46 Old Burlington Street

46 Old Burlington Street

By the time they reached Taunton, Gabriel's eyes were heavy with fatigue. Bristol was the most obvious place to spend the

night, but Ingrid had always wanted to visit the ancient Roman city of Bath, and it was only a few miles out of their way.

They walked the honey-colored splendor of the historic center until sunset, then repaired to their adjoining rooms at the

Gainsborough hotel and spa in Beau Street. Ingrid connected her computer to her mobile hot spot, checked the download speed,

and went to work.

This time her target was BVI Bank, a notoriously corrupt financial institution located across the street from the Watering

Hole in Road Town. Owing to the time difference, BVI's employees were still at their desks when Ingrid commenced her attack.

One of them, a vice president called Fellowes, unwittingly granted her access to the bank's most sensitive data, including

an account linked to LMR Overseas, the shell company owned by Lord Michael Radcliff.

"Oh my goodness," said Ingrid.

"What's wrong?" asked Gabriel from the next room.

"Just forty-eight hours after Lord Radcliff resigned as treasurer of the Conservative Party, he received a payment of ten

million pounds."

"From whom?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if you told me that the money came from Winston Churchill himself."

"I'm afraid it's better than that."

"That's not possible."

"You might want to come in here."

Gabriel hoisted himself off the bed and went through the communicating door. Ingrid was seated at the writing desk, her face

lit by the glow of her laptop. With Gabriel looking over her shoulder, she pointed toward the name of the company that had

paid Lord Michael Radcliff ten million pounds.

It was Driftwood Holdings.

"Valentin Federov?" asked Gabriel.

Ingrid smiled. "Do you know what that means?"

"It means that the Conservative Party official who accepted the million-pound contribution that brought down Prime Minister

Hillary Edwards received ten times that amount from the same Russian businessman."

"Does that sound like a coincidence to you?"

"No," replied Gabriel. "It sounds like a conspiracy to remove Hillary Edwards from Ten Downing Street."

"I thought so, too. But why?"

***

Ingrid downloaded Lord Radcliff's account information to her external hard drive, then copied the data onto Gabriel's backup device. They both managed to get several hours of sleep and by eight the following morning were headed east on the M4. As they were approaching Heathrow, Gabriel rang the main number at Lambeth Wealth Management and asked to speak to the firm's chief executive officer, Lucinda Graves. He was transferred to Ms. Graves's assistant, and the assistant questioned him at length as to the nature of his call. At the conclusion of her inquisition, she took down his contact information but held out little hope that Ms. Graves would be getting back to him anytime soon. The Conservative Party leadership election was scheduled to begin in earnest at 2:00 p.m. If all went according to plan, Ms. Graves's husband would soon be prime minister.

Gabriel rang off and looked at Ingrid. "That went about as well as could be expected." But by the time they reached the London

suburb of Chiswick, his phone was ringing.

"You must forgive my assistant," said Lucinda Graves. "As you can probably imagine, I'm suddenly the most popular financier

in London."

"To tell you the truth, I was pleased she seemed not to recognize my name."

Lucinda Graves laughed. "I'm only sorry we didn't have a chance to talk at the Courtauld the other night. My husband is going

to be green with envy."

"Why is that?"

"He was quite disappointed that you declined his invitation to drop by the Home Office. I can't wait to tell him that you

came to see me instead."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Any time before two o'clock would be fine."

"I can be there by eleven."

"It sounds to me as though you're driving."

"The M4."

"Do you know where my office is located?"

"Old Burlington Street in Mayfair."

"Ask a spy a stupid question," she remarked.

"I'm an art restorer now, Ms. Graves."

"There's a Q-Park directly across the street from our office," she said. "My assistant will arrange a space for you."

And with that, the connection died.

"Well," said Ingrid. "That went better than expected."

"Yes," agreed Gabriel. "Imagine that."

***

He dropped Ingrid at a coffee shop in Piccadilly and at 10:55 a.m. guided the Bentley down the Q-Park's narrow ramp. The office

block on the opposite side of Old Burlington Street was six floors in height, pale gray in color, and contemporary in design.

A woman in her late twenties greeted Gabriel in the lobby and escorted him upstairs. Lucinda Graves was on the phone when

they entered her office. She rang off at once and, rising, extended her hand.

"Mr. Allon. So lovely to see you again."

The assistant withdrew, and Lucinda conveyed Gabriel to a seating area where a coffee service rested on a low, sleek table.

It was all very formal and rehearsed. Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling he was being courted.

Lucinda sat down and filled two cups. "Have you seen the lines outside Somerset House? Thanks to you, the Courtauld is now

London's hottest art museum."

"I'd love to take the credit, but the Van Gogh was in remarkably good condition when it came to me."

"Did you really play no role in its recovery?"

"I authenticated it for the Italian Art Squad. But that was the extent of my involvement."

