The Confessor

always do."
    "I have enough corroborating evidence to make it impossible for them to dismiss it as a hoax. Your mother may have been powerless to do anything in 1942, but she's not powerless any longer. Let me have this--the one she wrote with her own hand. It's important that I have the original."
    "You may have it on one condition."
    "And that is?"
    "That you destroy the people who murdered my mother."
    Gabriel held out his hand.
    LE ROURET, PROVENCE
    Gabriel eased away from Antonella Huber's villa through the gathering darkness, accompanied by the savage barking of the Belgian shepherds. Chiara sat next to him, clutching the letter. At the bottom of the hill, he turned onto a two-lane highway and headed west toward Grasse. The day's last light lay on the ridgeline of the distant hills like a scarlet wound.
    Five minutes later, he noticed the dark-gray Fiat sedan. The man behind the wheel was too careful. He stayed in his own lane at all times, and even when Gabriel allowed his speed to dip well below the limit, the Fiat remained several car-lengths off his rear bumper. No, thought Gabriel, this is not your average suicidal Frenchman behind the wheel.
    He followed the highway into Grasse, then turned down the hill, into the old town center. It had been taken over long ago by Middle
    Eastern immigrants, and for a moment Gabriel might have imagined he was in Algiers or Marrakech.
    "Put away the letter."
    "What's wrong?"
    "We're being followed."
    Gabriel made a series of quick turns and accelerations.
    "Is he still there?"
    "Still there."
    "What do we do?"
    "Take him for a ride."
    Gabriel left the old town and made his way back up the hill to the main highway, the Fiat following closely behind. He sped through the center of town, then turned onto the N85, a highway that runs from Grasse high into the Maritime Alps. Ten seconds later the Fiat swerved into his rearview mirror. Gabriel pressed the accelerator to the floor and pushed the Peugeot hard up the steep grade.
    Grasse gradually fell away. The road was winding, full of switchbacks and hairpin turns. To their right rose the scrub-covered slope of the mountain; to their left, a deep gorge, falling away toward the sea. The Peugeot had less power than Gabriel would have liked, and no matter how hard he pushed it, the Fiat sedan easily kept pace. Whenever a straight section of road stretched before him, he would lift his eyes into the rearview mirror and check on the Fiat: always there, a few car-lengths back. Once, he thought he could see the driver talking on a mobile phone. Who do you work for? Who are you calling? And how in the hell did you find us? Antonella Huber . . . They'd killed her mother. They probably had a man watching the villa.
    Ten minutes later, the village of St. Vallier appeared before
    them, quiet and tightly shuttered. Gabriel pulled over in the center of town, next to a small square, and traded places with Chiara. The Fiat parked on the opposite side of the square and waited. Gabriel told Chiara to take the D5 toward St. Cezaire, then he took out the Beretta nine millimeter he'd been given by Shimon Pazner in Rome. The Fiat followed after them.
    It was a long descent, winding and difficult in some sections, straight and fast in others. Chiara drove the same way she'd handled the motor yacht, with skill and a certain easy confidence that Gabriel couldn't help but find attractive.
    "Did you take the defensive driving classes at the Academy?"
    "Of course."
    "Did you learn anything?"
    "Number one in my group."
    "Show me."
    She downshifted and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Peugeot shot forward, engine screaming. She stayed in that gear, foot to the floor, until the needle topped the red zone, then power-shifted. Gabriel looked over at the speedometer and saw it inching toward 180 kilometers per hour. Her rapid acceleration seemed to catch the driver of the Fiat by surprise, but he recovered quickly and soon was sitting in his usual place, twenty meters off their rear bumper.
    "Our friend is back."
    "What do you want me to do?"
    "Make him work. I want his nerves on edge."
    During a long downhill straightaway, Chiara pushed the Peugeot above two hundred. Then she entered a winding section, expertly downshifting and breaking in and out of the turns. Obviously, she had learned her lessons well at the Academy. The man in the Fiat was having trouble keeping pace. Twice, he nearly lost control in the turns.
    At the rate of speed they were