“That’s the spirit,” said Lovegrove.

“Dinner with Oliver and Julian last night,” she explained.

“I heard.” Lovegrove turned to Gabriel and regarded him warily for a moment. “Shall we discuss the newest exhibit at the Tate Modern, or am I allowed to interrogate you at length about your rather remarkable career?”

“I’m more interested in yours, Nicky.”

“I’m afraid the dealings of an art adviser are more classified than those of a professional spy. My clients demand absolute discretion, and I’ve never betrayed one.”

But Nicholas Lovegrove, one of the art world’s most sought-after consultants, made demands of his clients as well, namely, a percentage of all transactions, be they sales or acquisitions. In return, he vouched for the authenticity of the paintings in question and, more often than not, their prospects for a profitable resale. He also served as a cutout between seller and buyer, ensuring that neither knew the other’s identity. And if he happened to be representing both parties to a sale, Lovegrove could expect to double his commission. It was not uncommon for him to earn more than a million dollars on a single deal—or eight figures if the piece was something stratospheric. It was, as the old jazz standard went, nice work if you could get it.

“I have no interest in any of your clients,” said Gabriel. “I’d just like to ask your opinion of a dealer.”

“I’ve never met an honest one in my life.” Lovegrove smiled at Sarah. “Present company excluded, of course. But what’s this scoundrel’s name?”

“Edmond Ricard. His gallery is inside the Geneva—”

“I know where it is, Allon.”

“You’ve been, I take it?”

Lovegrove was slow in offering a response. “What is the nature of this inquiry of yours?”

“That’s a rather difficult question to answer, actually.”

“Try.”

“It involves a Picasso.”

“A fine start. Please continue.”

“A Picasso that belonged to a French businessman who was murdered in the Holocaust.”

“A restitution case?”

“More or less.”

“Which means there’s more to the story.”

Gabriel sighed. The negotiations had begun. “Name your price, Nicky.”

“The Gentileschi.”

“I’ll do it for five percent of the hammer price.”

“Three percent.”

“Highway robbery.”

“You would know.”

“All right, Nicky, I will clean your Gentileschi for a lousy three percent of the final sale price, though I will insist on reviewing all the paperwork to make certain you haven’t fleeced me.”

“My good fellow,” muttered Lovegrove.

“In exchange, you will tell me everything you know about Galerie Edmond Ricard.”

“Without divulging the identities of any of my clients.”

“So stipulated.”

“Or any paintings they may have purchased or sold through said gallery.”

“Agreed.”

“In that case,” said Lovegrove, smiling broadly, “we have a deal.”

The waiter placed the Bloody Mary in front of Sarah. She raised it a fraction of an inch in Gabriel’s direction. “How shrewd of you,” she said, and drank.

*  *  *

The client had a posh double-barreled name that did not accurately reflect the circumstances of his birth. His personal fortune, however, was princely and growing by the day. It was his wish to acquire an art collection that would confer instant sophistication and thus grant him entrée into the upper levels of British and Continental society. With the esteemed Nicholas Lovegrove looking over his shoulder, he filled his stately Belgravia mansion with a dazzling assortment of postwar and contemporary paintings—postwar and contemporary being Lovegrove’s strong suit. The price tag for the yearlong shopping spree was a mere one hundred million pounds, ten million of which flowed directly into Lovegrove’s pocket.

“What sort of work does your client do?”

“I refer you to the terms of our arrangement, Allon.”

“Come on, Nicky. Show a little leg.”

“Suffice to say, he knows little about the paintings hanging on his walls and even less about the wicked ways of the art world. I chose the pieces for the collection and handled the negotiations. All the client did was write the checks.”

Which was why it came as something of a surprise when the client, quite out of the blue, asked Lovegrove to accompany him to Geneva to inspect a painting being offered for sale by Galerie Ricard.

“The artist?” asked Gabriel.

“Let’s say for argument’s sake that it was Rothko. And let us also say that after careful inspection of the canvas and the provenance I had no qualms about its authenticity.”

“Was Galerie Ricard the owner of this work?”

“Heavens no. Ricard calls himself a dealer, but in point of fact he’s a glorified broker. A middleman, pure and simple. The owner of record was a company called OOC Group, Limited.”

“OOC? You’re sure?”

Lovegrove nodded. “Evidently, OOC stands for Oil on Canvas. I assumed it was a shell company of some sort. They’re all the rage, you know.”

“What was the asking price?”

“The equivalent of seventy-five million dollars.”