"And now you're investigating the murder of that art historian from Oxford?"

Gabriel managed to conceal his surprise. "How did you know?"

"You're the professional. You tell me."

"Either the British government is monitoring my phone, or Leonard Bradley called you after I left his house. I'm betting it

was Leonard."

She smiled with considerable charm. Absent the security detail and telegenic husband, she was smaller than Gabriel remembered

and altogether ordinary in appearance. Her most appealing asset was her smoky contralto speaking voice. One could easily imagine

Lucinda Graves singing torch songs in a darkened cabaret.

She glanced at the large wall-mounted television. Her husband was addressing a knot of reporters outside the Palace of Westminster.

"Care to make a prediction?"

"I'm afraid I know very little about the inner workings of British politics."

"But that's not true, is it? After all, you lived in this country for many years after that incident in Vienna, and my husband

tells me that you were quite close to Jonathan Lancaster. That was why he was so interested in meeting with you."

"What else has your husband told you?" asked Gabriel.

"That you were the so-called foreign intelligence operative who helped Lancaster when he got into trouble with that Russian

sleeper agent who was working at Party Headquarters. Her name escapes me."

"Madeline Hart."

"The worst British political scandal since the Profumo affair," said Lucinda. "And yet Lancaster managed to survive because of you." Her gaze returned to the television. "Please continue, Mr. Allon."

"The chancellor of the Exchequer will not survive today's balloting."

"Hardly a bold prediction. But who will secure the most votes?"

"Home Secretary Hugh Graves."

"How many will he receive?"

"Not enough to force Foreign Secretary Frasier to drop out of the race."

"It would help to unify the Party if Stephen were to bow out gracefully."

"The only way Frasier will drop out is if your husband allows him to remain at the Foreign Office."

"Never. Hugh intends to make a clean sweep of the Cabinet."

"In that case, he'll have to offer Frasier an exit ramp."

"Such as?"

"A public invitation to stay on as foreign secretary. Frasier, of course, will decline the offer. And tomorrow morning your

husband will enter Number Ten for the first time as prime minister."

"Not bad, Mr. Allon. I think I'll suggest it to Hugh."

"I would appreciate it if you kept my name out of it."

"Don't worry, it will be our little secret."

Gabriel drank some of the coffee. "And what about you?" he asked. "What happens if your husband carries the day?"

"I will have no choice but to step away from Lambeth Wealth Management until Hugh leaves office. I only hope his premiership

is as long as your friend Jonathan Lancaster's. He's still in the Commons, as you know." She paused for a moment, then said,

"His backing would make Hugh unstoppable."

It was an invitation, thinly veiled, for Gabriel to assist in securing Jonathan Lancaster's support for her husband's candidacy. Having no desire to play even a minor role in the election of the next British prime minister, he guided the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Yes," said Lucinda. "As a matter of fact, I did speak to Professor Blake about the Picasso."

"Do you happen to remember when?"

"Is it important?"

"It might be."

Lucinda aimed a remote at the television, and her husband vanished. "Sometime before the holidays, if memory serves. She rang

me here at the office and said she was searching for a Picasso that had been acquired at Christie's by an anonymous shell

company."

"OOC Group, Limited?"

Lucinda nodded. "She asked whether I would be willing to use my contacts in the London financial world to determine who or

what the OOC Group was. I told her that it wouldn't be ethical."

"May I ask why?"

"Because many of my most important clients do business using shell companies. In fact, it's rather hard to find a wealthy

person in London who doesn't."

"So you never met with her?"

"I didn't have the time. December is always one of our busiest months."

"And you never mentioned it to anyone?"

"Truth be told, I did my best to forget that I had ever heard of a company called OOC Group, Limited." Lucinda rose and her

assistant magically appeared at the door. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more help, Mr. Allon. But it was wonderful to

have finally met you. Rest assured, you will have a good friend in Downing Street if Hugh prevails in the leadership election."

"I have no doubt he will," said Gabriel, and started toward the door.

"Have you figured out what it is?" asked Lucinda suddenly.

Gabriel stopped and turned. "I'm sorry?"

"The OOC Group."

"No," he lied. "Not yet."

***

It was 11:27 a.m. when the flashy Bentley driven by the legendary intelligence operative and art restorer Gabriel Allon emerged

from the Q-Park garage in Old Burlington Street in Mayfair. Lucinda Graves knew this because she was standing in the window

of her office and marked the time on her mobile phone. She allowed five minutes to pass before dialing a number stored in

her directory of recent calls. The man at the other end gave her an update on Allon's movements.

"He just picked up a woman in Regent Street. They're currently headed south on Haymarket."

"Going where?"

"I'll get back to you."

Lucinda reluctantly severed the connection. Another ten minutes went by before her phone rang.

"Well?"

"They just walked into the Courtauld Gallery."

"He knows," said Lucinda, and killed the call.