“I’ve never had the pleasure.” Which wasn’t the case. Olivia had helped Gabriel destroy the external terrorism network of the Islamic State. Her gallery was payment for services rendered.
“We’ve just taken on an extraordinary young Spanish painter,” she informed him.
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Her,” said Olivia with a knowing smile. “The opening is in six weeks. I would be honored if you would attend.”
“Unlikely,” replied Gabriel. Then he pointed out the man who had just entered the room, trailed by a security detail. “But perhaps he’ll agree to come in my stead.”
It was Hugh Graves, the British home secretary and, if London’s chattering classes were to be believed, the next occupant of 10 Downing Street. He was accompanied by his wife, Lucinda, the chief executive officer of Lambeth Wealth Management. At last check the couple was worth in excess of one hundred million pounds, all of it Lucinda’s. Her husband had never worked a day in the private sector, having launched his political career not long after leaving Cambridge. His ministerial salary would scarcely cover the cost of cleaning the windows at the Graveses’ mansions in Holland Park and Surrey.
For the moment, at least, the arrival of the home secretary lessened the attention on Gabriel, a welcome development. “What brings the future PM to our little soiree?” he asked.
“Lucinda is on the Courtauld’s board of trustees,” said Lovegrove. “She’s also one of the museum’s biggest benefactors. In fact, I believe her firm underwrote tonight’s ceremony.”
“How much does it cost to remove a sheet from a painting?”
“You neglected to mention the champagne and canapés.”
Hugh Graves was suddenly on the move. “Oh no,” said Olivia through a frozen smile. “I have a terrible feeling he’s headed straight toward us.”
“Toward you, I imagine,” said Gabriel.
“My money’s on you.”
“Mine, too,” added Lovegrove.
The home secretary’s advance was slowed by expressions of support by several well-heeled patrons. Finally, he alighted before Gabriel and thrust out his hand like a bayonet.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Allon. As you might imagine, I’ve heard a great deal about your exploits. How long are you planning to stay in London?”
“Not long, I’m afraid.”
“Is there any chance you might have a few minutes to drop by the Home Office? I’d love to hear your thoughts on recent developments in the Middle East.”
“Since when are developments in the Middle East of interest to the Home Office?”
“It never hurts to broaden one’s horizons, does it?”
“Especially when one is likely to be the next prime minister.”
Graves hoisted a practiced smile. He was all of forty-eight, with the camera-ready good looks of a television news presenter. “We have a prime minister, Mr. Allon.”
But not for long. At least that was the Whitehall scuttlebutt. London’s political journalists were in agreement that Hillary Edwards, Britain’s historically unpopular prime minister, would be lucky to survive the winter. And when the time came for her to go, it was widely assumed that ambitious Hugh Graves would be the one to show her the door.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” he persisted. “Barring a crisis of some sort, I’m free for lunch.”
“I’m retired now, Secretary Graves. I suggest you speak to the Israeli ambassador instead.”
“He’s a rather unpleasant fellow, if you must know.”
“I’m afraid that’s part of his job description.”
The director of the Courtauld had made his way to a lectern next to the painting. Hugh Graves rejoined his wife, and Gabriel, after accepting a kiss from Olivia Watson, went discreetly to the side of Julian Isherwood. He was staring at his shoes.
“It seems the cat is finally out of the bag.” Looking up, he fixed Gabriel with a stare of mock reproach. “And to think you deceived me all those years.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“I’d rather tell the world that I was in on the joke all along.”
“It might be bad for your reputation, Julian.”
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me, my boy. And Sarah, of course. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
The director tapped the microphone, gaveling the proceedings to order.
“Where was it?” asked Julian.
“The Van Gogh? A villa on the Amalfi Coast.”
“Who owned the villa?”
“Long story.”
“Condition?”
“Remarkably good. I painted a copy while I had it in my studio. The esteemed director of the Courtauld Gallery, a Van Gogh expert himself, couldn’t tell the difference.”
