8

Corsica

The average life span of Capra aegagrus hircus, otherwise known as the domestic goat, is fifteen to eighteen years. Therefore, the old goat belonging to Don Casabianca, a notable who owned much of the valley adjacent to the Orsatis’, had most definitely overstayed its earthly welcome. By Keller’s calculation the beast had been consuming valuable oxygen for more than twenty-four years, much of it in the shade of the three ancient olive trees that stood just before the sharp left-hand turn in the dirt-and-gravel track that led to Keller’s villa. A nameless creature with the markings of a palomino and a red beard, it blocked the path whenever it saw fit, denying access to those of whom it did not approve. For Keller, a mainlander with no Corsican blood in his veins, it harbored a particular resentment. Theirs was a long-simmering contest of wills, and more often than not it was the goat that had got the better of it. Keller, on many occasions, had contemplated ending the standoff with a well-placed shot between the goat’s malevolent eyes. But that would have been a grave mistake. The goat enjoyed the protection of Don Casabianca. And if Keller were to harm one hair on its wretched head, there would be a feud. One never knew where a feud might end. It might be settled amicably over a glass of wine, with an apology or restitution of some sort. Or it might go on for months or even years. Consequently, Keller had no choice but to wait patiently for the goat’s passing. He felt like a shiftless son who counted his inheritance while his wealthy father, purely out of spite, clung stubbornly to life.

“I was hoping,” said Keller morosely, “to avoid this scene.”

“He had a scare in October.” Giancomo tapped a finger impatiently on the steering wheel. “Or maybe it was November.”

“Really?”

“Cancer. Or maybe it was an infection of the bowels. Don Casabianca brought in the priest to administer last rites.”

“What happened?”

“A miracle,” said Giancomo, shrugging.

“How unfortunate.” Keller and the goat exchanged a long, tense look. “Try honking the horn.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“It might work this time.”

“Obviously,” said Giancomo, “you’ve been away for a while.”

With a heavy exhalation, Keller climbed out of the car. The goat raised its chin defiantly and stood its ground while Keller, fingertips squeezing the bridge of his nose, pondered his options. His usual tactic was a full-frontal assault of shouted invective and waved arms; and in most cases the old goat would cede its ground and flee into the macchia, the hiding place of scoundrels and bandits. But on that morning, Keller had no stomach for a confrontation. He was travel-weary and a touch seasick from the ferry. Besides, the goat, battered old bastard that he was, had had a rough time of it lately, what with the cancer and the problem with its bowels and the extreme unction performed by the village priest. And since when did the Church countenance the dispensation of holy sacraments to cloven-hoofed bovidae? Only on Corsica, thought Keller.

“Listen,” he said at last, leaning against the hood of the car, “life is too short for this sort of nonsense.” He might have added that life is just as long as it takes to pass by a window, but he didn’t think the goat, who was just a goat after all, would understand the analogy. Instead, Keller spoke of the importance of friends and family. He confessed that he had made many mistakes in life and that now, after many years in the wilderness, he was home again and almost happy. He had but one unresolved relationship, this one, and it was his wish to set it right before it was too late. Time the conqueror could not be kept at bay forever.

At this, the goat tilted its head to one side in the manner of a man whom Keller, many years earlier, had been hired to kill. Then it took a few steps forward and licked the back of Keller’s hand before retreating to the shade of the three ancient olive trees. The sun shone brightly upon Keller’s villa as Giancomo turned into the drive. The air smelled of rosemary and lavender.

Inside, Keller found his possessions—his extensive library, his modest collection of French Impressionist paintings—precisely as he had left them, though coated with a fine powdery layer of dust. It was Saharan dust, he reckoned, carried across the Mediterranean by the last sirocco. Tunisian, Algerian, perhaps Moroccan, just like the man whom Don Orsati had undertaken to find on Keller’s behalf.

Entering the kitchen, he discovered the pantry and refrigerator provisioned with supplies. Somehow, the don had advance warning of Keller’s return. He poured a glass of pale Corsican rosé and carried it upstairs to his bedroom. A loaded Tanfoglio pistol lay on the bedside table, atop a volume of McEwan. Several business suits hung neatly in the closet, the attire of the former director of northern European sales for the Orsati Olive Oil Company, and behind a concealed door was a large selection of clothing for any occasion or assassination. The tattered denim and wool of the wandering bohemian, the silk and gold of a jet-setting one-percenter, the fleece and Gore-Tex of a mountain-climbing outdoorsman. There was even the clerical suit and Roman collar of a Catholic priest, along with a breviary and traveling mass kit. It occurred to Keller that the disguises, like his false French passports, might prove useful in his new line of work, too. He thought of his MI6 mobile phone and laptop computer expiring slowly in a bank vault in Marseilles. Surely Vauxhall Cross was now aware the devices had not moved in more than twelve hours. At some point, Keller would have to tell Graham Seymour he was alive and well. At some point, he thought again.