47 Courtauld Gallery

47 Courtauld Gallery

A most unusual request," said Dr. Geoffrey Holland. "Frankly, I don't see how I can possibly accommodate you."

The director of the Courtauld Gallery was seated behind his desk, a forefinger pressed to his thin lips. Gabriel stood before

him like a barrister pleading his case. Ingrid was downstairs roaming the exhibition rooms, a crime waiting to happen.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Dr. Holland."

"Be that as it may, we have strict guidelines about this sort of thing."

"As well you should. But in this case, I think there is a compelling reason to make an exception."

"Your pro bono restoration of the Van Gogh, you mean?"

Gabriel smiled. "I wouldn't dream of resorting to such a cheap tactic."

"Of course you would." Holland's forefinger was now tapping a staccato rhythm on the surface of his desk. "And you're certain

that Professor Blake was here on the day in question?"

"She arrived at four twelve and left shortly before the museum closed. If I had to guess, she spent the entire time in the

café."

"That's hardly unusual. Many of our regular patrons find the café a wonderful place to while away an afternoon."

"But Charlotte Blake was no ordinary patron. She was a world-renowned provenance researcher who was looking for a Picasso

worth more than a hundred million pounds."

"Do you really think the video will help you find it?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Holland considered Gabriel's answer at length. "All right, I'll make an exception. But it's going to cost you."

"How much?"

"My Florigerio needs a good cleaning."

"The Virgin and Child with the infant Saint John? Who's resorting to cheap tactics now, Geoffrey?"

"Do you want to see the video or not?"

"I'd love to."

Holland lifted the receiver of his phone and dialed an internal number. "Hello, Simon. Geoffrey calling. Pull up the video

from four o'clock on the afternoon of December fifteenth. I need to have a look at something straight away."

***

"Four twelve, you say?"

"On the dot."

"Do you mind if I ask how you know that, Mr. Allon?"

"I would, actually."

Simon Eastwood, a former Metropolitan Police detective who now served as the Courtauld's chief of security, rattled the keyboard

of a computer in his office, and a still image of the museum's lobby appeared on the screen.

"Do you see her?"

"Not yet."

Eastwood set the scene in motion with the click of his mouse. When the time stamp in the lower right corner of the screen

read 4:12:38, Gabriel asked the security chief to pause the recording. Then he pointed toward the woman coming through the

doorway, wearing a Burberry overcoat and scarf against the December cold.

"There she is."

Eastwood resumed the playback. As Gabriel predicted, Professor Charlotte Blake headed directly to the Courtauld's café and

placed her order at the crimson counter. The table she selected was in a deserted corner of the room. After shedding her coat,

she pulled a book from her bag and began to read.

It was 4:25 p.m.

"You see," said Geoffrey Holland. "She merely popped into the café for a cup of tea and a scone."

"On the same afternoon that you were meeting with the museum's board of trustees."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Do you remember what time the meeting ended?"

"If memory serves, it dragged on until nearly five."

Gabriel asked Simon Eastwood to advance the recording to 4:55 p.m. and increase the playback speed. Charlotte Blake sat with

the stillness of a figure in a painting while patrons and employees buzzed like insects around her.

"Pause it," said Gabriel when the time stamp reached 5:04:12. Then he pointed to one of the figures in the tableau. "Do you

recognize her?"

"Yes, of course," replied Geoffrey Holland.

It was Lucinda Graves.

Gabriel asked Simon Eastwood to resume the playback at normal speed. Eastwood looked to Geoffrey Holland for approval, and Holland, after a moment's hesitation, nodded his head solemnly. Then they watched in silence as the wife of the soon-to-be prime minister sat down opposite a woman who in a month's time would be dead. By all appearances their conversation was cordial. It concluded at 5:47 p.m. They were the last customers to leave the café.

"May I have a copy of this video?" asked Gabriel.

Eastwood looked at Geoffrey Holland, who delivered his ruling without delay.

"No, Mr. Allon. You may not."

***

"Perhaps it slipped her mind," said Ingrid without conviction.

"It didn't. She invited me to her office to pump me for information and then lied to my face. Quite well, I might add. Lucinda

Graves is the link between Charlotte Blake and Trevor Robinson. Lucinda is the reason that Charlotte was murdered."

They were walking westward along the Strand toward Trafalgar Square. "When you think about it," said Ingrid, "it would explain

a great deal."

"Beginning with the Federov scandal," added Gabriel. "It was manufactured by Lucinda and her friends at Harris Weber in order

to force Hillary Edwards to resign. It was a coup directed against a sitting British prime minister."

"None of which we can prove."

"With one important exception."

"The ten-million-pound payment from Valentin Federov to Lord Radcliff?"

"Exactly."

They rounded a corner into Bedford Street and headed toward Covent Garden. Ingrid asked, "How much does Radcliff know about

the plot?"

"If I had to guess, he knows everything."

"Which means his lordship is a most dangerous man."

"So am I," replied Gabriel.

"What are you planning to do?"

He pulled his phone from his pocket, composed a text message, and tapped send .

The reply was instant.

I'll call you back in five minutes...

***

Christopher's beloved Bentley was wedged into a slender space on the bottom level of a car park in Garrick Street. Gabriel,

certain the vehicle had not survived the ordeal intact, hurried down the internal stairwell with Ingrid at his heels. The

light on the lower landing, functional an hour earlier, was no longer working. Consequently, he never saw the object—a human

fist or perhaps a large-caliber bullet—that slammed into the left side of his skull. He was aware of his legs buckling beneath

him and of his face colliding with concrete. Then there was only darkness, warm and wet, and the maddening electronic ringtone

of his unanswered telephone.