3 Berkeley Square

3 Berkeley Square

"Where do you suppose she got the story?"

"It certainly wasn't me," said Gabriel. "I never speak to reporters."

"Unless it suits your purposes, of course." Chiara gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "It's all right, darling. You're entitled

to a little recognition after toiling in anonymity all these years."

Gabriel's enormous body of work included paintings by Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, Caravaggio, Canaletto, Rembrandt,

Rubens, and Anthony van Dyck—all while serving as an undercover operative of Israel's vaunted secret intelligence service.

Isherwood Fine Arts had been complicit in his decades-long deception. Now, having officially retired from the intelligence

trade, he was the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company, the most prominent such enterprise

in Venice. Chiara was the firm's general manager. Which meant that, for all intents and purposes, Gabriel worked for his wife.

They were walking in Berkeley Square. Gabriel wore a mid-length overcoat atop his zippered cashmere sweater and flannel trousers. His Beretta 92FS, which he had carried into the United Kingdom with the approval of his friends in the British security and intelligence services, pressed reassuringly against the base of his spine. Chiara, in stretch trousers and a quilted coat, was unarmed.

She plucked a phone from her handbag. Like Gabriel's, it was an Israeli-made Solaris model, reputedly the world's most secure.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"What do you suppose she's waiting for?"

"I imagine she's hunched over her computer trying desperately to put you into words." Chiara gave him a sidelong look. "An

unenviable task."

"How hard can it be?"

"You'd be surprised."

"May I offer a more plausible explanation for the delay?"

"By all means."

"Amelia March, being an ambitious and enterprising reporter, is at this moment fleshing out her exclusive story by gathering

additional background material on her subject."

"A career retrospective?"

Gabriel nodded.

"What would be wrong with that?"

"I suppose that depends on which side of my career she chooses to explore."

The basic contours of Gabriel's professional and personal biography had already managed to find their way into the public domain—that he had been born on a kibbutz in the Jezreel Valley, that his mother had been one of early Israel's most prominent painters, that he had studied briefly at the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem before joining Israeli intelligence. Less well known was that he had abruptly abandoned his service after a bomb exploded beneath his car in Vienna, killing his young son and leaving his first wife with catastrophic burns and acute post-traumatic stress disorder. He had placed her in a private psychiatric hospital in Surrey and locked himself away in a cottage in remotest Cornwall. And there he would have remained, broken and grieving, had he not accepted a commission in Venice, where he fell in love with the beautiful, opinionated daughter of the city's chief rabbi, not knowing that she was an operative of the very service he had forsaken. A twisted tale, surely, but hardly beyond the reach of a writer like Amelia March. She always struck Gabriel as the sort of reporter who had a novel hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk, something sparkling and witty and full of art world intrigue.

Chiara was frowning at her phone.

"Is it that bad?" asked Gabriel.

"It's only my mother."

"What's the problem?"

"She's concerned that Irene is developing an unhealthy obsession with global warming."

"Your mother only noticed this now?"

Their daughter, at the tender age of eight, was a fully fledged climate radical. She had taken part in her first demonstration

earlier that winter, in the Piazza San Marco. Gabriel feared the child was now on a slippery slope to militancy and would

soon be adhering herself to irreplaceable works of art or splashing them with green paint. Her twin brother, Raphael, was

interested only in mathematics, for which he possessed an unusual aptitude. It was Irene's ambition that he use his gifts

to save the planet from disaster. Gabriel, however, had not given up hope that the boy might take up a paintbrush instead.

"I suppose your mother thinks I'm to blame for our daughter's climate obsession."

"Evidently it's all my fault."

"A wise woman, your mother."

"Usually," remarked Chiara.

"Can she keep Irene out of jail while we're away, or should we skip the unveiling and go home tonight?"

"Actually, she thinks we should stay in London for another day or two and enjoy ourselves."

"A fine idea."

"But quite impossible," said Chiara. "You have an altarpiece to finish."

It was Il Pordenone's rather pedestrian depiction of the annunciation, which he had painted for the church of Santa Maria

degli Angeli in Murano. Several other works in the church, all of lesser merit, were also in need of cleaning. The project

was their first since assuming control of the Tiepolo Restoration Company, and already they were running several weeks behind

schedule. It was essential the restoration of the church be completed on time, with no cost overruns. Still, another forty-eight

hours in London might prove advantageous, as it would give Gabriel a chance to drum up a few lucrative private commissions,

the kind that supported their comfortable lifestyle in Venice. Their enormous piano nobile della loggia overlooking the Grand Canal had diminished the small fortune he had accumulated during a lifetime of restoration work. And

then, of course, there was his Bavaria C42 sailboat. The Allon family finances were sorely in need of replenishment.

He made this point to his wife, judiciously, as they turned into Mount Street.

