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4 The Courtauld Gallery

4 The Courtauld Gallery

Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear , oil on canvas, 60 by 49 centimeters, by Vincent van Gogh, stood atop a baize-covered pedestal in the center of the Courtauld's

luminous Great Hall, veiled in white cloth and surrounded by a quartet of security guards. For the moment, at least, the painting

was an afterthought.

"I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you," declared Jeremy Crabbe, the tweedy chairman of Bonhams' Old Master department.

"I rather doubt that," replied Gabriel.

"Do you remember that filthy wreck of a painting that you and Julian pinched from me during that morning sale about a hundred

years ago?"

"Lot Forty-Three. Daniel in the Lions' Den ."

"Yes, that's the one. Eighty-six by one hundred and twenty-four inches, if memory serves."

"It doesn't," said Gabriel. "The canvas was a hundred and twenty-eight inches wide."

Jeremy Crabbe had been under the impression that it was the work of the Flemish painter Erasmus Quellinus, but any fool could see the brushwork belonged to none other than Peter Paul Rubens. Gabriel had cleaned it, and Julian had made a killing.

"I suppose he was in on your little secret, too," said Jeremy.

"Julian? He hadn't a clue."

Jeremy made to reply, but Gabriel abruptly turned away and accepted the outstretched paw of Niles Dunham, a curator from the

National Gallery who was known for his usually infallible eye.

"Well played, my good fellow," he murmured. "Well played, indeed."

"Thank you, Niles."

"What are you working on?"

Gabriel answered.

"Il Pordenone?" Niles made a distasteful face. "He's beneath you."

"So I've been told."

"I might have something a bit more interesting, if you can find the time."

"You can't afford me, Niles."

"And if I were to double our usual fee? How do I contact you?"

Gabriel pointed out Sarah Bancroft.

"Is she a spy, too?" asked Niles.

"Sarah? Don't be ridiculous."

Niles cast a dubious eye toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable Old Master dealer from Bury Street. "Oliver

says that husband of hers used to be a contract killer."

"Oliver says a lot of things."

"Who's that stunningly beautiful creature standing next to him?"

"My wife."

"Well played," said Niles enviously. "Well played, indeed."

The next hand Gabriel grasped was attached to Nicholas Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. "The penny just dropped,"

he breathed.

"Did it?"

"That special winter auction at Christie's a few years back. There was something funny going on in the saleroom that night."

"There usually is, Nicky."

Lovegrove didn't disagree. "A client of mine is looking to unload his Gentileschi," he said, changing the subject. "But it

needs a bit of retouching and a new coat of varnish. Is there any chance you might be willing to take it on?"

"That depends on whether your client has any money."

"Not at the moment. Messy divorce. But I think I can convince him to give you a piece of the final sale price."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Two percent."

"Surely you jest."

"All right, five. But it's my final offer."

"Make it ten, and you've got a deal."

"Highway robbery."

"You would know, Nicky."

Smiling, Lovegrove beckoned a tall woman with the flawless features of a fashion model. "This is my dear friend Olivia Watson,"

he explained to Gabriel. "Olivia runs a wildly successful contemporary art gallery in King Street."

"You don't say."

"You've met?"

"I've never had the pleasure." Which wasn't the case. Olivia had helped Gabriel destroy the external terrorism network of

the Islamic State. Her gallery was payment for services rendered.

"We've just taken on an extraordinary young Spanish painter," she informed him.

"Really? What's his name?"

" Her ," said Olivia with a knowing smile. "The opening is in six weeks. I would be honored if you would attend."

"Unlikely," replied Gabriel. Then he pointed out the man who had just entered the room, trailed by a security detail. "But

perhaps he'll agree to come in my stead."

It was Hugh Graves, the British home secretary and, if London's chattering classes were to be believed, the next occupant

of 10 Downing Street. He was accompanied by his wife, Lucinda, the chief executive officer of Lambeth Wealth Management. At

last check the couple was worth in excess of one hundred million pounds, all of it Lucinda's. Her husband had never worked

a day in the private sector, having launched his political career not long after leaving Cambridge. His ministerial salary

would scarcely cover the cost of cleaning the windows at the Graveses' mansions in Holland Park and Surrey.

