopher quickly developed the ability to mimic the various dialects of Ulster with the speed

and confidence of a native. He could even switch accents at a moment's notice—a Catholic from Armagh one minute, a Protestant

from Belfast's Shankill Road the next, then a Catholic from the Ballymurphy housing estates.

His unique combination of skills did not escape the notice of an ambitious young officer from T Branch, the Irish terrorism

department of MI5. The officer, whose name was Graham Seymour, was unimpressed by the quality of intelligence he was receiving

from MI5's informants in Northern Ireland and was eager to insert an agent of his own. Christopher accepted the assignment,

and two months later he slipped into West Belfast posing as a Catholic named Michael Connelly. He took a two-room flat in

the Divis Tower apartment complex on the Falls Road and found work as a deliveryman for a laundry service. His neighbor, with

whom he shared a cordial relationship, was a member of the IRA's West Belfast Brigade.

An Anglican by birth, Christopher attended mass regularly at St. Paul's Church, the IRA's favorite house of worship. It was there, on a wet Sunday during the holy season of Lent, that he met Elizabeth Conlin, daughter of Ronnie Conlin, the IRA's field commander for Ballymurphy. Their brief love affair would end with Elizabeth's brutal murder and Christopher's abduction. His interrogation took place at a farmhouse in South Armagh and was conducted by a senior IRA man called Eamon Quinn. Faced with the prospect of an appalling death, Christopher decided he had no recourse but to fight his way out. By the time he made his escape, four hardened terrorists from the Provisional Irish Republican Army were dead. Two had been virtually cut to pieces.

He returned to SAS headquarters at Hereford for what he thought would be a long rest, but his stay was cut short in August

1990 when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. He quickly rejoined his old Sabre unit and by January 1991 was in the western desert

of Iraq, searching out the Scud missile launchers that were raining terror on Tel Aviv. On the night of January 28, his team

located a launcher a hundred miles northwest of Baghdad and radioed the coordinates to their commanders in Saudi Arabia. Ninety

minutes later a formation of Coalition fighter-bombers streaked low over the desert. But in a disastrous case of friendly

fire, the aircraft attacked the SAS squadron instead of the Scud site. British officials concluded the entire unit was lost,

including Christopher.

In truth, he had survived the incident without a scratch. His first instinct was to radio his base and request extraction.

Instead, enraged by the incompetence of his superiors, he started walking. Concealed beneath the robe and headdress of a desert

Arab, and highly trained in the art of clandestine movement, he made his way through the Coalition forces and slipped undetected

into Syria.

He continued westward across Turkey and Greece and eventually washed ashore in Corsica, where he fell into the waiting arms of Don Anton Orsati. With his northern European looks and SAS training, Christopher was a valuable addition to the don's stable of Corsican-born assassins. His prophesized reunion with Gabriel occurred thirteen years after their first meeting. Gabriel survived the encounter only because Christopher declined a perfect opportunity to kill him. He returned the favor by convincing the director-general of the Secret Intelligence Service to give Christopher a job. Because the director was none other than Graham Seymour, the man who had sent Christopher into West Belfast, the negotiations went smoothly.

Under the generous terms of Christopher's repatriation agreement, SIS provided him with a new identity and allowed him to

keep the small fortune he had amassed working for the Orsati Olive Oil Company, a portion of which he had invested in his

maisonette in Queen's Gate Terrace. He acquired Sarah Bancroft soon after. Gabriel had initially opposed the relationship,

but in the end he played a decisive role in their decision to marry. The wedding took place at an SIS safe house. Gabriel

gave away the bride.

The SIS had also allowed Christopher to maintain possession of his comfortable villa on Corsica. Seated in a deck chair next

to the swimming pool, Gabriel explained to his old friend the nature of the crime he was planning to perpetrate in the Principality

of Monaco. Christopher, like Don Orsati before him, was deeply troubled by what he was hearing.

"You've placed me in a precarious situation." He gave his glass of Johnnie Walker Black Label a shake, rattling the ice. "Very

precarious, indeed."

"With all due respect, Christopher, your entire life has been one long precarious situation."

"But that doesn't change the fact that I am now obligated to inform my superiors about your findings regarding the murder

of Professor Charlotte Blake, including the role played by a former MI5 officer named Trevor Robinson. If your hacker's allegations

are true, it's going to be a scandal for the ages."

"The allegations are true," said Gabriel.

"Prove it."

"I intend to."

"By stealing the names of Harris Weber's clients?"

Gabriel nodded.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Depends on the names, I suppose."

"Given the fact that Harris Weber & Company is, for all intents and purposes, a British firm, it is likely that many of its

clients are British as well. It is also likely that some of them are public figures. People who've made a lot of money. Posh

people with grand estates in Somerset and the Cotswolds. You see my point?"

"I don't believe you've made one."

"Those files, in the wrong hands, can do a lot of damage."

"Or in the right hands," replied Gabriel.

Christopher ignited a Marlboro with a gold Dunhill lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke. It was carried away by a sudden gust

of wind that bent the laricio pine trees surrounding the terrace.

"The plan?" he asked.

"Sorry," answered Gabriel. "That's need-to-know only."

Christopher laid a sledgehammer hand on Gabriel's forearm. "You were saying?"

Gabriel complied with the request for an operational briefing.

"How did our old friend René Monjean get mixed up in this?" asked Christopher.

"It was the don's idea, actually."

"In my experience, René doesn't work for free."

"He expects to be paid at some point."

"And Ingrid?"

"She has more money than you do."

"Are you two..."

"Are we what?"

"You know," said Christopher.

"I don't, actually."

A female voice behind them calmly supplied the answer. "What your friend wants to know, Mr. Allon, is whether we're sleeping

together."

Gabriel and Christopher swung around in their chairs in unison and saw Ingrid standing on the flagstone deck, clad in spandex

athletic attire and a pair of Nike trainers.

"I'm going for a run. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She turned without another word and was gone. Christopher drained the last of his whisky. "Don't I feel like a complete ass."

"You should, you reprobate."

"Does she ever make a sound? And who the hell takes two-hour training runs?"

"Ingrid does."

"Where did you find her?"

"I'll tell you the story tonight on the way to Monaco."

"I'm not going anywhere near Monaco."

"Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, Mistral departs the marina at Porto at midnight."

"Have you checked the weather forecast?" Christopher smiled and said, " Bon voyage ."