"I'm sure you'll have no shortage of work after Amelia's article appears," she replied.

"Unless her article is less than flattering. Then I'll be forced to sell knockoff Canalettos to the tourists on the Riva degli Schiavoni to help make ends meet."

"Why would Amelia March write a hit piece about you, of all people?"

"Perhaps she doesn't like me."

"That's not possible. Everyone loves you, Gabriel."

"Not everyone," he replied.

"Name one person who doesn't adore you."

"The barman at Cupido."

It was a café and pizzeria located on the Fondamente Nove in Cannaregio. Gabriel stopped there most mornings before boarding

the Number 4.1 vaporetto bound for Murano. And the barman, without fail, slid his cappuccino onto the glass countertop with

a sneer of polite disdain.

"Not Gennaro?" asked Chiara.

"Is that his name?"

"He's quite lovely. He always adds little hearts to my foam."

"I wonder why."

Chiara accepted the compliment with a demure smile. It had been twenty years since their first encounter, and yet Gabriel

remained hopelessly in the thrall of his wife's astonishing beauty—her sculptural nose and jawline, her riotous dark hair

with its highlights of auburn and chestnut, the caramel-colored eyes that he had never succeeded in rendering accurately on

canvas. Her body was his favorite subject matter, and his sketchbook was filled with nudes, many executed without the consent

of his slumbering model. He hoped to explore the material further before tonight's gathering at the Courtauld. Chiara was

amenable to the idea but had insisted on a long walk first, followed by a proper lunch.

She slowed to a stop outside an Oscar de la Renta boutique. "I think I'll let you buy me that delicious little pantsuit."

"What's wrong with the one you packed?"

"The Armani?" She shrugged. "I'm in the mood for something new. After all, I have a feeling my husband is going to be the

center of attention tonight, and I want to make a good impression."

"You could wear a burlap sack, and you'll still be the most beautiful woman in the room."

Gabriel followed her into the boutique, and fifteen minutes later, bags in hand, they went out again. Chiara held his arm

as they rounded the gentle curve of Carlos Place.

"Do you remember the last time we went for a walk in London?" she asked suddenly. "It was the day you spotted that suicide

bomber headed for Covent Garden."

"Let's hope Amelia doesn't somehow find out about my role in that one."

"Or the incident at Downing Street," said Chiara.

"What about that business outside Westminster Abbey?"

"The ambassador's daughter? Your name got into the newspapers, as I recall. Your picture, too."

Gabriel sighed. "Maybe you should check the ARTnews website again."

"You do it. I can't bear to look."

Gabriel drew his phone from his coat pocket.

"Well?" asked Chiara after a moment.

"It seems my fears about Amelia March being an ambitious and enterprising reporter were well founded."

"What did she discover?"

"That I am regarded as one of the two or three best art restorers in the world."

"Who else does she mention?"

"Dianne Modestini and David Bull."

"Rarefied company."

"Yes," agreed Gabriel, and slipped the phone into his pocket. "I guess she likes me, after all."

"Of course she does, darling." Chiara smiled. "Who doesn't?"

***

They had lunch at Socca, a pricey bistro in South Audley Street, and walked back to the Dorchester through a sudden burst

of brilliant winter sunlight. Upstairs in their suite, their lovemaking was unhurried, excruciatingly so. Exhausted, Gabriel

toppled into a dreamless sleep and woke to find Chiara standing at the foot of the bed in her new suit, a strand of pearls

around her neck.

"You'd better hurry," she said. "The car will be here in a few minutes."

He swung his feet to the floor and went into the bathroom to shower. His labors before the mirror were perfunctory. No miracle

creams or ointments, just a subtle rearrangement of his hair, which was longer than he had worn it in many years. Afterward

he dressed in a Brioni single-breasted suit and a regimental necktie. His accessories were limited to a wedding band, a timepiece

by Patek Philippe, and a pistol by Fabbrica d'Armi Pietro Beretta.

Chiara joined him before the full-length mirror. In her stiletto-heeled pumps she hovered over him.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I think your jacket must be missing its top button."

"That's the way it's supposed to fit, darling."

"In that case, you should probably wear a nice rollneck sweater underneath it. It's going to be quite chilly later."

Downstairs, the car was waiting, a Jaguar saloon model, courtesy of the Courtauld Gallery. It was located in the Somerset House complex on the Strand, adjacent to King's College. Amelia March, looking pleased with herself, stood outside the entrance along with several other reporters who covered the art world. Gabriel ignored their questions, in part because he was distracted by the sudden vibration of his mobile phone. He waited until he was inside the lobby before answering. He recognized the name of the caller, but the voice that greeted him seemed to have deepened an octave since he had heard it last.

"No," said Gabriel. "It's no trouble at all.... The quay in Port Navas? I'll be there tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock

at the latest."