At five thirty they returned to the museum to find Cipriani locking the front door and agreed to follow him home.
His cottage was less than a mile away, sitting behind an olive orchard. Signora Cipriani, portly like her husband and with flashing brown eyes, greeted them with smiles and double cheek kisses as they walked up. She exchanged some rapid-fire Italian with Umberto, who ushered them onto the porch and toward a cluster of chairs. A curtain of white clematis hung from the eaves, creating a cozy alcove.
“You’ll excuse us for a moment,” Umberto said. “My wife needs me in the kitchen for a moment.”
Sam and Remi sat down and a few minutes later Umberto and his wife, whom he introduced as Teresa, reappeared with a tray and glasses. “You enjoy limoncello, I hope.”
“We do,” Sam said.
Limoncello was essentially lightly sugared lemonade cut by a healthy dose of vodka. “Cento anni di salute e felicità,” Umberto said, raising his glass. After they’d all sipped, he asked, “You know the toast—Cento anni di salute e felicità?”
Remi thought for a moment and said, “A hundred years of health and happiness?”
“Bravo! Drink up. We will eat shortly.”
After supper they returned to the porch and sat in the dusk watching fireflies winking in the trees and sipping espresso. Inside they could hear dishes clinking as Teresa cleaned up. She’d adamantly refused Sam and Remi’s offer to help, ushering them outside with flaps of her apron.
“Umberto, how l
ong have you lived here?” Sam asked.
“All my life, and my family, going back . . . three hundred years? Yes, that’s right. When Mussolini came to power my father and my uncles joined the partisans and lived in these hills for years. When the British finally landed here in 1944—”
“Operation Brassard,” Sam said.
“Yes, that’s right. Very good. When the British came my father fought alongside the Royal Navy Commandos. He even received a decoration for it. I was still in my mother’s belly when the war ended.”
“He survived the war?” Remi asked.
“Yes, but none of my uncles did. They were captured and executed by a Nazi death squad Hitler sent to quash the partisans.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cipriani spread his hands and shrugged: What can you do.
Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at Remi, who nodded. They’d already discussed this. “Umberto, does this name look familiar to you?”
Umberto took the phone, studied the screen a moment, then handed it back. “Oh, yes, of course. Carmine Bianco. First, let me ask: Where did you get this name?”
“There was a car following us today. It’s registered to him.”
“Bad business. Bianco is a police officer, but corrupt. He is in the pocket of the Unione Corse—the Corsican Mafia. Why would they be interested in you, I wonder?”
“We don’t think it’s them,” Remi said. “We suspect they’re doing a favor for someone else.”
“Ah. Not that it makes a difference. Bianco is an animal. Was it just him in the car?”
Sam shook his head. “Another one: dark complected, handlebar mustache.”
“He doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Why don’t the police do something about this Bianco?” Remi asked. “You said he’s corrupt. Can’t they arrest him?”
“On the mainland, perhaps, but out here, and on Sardinia and Corsica things are not quite that simple. I think I know the answer to this, but have to ask: I don’t suppose I could convince you to leave? Tonight, before Bianco does something?”
Sam and Remi looked at one another and instinctively knew each other’s thoughts. Sam spoke for them: “Thanks, but we’ve got to see this through.”
Umberto nodded somberly. “I thought as much.”