“Ask a spy a stupid question,” she remarked.

“I’m an art restorer now, Ms. Graves.”

“There’s a Q-Park directly across the street from our office,” she said. “My assistant will arrange a space for you.”

And with that, the connection died.

“Well,” said Ingrid. “That went better than expected.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “Imagine that.”

*  *  *

He dropped Ingrid at a coffee shop in Piccadilly and at 10:55 a.m. guided the Bentley down the Q-Park’s narrow ramp. The office block on the opposite side of Old Burlington Street was six floors in height, pale gray in color, and contemporary in design. A woman in her late twenties greeted Gabriel in the lobby and escorted him upstairs. Lucinda Graves was on the phone when they entered her office. She rang off at once and, rising, extended her hand.

“Mr. Allon. So lovely to see you again.”

The assistant withdrew, and Lucinda conveyed Gabriel to a seating area where a coffee service rested on a low, sleek table. It was all very formal and rehearsed. Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling he was being courted.

Lucinda sat down and filled two cups. “Have you seen the lines outside Somerset House? Thanks to you, the Courtauld is now London’s hottest art museum.”

“I’d love to take the credit, but the Van Gogh was in remarkably good condition when it came to me.”

“Did you really play no role in its recovery?”

“I authenticated it for the Italian Art Squad. But that was the extent of my involvement.”

“And now you’re investigating the murder of that art historian from Oxford?”

Gabriel managed to conceal his surprise. “How did you know?”

“You’re the professional. You tell me.”

“Either the British government is monitoring my phone, or Leonard Bradley called you after I left his house. I’m betting it was Leonard.”

She smiled with considerable charm. Absent the security detail and telegenic husband, she was smaller than Gabriel remembered and altogether ordinary in appearance. Her most appealing asset was her smoky contralto speaking voice. One could easily imagine Lucinda Graves singing torch songs in a darkened cabaret.

She glanced at the large wall-mounted television. Her husband was addressing a knot of reporters outside the Palace of Westminster. “Care to make a prediction?”

“I’m afraid I know very little about the inner workings of British politics.”

“But that’s not true, is it? After all, you lived in this country for many years after that incident in Vienna, and my husband tells me that you were quite close to Jonathan Lancaster. That was why he was so interested in meeting with you.”

“What else has your husband told you?” asked Gabriel.

“That you were the so-called foreign intelligence operative who helped Lancaster when he got into trouble with that Russian sleeper agent who was working at Party Headquarters. Her name escapes me.”

“Madeline Hart.”

“The worst British political scandal since the Profumo affair,” said Lucinda. “And yet Lancaster managed to survive because of you.” Her gaze returned to the television. “Please continue, Mr. Allon.”

“The chancellor of the Exchequer will not survive today’s balloting.”

“Hardly a bold prediction. But who will secure the most votes?”

“Home Secretary Hugh Graves.”

“How many will he receive?”

“Not enough to force Foreign Secretary Frasier to drop out of the race.”

“It would help to unify the Party if Stephen were to bow out gracefully.”

“The only way Frasier will drop out is if your husband allows him to remain at the Foreign Office.”

“Never. Hugh intends to make a clean sweep of the Cabinet.”

“In that case, he’ll have to offer Frasier an exit ramp.”

“Such as?”

“A public invitation to stay on as foreign secretary. Frasier, of course, will decline the offer. And tomorrow morning your husband will enter Number Ten for the first time as prime minister.”

“Not bad, Mr. Allon. I think I’ll suggest it to Hugh.”

“I would appreciate it if you kept my name out of it.”

“Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.”

Gabriel drank some of the coffee. “And what about you?” he asked. “What happens if your husband carries the day?”

“I will have no choice but to step away from Lambeth Wealth Management until Hugh leaves office. I only hope his premiership is as long as your friend Jonathan Lancaster’s. He’s still in the Commons, as you know.” She paused for a moment, then said, “His backing would make Hugh unstoppable.”

It was an invitation, thinly veiled, for Gabriel to assist in securing Jonathan Lancaster’s support for her husband’s candidacy. Having no desire to play even a minor role in the election of the next British prime minister, he guided the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Yes,” said Lucinda. “As a matter of fact, I did speak to Professor Blake about the Picasso.”

“Do you happen to remember when?”

“Is it important?”

“It might be.”

Lucinda aimed a remote at the television, and her husband vanished. “Sometime before the holidays, if memory serves. She rang me here at the office and said she was searching for a Picasso that had been acquired at Christie’s by an anonymous shell company.”

“OOC Group, Limited?”

Lucinda nodded. “She asked whether I would be willing to use my contacts in the London financial world to determine who or what the OOC Group was. I told her that it wouldn’t be ethical.”