She still hadn’t got over the death of her beloved mother. The cottage had been a refuge, at least in her mind. No staff, just a peasant woman who arrived on a donkey three times a week with fresh bread and milk and firewood. Time to reflect on the meaning of life and its purpose and to paint, of course.
She opened the cold box. Amongst the other things in there was a bottle of Chablis, ice-cold. She uncorked it and poured a glass.
“Strange,” she said softly, “but everyone seems to die on me. First Maurice in that stupid Gulf War, then the general, and now Maman. I wonder what I’ve done?”
She was not aware of any sound of approach, only the voice saying, “Excellent, I particularly admire that blue color wash and the way you soak it in to the shoreline.”
She glanced up and found him standing there. Probably about her own age, with blond hair and a strong, tanned face. He wore jeans and an old reefer jacket. His English had a slight accent that she couldn’t place.
She said, “I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but this is a private beach.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that, just as I’m aware that you are the Comtesse de Brissac.”
She knew then, of course, that this was no casual interloper, that there was purpose here. “Who are you?”
“What’s in a name.” He smiled. “Let’s say David Braun.” He took the bottle of Chablis from the cold box and examined the label. “Interesting.” He poured a glass and sampled it. “Not bad, not bad at all.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Strange, but she felt no sense of fear. This was no casual encounter, no threat of rape.
He whistled and called out, not in English this time, and a young man came down the path to join him and she recognized the language at once.
“Hebrew,” she said. “You spoke in Hebrew. I’ve been to Israel. I recognize the language.”
“Good.” He finished his wine. “Now, then,” he said in English, “pack up the lady’s things and follow us up to the cottage.”
“What’s this all about?” she asked calmly.
“All in good time, Comtesse.” He gestured with one hand. “After you, if you please.”
A Ford station wagon was parked outside the cottage. The other young man put her painting things in the rear and she saw that it was also filled with her suitcases.
“This is Moshe, by the way,” David Braun told her. “He started packing up the moment you left. The cupboard, as they say, is bare. I know you’ve only been using taxis while you’ve been here, so the old woman, when she turns up on her donkey, will think you’ve just up and left.”
“To where?”
He opened the rear door. “Your carriage awaits, and an interesting plane ride. What could be better?”
She hesitated, then did as she was told, and he got in beside her. As Moshe drove away, she said, “And the final destination?”
“Ah, now you’re expecting too much. Just enjoy the ride. The view over there, for example.”
She turned automatically, was aware of a prick in her bare right arm, turned and saw a plastic medical hypo in his hand.
“Damn you!” she said, “What was it?”
“Does it matter?” He tossed the hypo out of the open window. “You’ll sleep now—a nice long sleep. You’ll actually feel better when you waken.”
She tried to reply, but her eyes felt heavy, and suddenly he just wasn’t there anymore and she plunged into darkness.
In Sicily, the Peugeot was really into the high country, Monte Cammarata rising six thousand feet to one side.
“That looks like rough country,” Riley said.
Luigi nodded. “Salvatore Guiliano made his home up there for years. The army and the police couldn’t catch him. A great man, a true Sicilian.”
“A great bandit, he means,” Hannah said to Riley, “who paid the rent for some poor old woman now and then and liked to see himself as Robin Hood.”
“God, but you take a hard line, woman,” Dillon said. “Guiliano wasn’t such a bad ould stick.”
“Just the kind of man you would approve of.”