The English Assassin

of the Englishman’s black mood. It was the assignment in Lyons; the Swiss professor called Emil Jacobi. Something about the killing had left a tear in the Englishman’s conscience. Don Orsati offered to get the Englishman a girl—a lovely Italian girl he had met in San Remo—but the Englishman refused.
    Three days after the Englishman’s return from Lyons, Don Orsati invited him to dinner. They ate in a restaurant near the square and afterward walked arm in arm through the narrow streets of the dark town. Twice, villagers appeared out of the gloom, and twice they quickly turned in the opposite direction. Everyone knew that when Don Orsati was speaking privately with the Englishman it was best to walk away. It was then that Don Orsati told him about the assignment in Venice.
    “If you want me to send one of the other boys—”
    “No,” the Englishman said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “I hoped you’d say that. None of the others are truly capable of a job like this. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy the assignment. There’s a long tradition of our work in Venice. I’m sure you’ll find the setting rather inspiring.”
    “I’m sure you’re right.”
    “There’s a friend of mine there called Rossetti. He’ll give you all the help you require.”
    “You have the dossiers?”
    Only a man as powerful as Anton Orsati could leave the dossiers for two people he planned to murder on the front seat of a car, but such was the nature of life in the Corsican village. The Englishman read them by lamplight in the square. When he opened the second file, a look of recognition flashed through his eyes that even Orsati was able to detect.
    “Is there something wrong?”
    “I know this man—from another life.”
    “Is that a problem?”
    He closed the file. “Not at all.”
     
    THEEnglishman stayed up late, listening to the audiotape he had taken from the professor’s apartment in Lyons. Then he read the stack of clippings and obituaries he had collected by trolling newspaper websites on the Internet, followed by the dossiers Anton Orsati had just given him. He slept for a few hours; then, before dawn the next morning, he placed a small overnight bag in the back of his jeep and drove into the village.
    He parked in a narrow street near the church and walked to the house where the signadora lived. When he knocked softly on the door, she pushed open the shutters in the second-floor window and peered down at him like a gargoyle.
    “I had a feeling it was you. The scirocco is blowing. It brings dust and evil spirits.”
    “Which one am I?”
    “I can see the occhju from here. Wait there, my child. I’ll just be a moment.”
    The Englishman smoked a cigarette while he waited for the old woman to dress and come downstairs. She answered the door in a widow’s plain black frock and pulled him inside by the wrist, as though she feared there were wild animals about. They sat on opposite sides of the rough wooden table. He finished his cigarette while the old women tended to her oil and water.
    “Three drops, though I’m certain I already know the answer.”
    He dipped his finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the water. When the oil shattered, the old woman embarked on her familiar routine of blessings and prayers. When he repeated the test, the oil coalesced into a single ball, floating on the surface of the water. This pleased the old woman.
    “That’s a neat trick you’ve got there,” said the Englishman.
    “It’s not a trick. You of all people should know that.”
    “I meant no disrespect.”
    “I know. Even though you are not a Corsican by birth, you have the soul of a Corsican. You are a true believer. Do you wish to have something to drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?”
    “It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
    The old woman tilted her head, as if to say, So what.
    “You should be at home in bed,” she said. Then she added: “With a woman. And not the whores that Don Orsati brings you. A real woman who will give you children and see to your clothes.”
    “The women of Don Orsati are the only ones who will have me.”
    “You think a decent woman wouldn’t have you because you are a taddunaghiu? ”
    The Englishman folded his arms.
    “I want to tell you a story.”
    He opened his mouth to object, but the old woman was on her feet before he could utter a sound and shuffling into the kitchen for the wine. The bottle was dark green