The English Girl: A Novel

“When will you learn that I can always tell when you’re lying?”
    Keller smiled but said nothing. The old woman released her hold on the talisman and again touched Keller’s cheek.
    “You’re leaving the island, Christopher?”
    “Tonight.”
    The signadora did not ask why; she knew exactly what Keller did for a living. In fact, she had once hired a young taddunaghiu named Anton Orsati to avenge the murder of her husband.
    With a movement of her hand, she invited Keller and Gabriel to sit at the small wooden table in her parlor. Before them she placed a plate filled with water and a vessel of olive oil. Keller dipped his forefinger in the oil; then he held it over the plate and allowed three drops to fall onto the water. By the laws of physics, the oil should have gathered into a single gobbet. Instead, it shattered into a thousand droplets and soon there was no trace of it.
    “The evil has returned, Christopher.”
    “I’m afraid it’s an occupational hazard.”
    “Don’t make jokes, my dearest. The danger is very real.”
    “What do you see?”
    She gazed intently into the liquid, as if in a trance. After a moment she asked quietly, “Are you looking for the English girl?”
    Keller nodded, then asked, “Is she alive?”
    “Yes,” the old woman answered. “She’s alive.”
    “Where is she?”
    “It is not in my power to tell you that.”
    “Will we find her?”
    “When she is dead,” the old woman said. “Then you will know the truth.”
    “What can you see?”
    She closed her eyes. “Water . . . mountains . . . an old enemy . . .”
    “Of mine?”
    “No.” She opened her eyes and looked directly at Gabriel. “Of his.”
    Without another word, she took hold of the Englishman’s hand and prayed. After a moment she began to weep, a sign the evil had passed from Keller’s body into hers. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to be sleeping. When she awoke she instructed Keller to repeat the trial of the oil and the water. This time the oil coalesced into a single drop.
    “The evil is gone from your soul, Christopher.” Then, turning to Gabriel, she said, “Now him.”
    “I’m not a believer,” said Gabriel.
    “Please,” the old woman said. “If not for you, for Christopher.”
    Reluctantly, Gabriel dipped his forefinger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall onto the surface of the water. When the oil shattered into a thousand pieces, the woman closed her eyes and began to tremble.
    “What do you see?” asked Keller.
    “Fire,” she said softly. “I see fire.”
    T here was a five o’clock ferry from Ajaccio. Gabriel eased his Peugeot into the car deck at half past four and then watched, ten minutes later, as Keller came aboard behind the wheel of a battered Renault hatchback. Their compartments were on the same deck, directly across the corridor. Gabriel’s was the size of a prison cell and equally inviting. He left his bag on the cot-size bed and headed upstairs to the bar. By the time he arrived, Keller was seated at a table near the window, a glass of beer raised to his lips, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. Gabriel shook his head slowly. Forty-eight hours earlier, he had been standing before a canvas in Jerusalem. Now he was searching for a woman he did not know, accompanied by a man who had once accepted a contract to kill him.
    He ordered black coffee from the barman and stepped outside onto the aft deck. The ferry was beyond the outer reaches of the harbor and the evening air was suddenly cold. Gabriel turned up the collar of his coat and wrapped his hands around the cardboard coffee cup for warmth. The eastern stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky, and the sea, turquoise a moment earlier, was the color of India ink. Gabriel thought he could smell the macchia on the wind. Then, a moment later, he heard the voice of the signadora . When she is dead, the old woman was saying. Then you will know the truth.

10
    MARSEILLES
    W hen Gabriel and Keller arrived in Marseilles early the next morning, Moondance , forty-two feet of seagoing smuggling power, was tied up in its usual slip in the Old Port. Its owner, however, was nowhere to be seen. Keller established a static observation post on the north side, Gabriel on the east, outside a pizzeria that inexplicably bore the name of a trendy Manhattan neighborhood. They moved to new positions at the top and bottom of each hour, but by late afternoon there was still no sign of Lacroix. Finally, anxious over