*  *  *

Later it would be determined that Amanda Wallace rang the Operations Room at MI5’s Millbank headquarters at 10:19 p.m. and informed the duty officer that Gabriel Allon was missing and presumed kidnapped. She then gave the duty officer Allon’s last known location, which was a public car park in Garrick Street. He had arrived there at midday in a borrowed Bentley automobile. MI5 was to make no effort to identify the owner of the vehicle, as he was a clandestine operative of the rival service based on the opposite side of the Thames at Vauxhall Cross.

With an array of invasive surveillance tools at his disposal, the duty officer and his crack staff quickly determined that the borrowed Bentley had entered the car park at 12:03 p.m. Allon emerged four minutes later, accompanied by an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. They made their way on foot to the nearby Courtauld Gallery and remained there for a period of forty-two minutes. Leaving, they engaged in an animated conversation as they walked along the Strand. After making the turn into Bedford Street, Allon appeared to have composed and sent a single text message.

They returned to the car park in Garrick Street at one fifteen and were not seen again. The next vehicle to depart the facility, at 1:20 p.m., was a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter transit van, dark blue in color, driven by a large man wearing a dark coverall and a woolen watch cap. He headed across the Waterloo Bridge to Southbank and by three o’clock was approaching the cathedral city of Canterbury. The van’s last known location was the Kent Downs, a 326-square-mile nature area where CCTV cameras were scarce. It was the assumption of the MI5 duty officer and his staff that the kidnappers had transferred Allon and the woman to a second vehicle—and that they were no longer in the southeast of England.

But what was Gabriel Allon doing in London in the first place? And where had he gone before his visit to the Courtauld Gallery? An answer to the second question, at least, was easily obtainable. Allon had dropped the woman in Piccadilly at 10:55 a.m. and driven to Old Burlington Street, where he entered a six-story modern office block. The building’s most prominent client, interestingly enough, was the wealth management firm run by Lucinda Graves, the wife of the next British prime minister.

It was this intriguing piece of news that MI5 director-general Amanda Wallace, at 11:10 p.m., delivered by secure phone to her counterpart at the Secret Intelligence Service. “The question is, Graham, what was he doing there?”

“Lucinda’s on the board of trustees at the Courtauld, if I recall.”

“She is, indeed.”

“Could have been art related,” suggested Graham.

“Perhaps,” replied Amanda.

“I don’t suppose you’ve mentioned any of this to the home secretary. After all, he is your minister.”

“I didn’t want to spoil his evening. Evidently, they’re having quite a blowout in Holland Park at the moment.”

“In that case, I think we should keep it between us for now.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Graham rang off and looked at Christopher. “Do you have any idea why your friend Gabriel Allon went to see the wife of the next British prime minister this morning?”

“Lucinda Graves?” Christopher helped himself to another glass of the single malt before answering. “Actually, I’m afraid I might.”

51

Blackdown Hills

It was 11:17 p.m. when the wooden door of the shelter finally trundled open and two men entered Gabriel’s makeshift prison cell. Bound and hooded, he was unaware of the time, but the number of visitors was easily discernible by the scrape of their shoes over the concrete floor. They seized him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Instantly his darkened world began to spin out of control.

They sawed away the duct tape from his ankles and prodded him to walk, but his legs were unresponsive and he feared he was about to be sick. At last the spinning subsided and he was able to place one foot in front of the other, hesitantly, like a patient walking the halls of a surgical ward. His first steps were on the concrete floor of the shelter, then the gravel of the drive. A gentle rain was falling, and the air smelled of freshly turned earth. There was not a sound to be heard other than the crunch of footfalls. Gabriel’s were arrhythmic and faltering, the stagger of a wounded man.

“Where is she?” he tried to ask through the duct-tape gag, but his two handlers only laughed in response. It was his considered opinion, having resided in the United Kingdom for a number of years, that it was the laughter of two Englishmen of working-class upbringing, perhaps thirty to thirty-five years of age. They were both several inches taller than Gabriel, and the hands holding him upright were large and powerful. He wondered whether one of the men was responsible for the dent in the left side of his skull. He only hoped he was presented with an opportunity to return the favor.

