“That doesn’t give you the right to murder someone because he criticized you.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Isn’t it?”
He offered no retort. Sarah could see that something was bothering him, something more than the humiliation he must have felt over his precipitous fall from grace.
“May I see it?” he asked.
“The collection? Is that really why you’re here?”
He adopted an expression of mild offense. “Yes, of course.”
She led him upstairs to the al-Bakari Wing. Nadia’s portrait, painted not long after her death in the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia, hung outside the entrance.
“She was the real thing,” said Sarah. “Not a fraud like you.”
Khalid glared at her before lifting his gaze toward the portrait. Nadia was seated at one end of a long couch, shrouded in white, with a strand of pearls at her throat and her fingers bejeweled with diamonds and gold. A clock face shone moonlike over her shoulder. Orchids lay at her bare feet. The style was a deft blend of contemporary and classical. The draftsmanship and composition were flawless.
Khalid took a step closer and studied the bottom right corner of the canvas. “There’s no signature.”
“The artist never signs his work.”
Khalid indicated the information placard next to the painting. “And there’s no mention of him here, either.”
“He wished to remain anonymous so as not to overshadow his subject.”
“He’s famous?”
“In certain circles.”
“You know him?”
“Yes, of course.”
Khalid’s eyes moved back to the painting. “Did she sit for him?”
“Actually, he painted her entirely from memory.”
“Not even a photograph?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Remarkable. He must have admired her to paint something so beautiful. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting her. She had quite a reputation when she was young.”
“She changed a great deal after her father’s death.”
“Zizi al-Bakari didn’tdie. He was murdered in cold blood in the Old Port of Cannes by an Israeli assassin named Gabriel Allon.” Khalid held Sarah’s gaze for a moment before entering the wing’s first room, one of four dedicated to Impressionism. He approached a Renoir and eyed it enviously. “These paintings belong in Riyadh.”
“Nadia entrusted them permanently to MoMA and named me as the caretaker. They’re staying exactly where they are.”
“Perhaps you’ll let me buy them.”
“They’re not for sale.”
“Everything is for sale, Sarah.” He smiled briefly. It was an effort, she could see that. He paused before the next painting, a landscape by Monet, and then surveyed the room. “Nothing by Van Gogh?”
“No.”
