The English Girl: A Novel

mustachioed man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder came scampering into the garden to put it back in order.
    “You don’t know what your friend Christopher was like when he arrived here after leaving Iraq,” Orsati was saying. “He was a mess. I gave him a home. A family. A woman.”
    “And then you gave him a job,” said Gabriel. “Many jobs.”
    “He’s very good at it.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Better than you.”
    “Who said that?”
    The don smiled. A silence fell between them, which Gabriel allowed to linger while he chose his next words with great care.
    “It’s not a proper way for a man like Christopher to earn a living,” he said at last.
    “People in glass houses, Allon.”
    “I never realized that was a Corsican proverb.”
    “All things wise come from Corsica.” The don pushed his plate away and rested his heavy forearms on the tabletop. “There’s something you don’t seem to understand,” he said. “Christopher is more than just my best taddunaghiu . I love him like a son. And if he ever left . . .” The don’s voice trailed off. “I would be heartbroken.”
    “His real father thinks he’s dead.”
    “There was no other way.”
    “How would you feel if the roles were reversed?”
    Orsati had no answer. He changed the subject.
    “Do you really think this friend of yours from British intelligence would be interested in bringing Christopher back to England?”
    “He’d be a fool not to.”
    “But he might say no,” the don pointed out. “And by raising the matter with him, you might endanger Christopher’s position here on Corsica.”
    “I’ll do it in a way that poses no threat to him.”
    “He is a man of trust, this friend of yours?”
    “I’d trust him with my life. In fact,” said Gabriel, “I’ve done it many times before.”
    The don exhaled heavily in resignation. He was about to give Gabriel’s unusual proposition his blessing when his mobile phone rang again. This time he answered it. He listened in silence for a moment, spoke a few words in Italian, and then returned the phone to the tabletop.
    “Who was that?” asked Gabriel.
    “Your wife,” replied the don.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “She wants to take a walk into the village.”
    Gabriel started to rise.
    “Stay and finish your lunch,” said Orsati. “I’ll send a couple of my boys to keep an eye on her.”
    Gabriel sat down again. The libeccio was wreaking havoc in Orsati’s garden. The don watched it sadly for a moment.
    “I’m still glad we didn’t kill you, Allon.”
    “I can assure you, Don Orsati, the feeling is mutual.”
    T he wind chased Chiara down the narrow track, past the shuttered houses and the cats, and finally to the main square, where it swirled in the arcades and vandalized the display tables of the shopkeepers. She went to the market and filled her straw basket with a few things for dinner. Then she took a table at one of the cafés and ordered a coffee. In the center of the square, a few old men were playing boules amid tiny cyclones of dust, and on the steps of the church an old woman in black was handing a slip of blue paper to a young boy. The boy had long, curly hair and was very pretty. Looking at him, Chiara smiled sadly. She imagined that Gabriel’s son Dani might have looked like the boy if he had lived to be ten years of age.
    The woman descended the church steps and disappeared through the doorway of a crooked little house. Then the boy started across the square with the slip of blue paper in his hand. Much to Chiara’s surprise, he entered the café where she was seated and placed the paper on her table without a word. She waited until the boy was gone before reading the single line. I must see you at once . . .
    T he old signadora was waiting in the door of her house when Chiara arrived. She smiled, touched Chiara’s cheek softly, and then drew her inside.
    “Do you know who I am?” the old woman asked.
    “I have a good idea,” answered Chiara.
    “Your husband mentioned me?”
    Chiara nodded.
    “I warned him not to go to the city of heretics,” the signadora said, “but he didn’t listen. He’s lucky to be alive.”
    “He’s hard to kill.”
    “Perhaps he is an angel after all.” The old woman touched Chiara’s face again. “And you went, too, didn’t you?”
    “Who told you I went to Russia?”
    “You went without telling your husband,” the signadora went on, as though she hadn’t heard the question. “You were