Eventually the loose gravel was replaced by the firmer footing of a paved walkway. Then, after a laborious climb up a flight of steps, there was a roof over Gabriel’s head and carpet beneath his feet. The two men helped him into a straight-backed chair and removed the hood. Gabriel closed his eyes. The photophobia brought about by the injury to his head made the light painful in its intensity.

He opened one eye slowly, then the other, and surveyed the room around him. It took a moment to appreciate the scale of the place; it was the size of a tennis court. The overstuffed chairs and couches were covered in silk and chintz and brocade, and there was a pervasive smell of newness in the air. The leather-bound books lining the shelves appeared unread. The gilt-framed Old Master paintings looked as though they had been executed earlier that evening.

The two men who had delivered Gabriel to this place were now standing like pillars beside him. Two more men were seated in a pair of matching wing chairs, and Trevor Robinson, in a dark suit and tie, was pouring himself a whisky at the drinks trolley.

He waved the crystal decanter in Gabriel’s direction. “You, Allon?”

Gabriel, his mouth covered by duct tape, made no attempt to reply. Robinson, smiling, returned the decanter to the trolley and carried his glass over to an ornate credenza. It was strewn with the wreckage of two laptop computers, two external eight-terabyte hard drives, and a mobile phone. By all appearances it was Ingrid’s Android device. Gabriel’s Solaris phone had been in his coat pocket when he entered the car park in Garrick Street. He reckoned it was now in the signal-blocking Faraday pouch that Robinson held in his free hand.

He nodded in Gabriel’s general direction, and one of the men ripped the duct tape from his mouth. The pain was like a hard slap in the face. For the moment, at least, it made him forget the incessant pounding in his head.

“How about that drink now?” asked Robinson. “You look as though you could use one.”

Gabriel glanced around the room. “You’ve done very well for yourself, Trevor. Taking early retirement from MI5 was obviously the right career move.”

“The property belongs to a client of the firm. He allows us to borrow it for special occasions.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Most definitely.” Robinson tossed the Faraday pouch onto an oversize coffee table. It landed with a thud. “After all, it’s not often that one gets to entertain a legend.”

“Your hospitality leaves something to be desired.”

“The bump on your head, you mean? Sorry, Allon, but I’m afraid there was no other way.” Robinson indicated one of the two men seated silently in the wing chairs. “It was Sam who did it, if you must know. Sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength.”

“Why don’t you cut the duct tape from my wrists so I can thank him properly?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you. Sam is a veteran of the Regiment. So are the two men standing next to you. They now work for a private security firm based in London. The firm’s clients are all extremely wealthy and demand nothing but the best.”

Gabriel looked at the fourth man. “And him?”

“Three Para. He spent a great deal of time in Afghanistan.”

“That leaves Ingrid,” said Gabriel.

“Ms. Johansen is resting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”

“You didn’t do something stupid, did you, Trevor?”

“Not me,” replied Robinson. “But I’m afraid Sam was forced to apply a bit of pressure to loosen her tongue. After that she was very cooperative. In fact, with her help, I was able to recover the documents you stole from our office in Monaco and BVI Bank in Road Town. You now have no evidence to support any claim of financial misconduct by Harris Weber & Company or its clients.”

“How did you know?” asked Gabriel.

“About your theft of our confidential files? I didn’t,” admitted Robinson. “But I surmised as much after having a word with one of my paid assets in the Swiss government. I met with him in Bern the morning after your little heist.”

“That would explain your late-night withdrawal of cash from the safe.”

“It was money well spent, as it turns out. My source told me that you were the one who discovered Edmond Ricard’s body at his gallery in the Freeport. He also said that you were working with Swiss intelligence to track down Ricard’s killer and recover the Picasso. Needless to say, I was alarmed by the news, as were the founding partners of my firm. You are a worthy opponent.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be, Allon. The ice beneath your feet is very thin, indeed. Fortunately for you and your associate, I’ve been authorized to offer you a settlement package. As your representative in this matter, I strongly advise you to accept it.”

“The terms?”

“You will receive ten million pounds, payable to a limited liability shell company that Harris Weber & Company will create on your behalf. In return, you will sign a nondisclosure agreement which will prohibit you from ever discussing this affair. Ms. Johansen will also receive ten million pounds. And then, of course, there’s the small matter of the Picasso, which OOC Group, Limited, will return to the heirs of Bernard Lévy at a date to be determined. With no admission of wrongdoing, I might add.”