Portrait of a Spy. Daniel Silva
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made a show of deliberation. “I’ll need X-rays to make a definitive attribution.”
“My man is dropping by later this afternoon to take the pictures. But we both know that you don’t need them to make a preliminary attribution. You’re like me, petal. You’ve been around paintings for a hundred thousand years. You know it when you see it.”
Gabriel fished a small magnifying glass from his coat pocket and used it to examine the brushstrokes. Leaning slightly forward, he could feel the familiar shape of a Beretta 9mm pistol digging into the flesh of his left hip. Having worked with British intelligence to sabotage the Iranian nuclear program, he was now permitted to carry a weapon at all times for protection. He had also been granted a British passport, which he was free to use for foreign travel, provided he was not working for his old service. There was no chance of that. The illustrious career of Gabriel Allon was finally over. He was no longer Israel’s avenging angel. He was an art restorer employed by Isherwood Fine Arts, and England was his home.
“You have a hunch,” said Isherwood. “I can see it in those green eyes of yours.”
“I do,” replied Gabriel, still entranced by the brushstrokes, “but I’d like a second opinion first.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Chiara. She was toying with a strand of her unruly hair, a slightly bemused expression on her face. Posed as she was now, she bore a striking resemblance to the woman in the painting. It was hardly surprising, thought Gabriel. The descendant of Jews expelled from Spain in 1492, Chiara had been raised in the ancient ghetto of Venice. It was quite possible some of her ancestors had served as models for masters such as Bellini, Veronese, and Tintoretto.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Chiara joined Gabriel before the canvas and clucked her tongue in disapproval at its deplorable condition. Though she had studied the Roman Empire at university, she had assisted Gabriel on a number of restorations and, in the process, had become a formidable art historian in her own right.
“It’s an excellent example of a Holy Conversation, or Sacra Conversazione, an idyllic scene in which subjects are grouped against an aesthetically pleasing landscape. And as any oaf knows, Palma Vecchio is regarded as the originator of the form.”
“What do you think of the draftsmanship?” Isherwood asked, a lawyer leading a sympathetic witness.
“It’s awfully good for Palma,” Chiara replied. “His palette was unrivaled, but he was never regarded as a particularly skilled draftsman, even by his contemporaries.”
“And the woman who posed as the Madonna?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, which is highly unlikely, her name is Violante. She appears in a number of Palma’s paintings. But there was another famous painter in Venice at the time who was said to be quite fond of her. His name was—”
“Tiziano Vecellio,” Isherwood said, completing the thought for her. “Better known as Titian.”
“Congratulations, Julian,” Gabriel said, smiling. “You just snared a Titian for the paltry sum of twenty thousand pounds. Now you just need to find a restorer capable of knocking it into shape.”
“How much?” Isherwood asked.
Gabriel pulled a frown. “It’s going to take a great deal of work.”
“How much?” Isherwood repeated.
“Two hundred thousand.”
“I could find someone else for half that.”
“That’s true. But we both remember what happened the last time you tried that.”
“How soon can you start?”
“I’ll have to check my calendar before making any commitments.”
“I’ll give you an advance of one hundred thousand.”
“In that case, I can start right away.”
“I’ll send it to Cornwall the day after tomorrow,” Isherwood said. “The question is, when will I have it back?”
Gabriel made no response. He stared at his wristwatch for a moment, as though it were no longer keeping proper time, then tilted his face thoughtfully toward the skylight.
Isherwood placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “It’s not your problem, petal,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Chapter 4
Covent Garden, London
A POLICE CHECKPOINT NEAR LEICESTER SQUARE had brought the traffic on Charing Cross Road to a standstill. Gabriel and Chiara hurried through a fogbank of exhaust fumes and set out along Cranbourn Street. It was lined with pubs and coffee bars catering to the herds of tourists who seemed to wander aimlessly through Soho at all hours, regardless of the season. For now, Gabriel seemed oblivious to them. He was staring at the screen of his mobile phone. The death tolls in Paris and Copenhagen were rising.
“How bad?” asked Chiara.
“Twenty-eight on the Champs-Élysées and another thirty-seven at the Tivoli Gardens.”
“Do they have any idea who’s responsible?” asked Chiara.
“It’s still too early,” Gabriel said, “but the French think it might be al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb.”
“Could they have pulled off a pair of coordinated attacks like this?”
“They have cells scattered across Europe and North America, but the analysts at King Saul Boulevard have always been skeptical of their ability to carry out a Bin Laden–style spectacular.”
King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Those who worked there referred to it as the Office and nothing else. Even retired agents like Gabriel and Chiara never uttered the organization’s real name.
“It doesn’t feel like Bin Laden to me,” Chiara said. “It feels more like—”
“Baghdad,” said Gabriel. “These death tolls are high for open-air attacks. It suggests the bomb maker knew what he was doing. If we’re lucky, he left behind his signature.”
“We?” asked Chiara.
Gabriel wordlessly returned the phone to his coat pocket. They had reached the chaotic traffic circle at the end of Cranbourn Street. There were two Italian restaurants—the Spaghetti House and Bella Italia. He looked at Chiara and asked her to choose.
“I’m not going to start my long weekend in London at Bella Italia,” she said, frowning. “You promised to take me to a proper lunch.”
“In my opinion, one can do far worse in London than Bella Italia.”
“Unless one was born in Venice.”
Gabriel smiled. “We have a reservation at a lovely place called Orso in Wellington Street. It’s very Italian. I thought we could walk through Covent Garden on our way.”
“Do you still feel up to it?”
“We have to eat,” he said, “and the walk will do us both good.”
They hurried across the traffic circle into Garrick Street where two Metropolitan Police officers in lime green coats were questioning the Arab-looking driver of a white panel van. The anxiety of the pedestrians was almost palpable. In some of the faces Gabriel saw genuine fear; in others, a grim resolution to carry on as normal. Chiara held his hand tightly as they strolled past the shop windows. She had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time and was determined not to let the news from Paris and Copenhagen spoil it.
“You were a bit hard on Julian,” she said. “Two hundred thousand is twice your usual fee.”
“It’s a Titian, Chiara. Julian is going to do quite