“Like what?”
“Perhaps he’s planning to subvert a democracy that night.Or maybe Vladimir Vladimirovich has asked him to come to Moscow to review his investment portfolio.”
“Or maybe he’s somehow unaware of the fact that the social event of the season will be taking place at the Kunsthaus in Zurich and he hasn’t received an invitation.”
“And he’s not going to receive one,” said Lavon gravely. “Not unless he sits up on his hind legs and begs for one.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then we will have nothing to show for our efforts other than a painting by Artemisia Gentileschi and a new pro-democracy NGO. But under no circumstances are you to invite Arkady Akimov to attend that reception. It goes against all our operational orthodoxy.” Lavon glanced at Christopher. “We get on the streetcarbeforethe target, not after. And we always,always, wait for the target to make the first move.”
Gabriel conceded the point. But when another three days passed with no contact, he was beside himself with worry. It was Yuval Gershon, director of Unit 8200, who finally put his mind to rest. The Unit had just intercepted a phone call from a Ludmilla Sorova of NevaNeft to the Global Alliance for Democracy. She rang the number in the safe house five minutes later. After listening to her request, Christopher placed the call on hold and addressed Gabriel.
“Oksana Akimova and her husband would be honored to attend the reception at the Kunsthaus.”
“If you had an ounce of self-respect,” said Lavon, “you’d tell her it’s too late.”
Gabriel hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Christopher brought the receiver to his ear and took the call off hold. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Sorova, but I’m afraid there areno more tickets available. I only wish you’d reached out to us sooner.” After a silence, he said, “Yes, a donation to the Global Alliance for Democracy would certainly influence our thinking. What sort of contribution did Mr. Akimov have in mind?”
The sum, arrived at after several offers and counteroffers, was an astonishing twenty million Swiss francs, slightly more than Martin had paid forThe Lute Player. He had pledged to deliver the painting to the Kunsthaus, restored to its original glory, in time for the gala. The museum’s chief conservator, the esteemed Ludwig Schenker, was skeptical. Having reviewed high-resolution photographs of the canvas, he reckoned a proper restoration would take six months, if not longer. A specialist in Italian Baroque art, he had offered to serve as a consultant. Martin had politely demurred. The restorer he had in mind for the project didn’t play nicely with others.
“He’s good, your man?” inquired Dr. Schenker.
“I’m told he’s one of the very best.”
“Do I know his work?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Might I at least share with him some of my observations?”
“No,” said Martin. “You might not.”
The high-resolution photographs had revealed only a portion of the damage. They did not accurately represent, for example, the shocking degree to which the four-hundred-year-old canvas had sagged with age. Gabriel concluded he had no choice but to reline the painting, a delicate undertaking that involved adhering a swath of new linen to the back of the original canvas and then reattaching it to a stretcher. When the procedure wascomplete, he commenced the most tedious portion of the restoration, the removal of the old varnish and surface grime using cotton wool swabs soaked with a carefully calibrated mixture of acetone, methyl proxitol, and mineral spirits. Each swab could clean about a square inch of the painting before it became too soiled to use. At night, when he was not dreaming of blood and fire, he was removing yellowed varnish from a canvas the size of the Piazza San Marco.
He worked in the garden room of the safe house, with the windows open to vent the dangerous fumes of his solvent. For the most part, he was spared unwanted observation of his efforts; Christopher and Eli Lavon both knew better than to watch him while he worked. An Office courier brought his brushes and pigments from Narkiss Street, along with his old paint-smudged portable CD player and a collection of his favorite opera and classical music recordings. The rest of his supplies, including his chemicals and a pair of powerful halogen lamps, he acquired locally.
Twice each week, Isabel traveled to the safe house from Geneva for a crash course in the basics of tradecraft. Having successfully penetrated the defenses of the Russian Laundromat, she was a natural deceiver. All she required was a bit of polish. Christopher and Eli Lavon served as her instructors, and the techniques they instilled in her were borrowed from both the British and Israeli traditions. Her education did not suffer as a result. Among the international brotherhood of intelligence officers, MI6 and the Office were universally regarded as the finest handlers of human assets in the business.
Gabriel remained a distant observer of Isabel’s training, for he had a restoration to finish and a service to run. He shuttledregularly between Zurich and Tel Aviv, and twice popped in to London to confer with Graham Seymour. With just ten days remaining until the gala,The Lute Playerwas nowhere near ready for her reemergence into public view. Several large swaths required retouching, including the young musician’s amber-colored garment and her face, which Artemisia had depicted exquisitely in semi-profile, with an expression both serene and concentrated. There was also a trace of foreboding, thought Gabriel, perhaps an allusion to the danger that awaited the young girl just beyond the safety of her music room.
Having never restored a painting by Artemisia, Gabriel would have preferred to work with painstaking slowness. His looming deadline, however, would not allow it. It was no matter; trained in the Italian method of restoration, he was when necessary the swiftest of painters. The operas of Puccini, especiallyLa Bohème, were his usual background music. The restoration ofThe Lute Player, however, was set mainly to a pair of violin sonatas—one by Beethoven, the other by Brahms—and a haunting piece by Sergei Rachmaninoff, the favorite composer of the oil trader and oligarch Arkady Akimov.
On the second Wednesday evening of October, Isabel came to the safe house for a final session with Christopher and Eli Lavon. This time she was joined by a woman she idolized, the renowned Swiss violinist Anna Rolfe. Their rehearsal involved no music, only choreography—the seemingly serendipitous and effortless conveyance of Arkady Akimov into the hands of Martin Landesmann. Afterward, Anna stole into the garden room to watch Gabriel work, knowing full well it drove him to distraction.
He loaded his brush and placed it against the cheek of the lute player. “What do you suppose she’s thinking?”
“The girl in the painting?”
“The girl in the next room.”
“She’s probably wondering how it is we know one another.” Anna frowned. “Did my practicing really annoy you?”
“Never.”
“Good. Because I never tired of watching you work.”
