Gabriel smiled. “You’ll hear from me in the morning. Provided, of course, we don’t capsize and sink.”
He went into the windblown night and dropped behind the wheel of the rental car. René Monjean was sprawled in the back. Ingrid was in the passenger seat. She leaned close to the windscreen as the beam of the only functional headlamp illuminated the three ancient olive trees.
“Do you think something happened to him?” she asked.
“We can only hope.”
“I was talking about your friend.”
“So was I.” Gabriel slowed to a stop as Don Casabianca’s goat stepped from the macchia and blocked the path. “I thought we had resolved this situation.”
“Evidently not.”
“Say something to him in Danish again. He seems to respond to it.”
“Should I ask him if he knows where Christopher is?”
“Only if you want him to smash the other headlamp.”
Ingrid lowered her window and with a few soothing words persuaded the goat to move aside. Gabriel followed the road to the entrance of Villa Orsati and asked the guards whether they had seen Christopher. They informed him that the Englishman had dined alone with Don Orsati after a difficult ascent up Monte Cinto but was no longer at the estate.
“When did he leave?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Does he ever?”
Gabriel was tempted to ask Sarah Bancroft if she knew her husband’s whereabouts, but such a course of action would have violated the most basic precepts of his former trade. And so he drove down the treacherous western slope of the mountains by the light of a single headlamp and rolled into the tiny marina in Porto a few minutes after midnight. Which was when he spotted Christopher, still in his Gore-Tex climbing gear, sitting on the afterdeck of Mistral, a cigarette between his lips, a nylon overnight bag at his side. He pondered the luminous dial of his wristwatch, then looked at Gabriel and smiled.
“You’re late.”
“I thought you weren’t coming with us.”
“And miss all the fun? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Christopher flicked his cigarette into the oily waters of the marina. “Leave the key in that rental car of yours. And don’t worry about the smashed headlamp. His Holiness will take care of everything.”
* * *
They stowed their bags belowdecks and locked the drawers and cabinets in the galley. Then Gabriel and René Monjean climbed up to the flybridge and fired the engines. They headed due west across the choppy waters of the Golfe de Porto before turning to the north. The sea state deteriorated instantly. Ingrid felt a wave of nausea wash over her and decided to take her chances outside on the afterdeck. She found Christopher relaxing in the cockpit, as though the boat beneath him were gliding across a glassy ornamental pond.
“Feeling unwell?” he asked.
“A little. You?”
“Actually, I’m feeling rather guilty.”
“You should, Mr. Keller. You gave us quite a scare.”
“I was referring to the incident this afternoon at the pool.”
“When you asked Gabriel if we were having an affair?”
Christopher nodded. “The truth is, I knew you weren’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Gabriel is madly in love with his wife and children. He also happens to be the most decent and honorable man I’ve ever met.”
“And what about you, Mr. Keller? Are you decent and honorable?”
“I am now. But I still have a naughty streak.”
“So does Gabriel.”
“That he does,” said Christopher, and lit another cigarette.
40
Monaco
A bit nicer than Marseilles, wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Allon?”
“Actually, René, I’ve always had a soft spot for your hometown.”
“Too many criminals,” replied Monjean.
“I have a soft spot for them, too.”
