“May I ask why?”

“Because many of my most important clients do business using shell companies. In fact, it’s rather hard to find a wealthy person in London who doesn’t.”

“So you never met with her?”

“I didn’t have the time. December is always one of our busiest months.”

“And you never mentioned it to anyone?”

“Truth be told, I did my best to forget that I had ever heard of a company called OOC Group, Limited.” Lucinda rose and her assistant magically appeared at the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help, Mr. Allon. But it was wonderful to have finally met you. Rest assured, you will have a good friend in Downing Street if Hugh prevails in the leadership election.”

“I have no doubt he will,” said Gabriel, and started toward the door.

“Have you figured out what it is?” asked Lucinda suddenly.

Gabriel stopped and turned. “I’m sorry?”

“The OOC Group.”

“No,” he lied. “Not yet.”

*  *  *

It was 11:27 a.m. when the flashy Bentley driven by the legendary intelligence operative and art restorer Gabriel Allon emerged from the Q-Park garage in Old Burlington Street in Mayfair. Lucinda Graves knew this because she was standing in the window of her office and marked the time on her mobile phone. She allowed five minutes to pass before dialing a number stored in her directory of recent calls. The man at the other end gave her an update on Allon’s movements.

“He just picked up a woman in Regent Street. They’re currently headed south on Haymarket.”

“Going where?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Lucinda reluctantly severed the connection. Another ten minutes went by before her phone rang.

“Well?”

“They just walked into the Courtauld Gallery.”

“He knows,” said Lucinda, and killed the call.

47

Courtauld Gallery

A most unusual request,” said Dr. Geoffrey Holland. “Frankly, I don’t see how I can possibly accommodate you.”

The director of the Courtauld Gallery was seated behind his desk, a forefinger pressed to his thin lips. Gabriel stood before him like a barrister pleading his case. Ingrid was downstairs roaming the exhibition rooms, a crime waiting to happen.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Dr. Holland.”

“Be that as it may, we have strict guidelines about this sort of thing.”

“As well you should. But in this case, I think there is a compelling reason to make an exception.”

“Your pro bono restoration of the Van Gogh, you mean?”

Gabriel smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of resorting to such a cheap tactic.”

“Of course you would.” Holland’s forefinger was now tapping a staccato rhythm on the surface of his desk. “And you’re certain that Professor Blake was here on the day in question?”

“She arrived at four twelve and left shortly before the museum closed. If I had to guess, she spent the entire time in the café.”

“That’s hardly unusual. Many of our regular patrons find the café a wonderful place to while away an afternoon.”

“But Charlotte Blake was no ordinary patron. She was a world-renowned provenance researcher who was looking for a Picasso worth more than a hundred million pounds.”

“Do you really think the video will help you find it?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Holland considered Gabriel’s answer at length. “All right, I’ll make an exception. But it’s going to cost you.”

“How much?”

“My Florigerio needs a good cleaning.”

“The Virgin and Child with the infant Saint John? Who’s resorting to cheap tactics now, Geoffrey?”

“Do you want to see the video or not?”

“I’d love to.”

Holland lifted the receiver of his phone and dialed an internal number. “Hello, Simon. Geoffrey calling. Pull up the video from four o’clock on the afternoon of December fifteenth. I need to have a look at something straight away.”

*  *  *

“Four twelve, you say?”

“On the dot.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you know that, Mr. Allon?”

“I would, actually.”

Simon Eastwood, a former Metropolitan Police detective who now served as the Courtauld’s chief of security, rattled the keyboard of a computer in his office, and a still image of the museum’s lobby appeared on the screen.

“Do you see her?”

“Not yet.”