“Much,” he replied with a smile.

He adjourned to the foyer for a glass of champagne during the interval and returned to his seat for a memorable performance of Beethoven’s stirring Seventh Symphony. By the time Sir Simon stepped from his podium, it was a few minutes after ten o’clock. Outside, there were no taxis to be had, so Gabriel set off for the Mandarin Oriental on foot. As he was crossing the Ludwigsbrücke, a Mercedes sedan drew alongside him and the rear window descended.

“You’d better get in, Herr Klemp. Otherwise, you’ll catch your death.”

Gabriel opened the door and slid into the back seat. As the car rolled forward, Anna threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his cheek.

“I thought we were meeting at your hotel,” he said.

“I got tied up backstage.”

“By whom?”

Anna laughed quietly. “I miss that sense of humor of yours.”

“But not the smell of my solvents.”

She made a face. “They were atrocious.”

“So was the sound of your endless practicing.”

“Did it really bother you?”

“Never, Anna.”

Smiling, she gazed out her window at the snow-covered streets of Munich’s Old Town. “It wouldn’t have been so terrible, you know.”

“Being married to you?”

She nodded slowly.

“It was too soon, Anna. I wasn’t ready.”

She leaned her head against Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’d watch your step, if I were you, Herr Klemp. My suite is full of vases. And this time I won’t miss.”

16

Altstadt

And what, pray tell, is the young man’s name?”

“Gennaro.”

Anna placed a finger thoughtfully to the end of her slender nose. “I could be mistaken, but it’s possible that I had an affair with a Gennaro once myself.”

“Given your track record,” replied Gabriel, “I’d say the chances are rather good.”

They were seated at opposite ends of the couch in the sitting room of Anna’s luxurious suite, separated by a buffer zone of rich black satin. Her Guarneri violin, enclosed in its protective case, was propped on an opposing Eames chair next to her Stradivarius. A wall-mounted television flickered silently with the latest news from London. Lord Michael Radcliff, the Conservative Party treasurer who had accepted a tainted million-pound contribution from a Russian businessman, had bowed to pressure and resigned. Prime Minister Hillary Edwards, her support within the Party crumbling, was expected to announce her own resignation within days.

“A friend of yours?” asked Anna.

“Hillary Edwards? We’ve never met. But I was quite close to her predecessor, Jonathan Lancaster.”

“Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“I’ve never met the president of Russia.”

“Consider yourself fortunate.” Anna switched off the television and refilled their glasses with wine. They were drinking Grand Cru white burgundy by Joseph Drouhin. “I think we should have another bottle, don’t you?”

“It was eight hundred and forty euros.”

“It’s only money, Gabriel.”

“Says the woman who has an endless supply of it.”

“You’re the one who lives in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal.”

“I happen to own a single floor of the palazzo.”

“Poor you.” Anna rang room service, then carried her glass of wine to the window. The view was westward across the Old Town toward the spire of St. Peter’s Church. “Come here often?” she asked.

“To the Mandarin Oriental?”

“No,” said Anna. “To Munich.”

“I avoid it whenever possible, if you must know.”

“Even now?” Anna smiled sadly. “It took me an age to get the story out of you.”

“Actually, it took you about a day and a half.”

“You wanted to tell me about your past. My God, you were a wreck back then.”

“So were you, as I recall.”

“Still am. You, on the other hand, seem deliriously happy.” She drew the curtains. “You mentioned something about needing a favor. But I have a terrible feeling it was a rather transparent ruse on your part to get me into bed. If that was indeed the case, your plan worked to perfection.”

“You promised to behave yourself.”

“I said no such thing.” Anna returned to the couch. “All right, you have my complete and undivided attention. What do you want from me this time?”

“I would like you to dispose of six of the paintings that you inherited from your father.”

“What a wonderful idea!” Anna exclaimed. “To tell you the truth, I’ve wanted to sell those wretched paintings for years. But tell me, which six did you have in mind?”

“The Modigliani, the Van Gogh, the Renoir, the Cézanne, and the Monet.”

“That’s only five. Furthermore, I own no works by any of the artists you mentioned.” She regarded him over her wineglass. “But then you already knew that. After all, you were with me the morning I found the last sixteen paintings from my father’s collection of looted Impressionist and modern art.”