The Dassault Falcon deposited Julian not at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport but at Le Bourget in Paris. His hosts had been good enough to arrange another chauffeured car. He rang Sarah during the drive to the Gare du Nord. She seemed genuinely relieved to hear the sound of his voice.
“I was beginning to think you’d fallen off a cliff.”
“There are no cliffs in Holland, petal. That said, my day took a most unexpected turn.”
“I’m afraid to ask where you are.”
“The Eighteenth Arrondissement of Paris.”
“Could be worse.”
“Much,” he agreed.
“Did you see it?”
“I did indeed.”
“And?”
“We should talk when I get back to London.”
“You know where to find me,” she said, and rang off.
He arrived at the Gare du Nord in time to catch the two thirty Eurostar and strode through the door of Wiltons a few minutes before five o’clock. As misfortune would have it, he collided with tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable Old Masters dealer from Bury Street.
“Julie!” he purred. “Haven’t seen you in days. Where in God’s name have you been?”
“A sanatorium, if you must know.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Emotional exhaustion.”
“I hear it’s fatal.”
“They’ve given me three weeks to live.”
The usual crowd was arrayed along the bar. Tweedy Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams, suntanned Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, the learned Niles Dunham of the National Gallery. Roddy Hutchinson, universally regarded as the most unscrupulous dealer in all of St. James’s, was baring his soul to the impossibly beautiful former fashion model who now owned a successful contemporary art gallery in King Street. Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich, was whispering sweet nothings into the ear of Amelia March, who was scribbling furiously in her reporter’s notebook.
Julian peered over her shoulder. “What are you working on?”
“Your obituary.”
“Please treat me kindly.”
“Don’t I always?”
Sarah and Gabriel were seated at the bar’s corner table. Sarah was drinking her usual three-olive Belvedere martini, Gabriel a glass of white wine. Julian lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and scrutinized the label.
“Domaine Laroche Grand Cru Chablis.”
“Sarah’s treat,” said Gabriel. “A little something to celebrate the successful completion of your mission.”
Julian pulled up a chair and settled wearily into it. “My mission, as you call it, was far more harrowing than previously advertised. Especially the unscheduled private flight from Amsterdam to Paris. Don’t get me wrong, the plane was lovely. But I didn’t much care for the other passengers.”
“How many were there?”
“Five,” replied Julian while pouring himself a glass of the Chablis. “Including Peter van de Velde’s so-called partner. Looked like a perfectly presentable businessman, but I doubt that was the case.”
