“Yes,” replied Gabriel. “I believe she is.”
32
Queen’s Gate Terrace
Christopher Keller, officer of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, husband of Old Masters art dealer Sarah Bancroft, was waiting curbside behind the wheel of his Bentley Continental when Gabriel stepped from Heathrow’s Terminal 5 at half past four the following afternoon. He wore a Burberry Camden car coat atop a suit by Richard Anderson of Savile Row. His hair was sun-bleached, his skin was taut and dark, his eyes were bright blue. The notch in the center of his chin looked as though it had been cleaved with a chisel. His mouth seemed permanently fixed in an ironic half smile.
He cast a ponderous glance at his wristwatch as Gabriel settled into the passenger seat. It was the kind of sporting timepiece worn by men who scaled mountain peaks, dived to great ocean depths, and leapt from perfectly good airplanes. Christopher had made his first jump while serving in the elite 22 Special Air Service Regiment of the British Army. He was now employed by a clandestine department of the SIS that carried out politically sensitive black operations. He had spent much of the last two years in Ukraine. Gabriel had only the vaguest idea what he was doing there. His art dealer wife, a former CIA officer, had no clue at all.
“Your flight landed more than an hour ago,” he informed Gabriel in a lazy West End drawl. “Where in God’s name have you been?”
“I had a devil of a time getting through customs, if you must know.”
“They gave you a good going-over, did they?”
“It was touch and go.”
“What seemed to be the problem?”
“It might have been the newly discovered Leonardo in my carry-on luggage.”
Christopher looked at the solander museum case resting upright on Gabriel’s knees. “Would you mind terribly if we put your Leonardo in the boot?”
“I’d rather put you in the boot, Christopher.”
He slipped the Bentley into gear and eased slowly from the curb. “The damn thing is blocking my peripheral vision.”
“Try looking straight ahead,” said Gabriel. “That’s where the road is.”
***
In the northeastern corner of Kensington, a short walk from Hyde Park and the Royal Albert Hall, lies Queen’s Gate Terrace. Only eight hundred feet in length, it is lined with several hundred million pounds’ worth of prime London real estate, much of it foreign owned. Christopher dwelled in a luxury maisonette in the Georgian town house at Number 18. His neighbors were under the impression that his name was Peter Marlowe and that he was a wildly successful international business consultant, thus the flashy motorcar, the constant overseas travel, and the glamorous American-born wife.
“Astonishing,” said Sarah. “It’s an absolutely perfect copy.”
She was looking down at Gabriel’s Leonardo, which was lying on the kitchen island. In one hand was a high-resolution photograph of the real Leonardo, in the other a Belvedere martini. Christopher, after giving the painting no more than a passing glance, was pouring Johnnie Walker Black Label into a crystal tumbler. Gabriel, for his part, was pulling the cork from a bottle of Sancerre.
Sarah placed the photograph and her drink on the countertop and took up the painting with both hands. “Walnut?”
“What do you think?” asked Gabriel.
“I think you murdered a sixteenth-century Milanese School picture and painted this one in its place.”
“It was Northern Italian School. And it needed to be put out of its misery.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“Ten thousand euros.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m accepting donations.”
“Sorry, darling. But I gave at the office.” Sarah returned the panel to the countertop. “But what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to sell it, of course.”
“To whom?”
