“How about a nice long walk in Hyde Park? It will do wonders for your hangover.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, rising. “Just in time for my next one.”
12
Claridge’s
The first raindrops fell as they were strolling along Rotten Row. They took shelter in the café on the Serpentine Lido and drank tea as the clouds blackened and the gentle shower turned to a downpour.
“Any other brilliant ideas?” asked Sarah.
“I’m sure there’s a bright interval just around the corner.”
“This is Britain, darling. There are no bright intervals at the moment. Only endless gloom.” She held up her mobile phone. “Have you seen the Telegraph this morning? Your old friend Samantha Cooke got quite the scoop.”
Gabriel had read the story during the train ride from Paris. It stated that the treasurer of the Conservative Party, the wealthy international businessman and investor Lord Michael Radcliff, had personally accepted a heavily laundered million-pound political contribution from a pro-Kremlin Russian oligarch named Valentin Federov. An internal Party memorandum obtained by the Telegraph indicated that Prime Minister Hillary Edwards had been aware of the contribution. The Downing Street press secretary, however, had issued a swift and blistering denial of the allegation, declaring that Lord Radcliff was solely to blame for the egregious lapse in judgment.
“Do you think poor Hillary can survive?” asked Sarah.
“Not in her current condition. She’s too weakened to fight off a challenge.”
“But how could Lord Radcliff be so foolish as to accept a contribution from a Russian oligarch in the middle of the war in Ukraine?”
“It’s not the first time the Tories have accepted money from a dubious foreign source. Or a Russian source, for that matter. Their fundraising apparatus has been a mess for some time.”
“The entire Party is a mess. So is the country, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry, the worst is yet to come.”
“So much for the new you,” said Sarah.
They left the café at half past twelve and headed for Claridge’s. Nicholas Lovegrove, in a dark suit and open-necked dress shirt, occupied a green leather booth in the hotel’s famed restaurant. He was contemplating the label of an excellent bottle of Montrachet, to which he had already done significant damage.
The maître d’ showed Sarah and Gabriel to the table, and Lovegrove rose to greet them. He could not hide his disappointment that he would not be lunching alone with one of the London art world’s most alluring and mysterious women. Still, he was quite obviously intrigued by Gabriel’s presence.
“Allon,” he blared, turning heads at a nearby table. “What an unexpected surprise.”
They all three sat down and the waiter filled their glasses with the Montrachet. Lovegrove ordered another bottle, but Sarah requested a Belvedere Bloody Mary as well.
“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.”
