“Not yet, Monsieur Allon.”
By half past eight the last light of sunset was gone, and a three-quarter moon shone like a torch in the cloudless sky. The wind picked up, the air turned colder, the swells exceeded a meter in height. Ingrid went into the salon and reluctantly swallowed a dose of the scopolamine and adhered a patch to the side of her neck. Then she unwrapped the sandwiches that Gabriel had bought in Marseilles and pulled the cork from a bottle of rosé.
“Dinner is served,” she called out, and Gabriel and Lambert came in from the afterdeck. René Monjean switched on the Garmin autopilot and the AIS collision alarm and joined them in the galley. The unlikely circumstances of the gathering made serious conversation impossible, so they engaged in polite small talk and listened to Melody Gardot on Monjean’s onboard audio system. It was a recent acquisition, he explained, part of a major overhaul of Mistral he had carried out that winter. He said nothing as to how he had financed the project, and Gabriel, who was certain he knew the answer, didn’t ask. René Monjean wasn’t terribly particular about what he stole, but he specialized in the illicit acquisition of paintings.
By ten thirty he was back at the controls in the main helm station with a thermos of strong coffee to get him through the night. Ingrid and Lambert took the berths, and Gabriel stretched out on the convertible bed in the salon. Exhausted, he slept until seven. He found René Monjean up on the flybridge in the cold morning air.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Allon.” Monjean pointed out a rocky island about two kilometers off the prow. “Île de Mezzu Mare. You and your friends will be on solid ground in about a half hour.”
Gabriel went down to the galley. Ingrid, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, emerged from belowdecks. She sat down at the table and rubbed her eyes.
“For some reason, they hurt like hell.”
“It’s a side effect of the scopolamine.”
“How much longer do you intend to make me stay on this boat?”
“A few more minutes.”
“And then?”
“A scenic drive through the mountains.”
“Wonderful.” Ingrid drank some of the coffee. “Is it my imagination, or do I smell rosemary and lavender?”
“I’m sure it’s only the scopolamine.”
Ingrid took up the packet and read the warning label. “Eyelid irritation, headache, feelings of restlessness, and problems with memory. But nothing at all about rosemary and lavender.”
* * *
The bustling port into which René Monjean expertly guided Mistral was Ajaccio, birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and capital of the occasionally restive French island of Corsica. Ingrid and Lambert had breakfast in a café near the ferry terminal while Gabriel saw to the rental car. By nine fifteen they were speeding along the island’s rugged western coastline. Lambert, stretched sideways across the back seat, watched the waves rolling across the picturesque Golfu di Liscia.
“Much better than Libya, Monsieur Allon. But where exactly are you taking me?”
“A village in Haute-Corse. It’s near Monte Cinto.” Gabriel glanced at Ingrid and added, “The highest mountain in Corsica.”
“Exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
Gabriel followed the coast road to the seaside resort of Porto, then headed inland and began the long climb into the mountains. Ingrid lowered her window, and the pungent scent of rosemary and lavender filled the car.
“I knew it wasn’t my imagination,” she said.
“Macchia,” explained Gabriel. “It’s a dense undergrowth that covers most of the island’s interior. When the wind is right, you can smell it out at sea.”
They passed through the towns of Chidazzu and Marignana and Évisa, then crossed the border into Haute-Corse. In the next village a young girl pointed at Ingrid with the first and fourth fingers of her right hand.
“Why did she do that?”
“She was afraid you might give her the occhju. The evil eye.”
“Surely they don’t believe that nonsense.”
“Corsicans are superstitious by nature. They live in fear of contracting the evil eye, especially from blond-haired strangers like you.”
“And if they do?”
“They have to go to the signadora.”
“Well,” said Ingrid. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
Beyond the village, in a small valley of olive groves that produced the island’s finest oil, was a walled estate. The two men standing guard at the entrance were well armed. Gabriel gave them a friendly tap of the horn, and the men touched the brims of their traditional birretta caps in reply.
“Who lives there?” asked Ingrid.
“The man who will make certain that nothing happens to Philippe.”
The road climbed a steep hill and spilled into the next valley, and soon it was little more than a dirt-and-gravel track. Gabriel nevertheless increased his speed.
Ingrid shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Is someone following us again?”
“No,” replied Gabriel. “The danger lies ahead.”
“Where?”
Just then a horned domestic goat, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds in weight, rose from its resting place beneath the twisted limbs of three ancient olive trees and took up a defensive position in the center of the track.
“There,” said Gabriel, and applied the brakes.
