Gabriel sighed. “Maybe you should check the ARTnews website again.”

“You do it. I can’t bear to look.”

Gabriel drew his phone from his coat pocket.

“Well?” asked Chiara after a moment.

“It seems my fears about Amelia March being an ambitious and enterprising reporter were well founded.”

“What did she discover?”

“That I am regarded as one of the two or three best art restorers in the world.”

“Who else does she mention?”

“Dianne Modestini and David Bull.”

“Rarefied company.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel, and slipped the phone into his pocket. “I guess she likes me, after all.”

“Of course she does, darling.” Chiara smiled. “Who doesn’t?”

*  *  *

They had lunch at Socca, a pricey bistro in South Audley Street, and walked back to the Dorchester through a sudden burst of brilliant winter sunlight. Upstairs in their suite, their lovemaking was unhurried, excruciatingly so. Exhausted, Gabriel toppled into a dreamless sleep and woke to find Chiara standing at the foot of the bed in her new suit, a strand of pearls around her neck.

“You’d better hurry,” she said. “The car will be here in a few minutes.”

He swung his feet to the floor and went into the bathroom to shower. His labors before the mirror were perfunctory. No miracle creams or ointments, just a subtle rearrangement of his hair, which was longer than he had worn it in many years. Afterward he dressed in a Brioni single-breasted suit and a regimental necktie. His accessories were limited to a wedding band, a timepiece by Patek Philippe, and a pistol by Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta.

Chiara joined him before the full-length mirror. In her stiletto-heeled pumps she hovered over him.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think your jacket must be missing its top button.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to fit, darling.”

“In that case, you should probably wear a nice rollneck sweater underneath it. It’s going to be quite chilly later.”

Downstairs, the car was waiting, a Jaguar saloon model, courtesy of the Courtauld Gallery. It was located in the Somerset House complex on the Strand, adjacent to King’s College. Amelia March, looking pleased with herself, stood outside the entrance along with several other reporters who covered the art world. Gabriel ignored their questions, in part because he was distracted by the sudden vibration of his mobile phone. He waited until he was inside the lobby before answering. He recognized the name of the caller, but the voice that greeted him seemed to have deepened an octave since he had heard it last.

“No,” said Gabriel. “It’s no trouble at all. . . . The quay in Port Navas? I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock at the latest.”

4

The Courtauld Gallery

Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, oil on canvas, 60 by 49 centimeters, by Vincent van Gogh, stood atop a baize-covered pedestal in the center of the Courtauld’s luminous Great Hall, veiled in white cloth and surrounded by a quartet of security guards. For the moment, at least, the painting was an afterthought.

“I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you,” declared Jeremy Crabbe, the tweedy chairman of Bonhams’ Old Master department.

“I rather doubt that,” replied Gabriel.

“Do you remember that filthy wreck of a painting that you and Julian pinched from me during that morning sale about a hundred years ago?”

“Lot Forty-Three. Daniel in the Lions’ Den.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Eighty-six by one hundred and twenty-four inches, if memory serves.”

“It doesn’t,” said Gabriel. “The canvas was a hundred and twenty-eight inches wide.”

Jeremy Crabbe had been under the impression that it was the work of the Flemish painter Erasmus Quellinus, but any fool could see the brushwork belonged to none other than Peter Paul Rubens. Gabriel had cleaned it, and Julian had made a killing.

“I suppose he was in on your little secret, too,” said Jeremy.

“Julian? He hadn’t a clue.”

Jeremy made to reply, but Gabriel abruptly turned away and accepted the outstretched paw of Niles Dunham, a curator from the National Gallery who was known for his usually infallible eye.

“Well played, my good fellow,” he murmured. “Well played, indeed.”

“Thank you, Niles.”

“What are you working on?”

Gabriel answered.

“Il Pordenone?” Niles made a distasteful face. “He’s beneath you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I might have something a bit more interesting, if you can find the time.”

“You can’t afford me, Niles.”

“And if I were to double our usual fee? How do I contact you?”

Gabriel pointed out Sarah Bancroft.

“Is she a spy, too?” asked Niles.

“Sarah? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Niles cast a dubious eye toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable Old Master dealer from Bury Street. “Oliver says that husband of hers used to be a contract killer.”

“Oliver says a lot of things.”