For the moment, at least, the arrival of the home secretary lessened the attention on Gabriel, a welcome development. "What

brings the future PM to our little soiree?" he asked.

"Lucinda is on the Courtauld's board of trustees," said Lovegrove. "She's also one of the museum's biggest benefactors. In

fact, I believe her firm underwrote tonight's ceremony."

"How much does it cost to remove a sheet from a painting?"

"You neglected to mention the champagne and canapés."

Hugh Graves was suddenly on the move. "Oh no," said Olivia through a frozen smile. "I have a terrible feeling he's headed

straight toward us."

"Toward you, I imagine," said Gabriel.

"My money's on you."

"Mine, too," added Lovegrove.

The home secretary's advance was slowed by expressions of support by several well-heeled patrons. Finally, he alighted before Gabriel and thrust out his hand like a bayonet.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Allon. As you might imagine, I've heard a great deal about your exploits. How long

are you planning to stay in London?"

"Not long, I'm afraid."

"Is there any chance you might have a few minutes to drop by the Home Office? I'd love to hear your thoughts on recent developments

in the Middle East."

"Since when are developments in the Middle East of interest to the Home Office?"

"It never hurts to broaden one's horizons, does it?"

"Especially when one is likely to be the next prime minister."

Graves hoisted a practiced smile. He was all of forty-eight, with the camera-ready good looks of a television news presenter.

"We have a prime minister, Mr. Allon."

But not for long. At least that was the Whitehall scuttlebutt. London's political journalists were in agreement that Hillary

Edwards, Britain's historically unpopular prime minister, would be lucky to survive the winter. And when the time came for

her to go, it was widely assumed that ambitious Hugh Graves would be the one to show her the door.

"How about tomorrow afternoon?" he persisted. "Barring a crisis of some sort, I'm free for lunch."

"I'm retired now, Secretary Graves. I suggest you speak to the Israeli ambassador instead."

"He's a rather unpleasant fellow, if you must know."

"I'm afraid that's part of his job description."

The director of the Courtauld had made his way to a lectern next to the painting. Hugh Graves rejoined his wife, and Gabriel, after accepting a kiss from Olivia Watson, went discreetly to the side of Julian Isherwood. He was staring at his shoes.

"It seems the cat is finally out of the bag." Looking up, he fixed Gabriel with a stare of mock reproach. "And to think you

deceived me all those years."

"Can you ever forgive me?"

"I'd rather tell the world that I was in on the joke all along."

"It might be bad for your reputation, Julian."

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me, my boy. And Sarah, of course. I don't know what I would do without her."

The director tapped the microphone, gaveling the proceedings to order.

"Where was it?" asked Julian.

"The Van Gogh? A villa on the Amalfi Coast."

"Who owned the villa?"

"Long story."

"Condition?"

"Remarkably good. I painted a copy while I had it in my studio. The esteemed director of the Courtauld Gallery, a Van Gogh

expert himself, couldn't tell the difference."

"Naughty boy," said Julian. "Naughty, naughty boy."

***

The director's remarks were mercifully brief. A few words about the devastating impact of art crime, fewer still when introducing

Gabriel. He declined an invitation to address the gathering but agreed to help remove the white shroud. He was assisted by

Lucinda Graves.

Two curators hung the painting in its assigned place, and the waiters appeared with the hors d'oeuvres and the Bollinger. Gabriel and Chiara each drank only a single glass; they had a nine o'clock dinner reservation at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. At half past eight they were rolling along Piccadilly in the Jaguar limousine.

"Was it my imagination," said Chiara, "or did you enjoy that?"

"Almost as much as my most recent visit to Russia."

Chiara gazed out her window at the brightly lit storefronts. "And the phone call you received as we were walking in the door?"

"A detective from the Devon and Cornwall Police."

"What have you done now?" she asked with a sigh.

"Nothing. He'd like my help with a murder investigation."

"Not that Oxford professor who was found dead out near Land's End?"

"Yes."

"But why you, of all people?"

"He's an old friend of mine, the detective." Gabriel smiled. "Yours, too."

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