The Confessor

along La Croisette. Chiara guided them away from the Croisette, toward the Old Port at the other end of town. In the summer season, the promenades around the Vieux Port would be teeming with tourists and the harbor jammed with luxury yachts. Now, most of the restaurants were tightly shuttered and there were plenty of berths available in the harbor.
    Chiara left Gabriel on the boat and walked a few blocks to the rue d'Antibes to rent a car. While she was away, Gabriel untied the hands and feet of the unconscious boat captain. Chiara had given him an injection four hours earlier, which meant he would remain unconscious for several more hours.
    Gabriel went back up to the deck and waited for Chiara. A few minutes later, a Peugeot hatchback pulled into a parking space on the Quai St-Pierre. Chiara stepped out of the car long enough to wave in Gabriel's direction and slide over into the passenger seat. Gabriel climbed down off the boat and got behind the wheel.
    "Any problems?" he asked.
    She shook her head.
    "We need clothes."
    "Ah, shopping on the Croisette. Just what I need after spending all night and half the day on the damned boat. I can't decide between Gucci and Versace."
    "I was thinking of something a little more ordinary. Maybe one of those nice places along the boulevard Carnot where the real people go to buy their clothes."
    "Oh, how pedestrian."
    "Exactly."
    Gabriel wound his way across the old town, and a few minutes later they were heading north up the boulevard Carnot, the main thoroughfare linking the waterfront of Cannes to the inland towns. The mistral was howling; a few brave souls were out, backs bent, hands on their hats. The air was filled with dust and paper. After a few blocks, Gabriel spotted a small department store next to a bus stop. Chiara frowned. He pulled into an empty parking space, gave her a wad of cash, and recited his sizes. Chiara climbed out and walked the rest of the way.
    Gabriel left the engine running and listened to the news. Still no sign of the suspected papal assassin. Italian police had stepped up security at the nation's airports and border crossings. He switched
    off the radio.
    Chiara emerged from the store twenty minutes later, a bulging plastic sack swinging from each hand. The wind was at her back,
    blowing her hair over her face. Because of the bags of clothing, she was defenseless to do anything about it.
    She tossed the bags into the backseat and got in. Gabriel headed up the boulevard Carnot. Ten minutes later, he came to a large traffic circle and followed the signs for Grasse. A four-lane highway stretched before them, rising up the slope of the hills toward the base of the Maritime Alps. Chiara reclined the seat, pulled off her fleece shirt, and shimmied out of the heavy waterproof pants. Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the road. She dug through the bags of clothing until she found the clean underwear and bra she had bought for herself.
    "Don't look."
    "I wouldn't dream of it."
    "Really? Why not?"
    "Just hurry up and get some clothing on, please."
    "That's the first time a man has ever said that to me."
    "I can see why."
    She swatted his arm and quickly changed into jeans, a sweater with a thick turtleneck, and fashionable black leather boots with square toes and thick heels. She looked very much like the attractive young woman he had seen for the first time in the ghetto in Venice. When she was finished, she sat up. "Your turn. Pull over and I'll drive while you change."
    Gabriel did as she asked. From a purely fashion perspective, he did not fare as well: a pair of loose fitting blue cotton trousers with an elastic waist, a thick wool fisherman's sweater, a pair of tan espadrilles that scratched his feet. He looked like a man who spent his days idling in the town square playing boule.
    "I look ridiculous."
    "I think you look very handsome. More importantly, you can
    walk through any town in Provence and no one will think you're anything but a local."
    For ten minutes, Chiara navigated the winding road through olive trees and eucalyptus. They came to the medieval town of Val-bonne. Gabriel directed her northward, to a town called Opio, and from Opio to Le Rouret. She parked outside a tabac and waited in the car while Gabriel went inside. Behind the counter was a dark-complected man with tightly curled hair and Algerian features. When Gabriel asked whether he knew an Italian woman called Carcassi, the clerk shrugged his shoulders and suggested that Gabriel