Gabriel wiped his forefinger on the front of his jeans and turned to face Keller. The Englishman was ten years younger than Gabriel, four inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier, especially through the shoulders and arms, where he carried a lethal quantity of finely sculpted power and mass. His short hair was bleached blond from the sea; his skin was very dark from the sun. He had bright blue eyes, square cheekbones, and a thick chin with a chisel notch in the center of it. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in a mocking smile. Keller was a man without allegiance, without fear, and without morals, except when it came to matters of friendship and love. He had lived life on his own terms, and somehow he had won.

“I thought you were supposed to be in Rome,” he said.

“I was,” answered Gabriel. “But Graham Seymour dropped into town. He had something he wanted to show me.”

“What was it?”

“A photograph of a man walking through Heathrow Airport.”

Keller’s half-smile evaporated, his blue eyes narrowed. “How much does he know?”

“Everything, Christopher.”

“Am I in danger?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you agree to do a job for him.”

“What does he want?”

Gabriel smiled. “What you do best.”

Outside, the sun still held dominion over Keller’s terrace. They sat in a pair of comfortable garden chairs, a small wrought-iron table between them. On it lay Graham Seymour’s thick file on the professional exploits of one Eamon Quinn. Keller had yet to open it or even look at it. He was listening spellbound to Gabriel’s account of Quinn’s role in the murder of the princess.

When Gabriel finished, Keller held up the photograph of his recent passage through Heathrow Airport. “You gave me your word,” he said. “You swore that you would never tell Graham that we were working together.”

“I didn’t have to tell him. He already knew.”

“How?”

Gabriel explained.

“Devious bastard,” muttered Keller.

“He’s British,” said Gabriel. “It comes naturally.”

Keller looked at Gabriel carefully for a moment. “It’s funny,” he said, “but you don’t seem terribly upset about the situation.”

“It does present you with an interesting opportunity, Christopher.”

Beyond the rim of the valley a church bell tolled midday. Keller placed the photograph atop the file and lit a cigarette.

“Must you?” asked Gabriel, waving away the smoke.

“What choice do I have?”

“You can stop smoking and add several years to your life.”

“About Graham,” said Keller, exasperated.

“I suppose you can stay here in Corsica and hope he doesn’t decide to tell the French about you.”

“Or?”

“You can help me find Eamon Quinn.”

“And then?”

“You can go home again, Christopher.”

Keller raised his hand to the valley and said, “This is my home.”

“It isn’t real, Christopher. It’s a fantasy. It’s make-believe.”

“So are you.”