“The Museum of Modern Art in New York.”
“Is it a cover job?”
“No.”
“And before that?”
“The CIA.”
“What is your connection to Gabriel Allon?”
“I worked with him on a couple of operations.”
“Name one.”
“Ivan Kharkov.”
“Did Allon know about the plot to kill Abdullah?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“It was his idea.”
Rebecca absorbed Sarah’s words like a blow to the abdomen. She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Was Abdullaheveran MI6 asset?”
“No,” said Sarah. “He was a Russian asset. And you, Rebecca Manning, just killed him.”
It was half past eight when Gabriel’s BlackBerry shivered with an incoming call. He did not recognize the number. Ordinarily, he terminated such calls without a second thought. But not that call. Not the call that arrived on his phone at half past eight in Rotterdam.
He tappedanswer, lifted the BlackBerry to his ear, and murmured a greeting.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t recognize my voice?”
It was female and slightly hoarse with fatigue and tobacco. The accent was British with a trace of French. And, yes, Gabriel recognized it.
It was the voice of Rebecca Manning.
78
Ouddorp, the Netherlands
The beach pavilion was called Natural High. In summer it was one of the busiest spots on the Dutch coast. But at half past ten on an April morning, it had the air of an abandoned colonial outpost. The weather was fitful, blinding sun one minute, blinding rain the next. Gabriel watched it from the shelter of the café.So fair and foul a day I have not seen...Suddenly, he thought of a seaside café atop the cliffs of Lizard Point in West Cornwall. He used to hike there along the coastal path, have a pot of tea and a scone with thick clotted cream, and then hike back to his cottage in Gunwalloe Cove. It seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps one day, when his term was over, he would go back again. Or maybe he would take Chiara and the children to Venice. They would live in a grand apartment in Cannaregio, he would restore paintings for Francesco Tiepolo. The world and its many problems would pass him by. He would spend his nights with his family and his days with his old friends Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese. He would be anonymous again, a man with a brush and a palette atop a work platform, hidden behind a shroud.
For now, however, he was very much in plain sight. He was sitting alone at a table against the window. On the table before him was his BlackBerry. He had nearly run the battery dry putting in place the pieces of the deal. Rebecca had quibbled over one or two details regarding the timing, but after one final call to London, it was done. Downing Street, it seemed, wanted to make the exchange as badly as Gabriel.
Just then, the BlackBerry flashed. It was Eli Lavon. He was outside in the car park. “She just arrived.”
“Alone?”
“Looks like it.”
“What does that mean?”
