“Come here often?” asked Julian.
“Only when you’re in town.”
“I wish I could stay longer. Venice is lovely this time of year.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Your friend Sarah Bancroft has graciously allowed me to see a painting in Amsterdam. An old contact of mine stumbled upon something interesting in one of the flea markets. Or so he says. He’s convinced he has a sleeper on his hands.”
“Genre?”
“Portraiture.”
“Subject?”
“A young woman.”
Gabriel felt a sudden queasiness in his stomach. “I don’t suppose he sent you a photograph.”
“I asked for one, but he refused. Said he doesn’t want one floating around in the ether yet.”
“Does your old contact have a name?”
“Peter van de Velde. He’s a bit of a slippery character, but over the years he’s unearthed some lovely pictures from old Dutch collections.”
“What time is he expecting you?”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Julian raised his Bellini to his lips. “Why do you ask?”
***
Gabriel waited until they had left Harry’s Bar before delivering his answer. It was ten minutes in duration and included an admission that, yes, he was the one who had found Giorgio Montefiore’s body at his villa in Florence.
“Why am I not surprised?” asked Julian.
“Imagine how I felt.”
They were walking in the Piazza San Marco. The enormous square was in darkness and empty of tourists and pigeons. Julian’s face was awash in the light of Gabriel’s mobile phone. Displayed on the screen was the ghostly infrared image of the missing portrait.
“I fell in love with her once too. It happened the first time I ever saw that sketch in the Biblioteca Reale. It is one of the greatest ever made.” Julian surrendered the phone. “But will you allow me to point out the obvious?”
“If you insist.”
“We don’t know whether Peter van de Velde’s flea market sleeper is your perhaps Leonardo.”
“We will the minute you walk into his gallery tomorrow morning.”
“And if it is your Leonardo? What then?”
“One step at a time, Julian.”
“I tell myself the same thing each time I descend a flight of stairs.” He paused at the foot of the campanile and lifted his gaze skyward. “But why do you suppose Peter decided to show the painting to me, of all people?”
“Your reputation precedes you as well.”
“Not-so-secret accomplice of the world’s most famous retired spy?”
“Respected London Old Masters dealer with a track record for finding misattributed works. And if you were to declare the painting a Leonardo, others will undoubtedly concur.”
