by Daniel Silva
“Would you like to tell me why you’re forging a Cassatt?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
“The owner won’t sell me the original.”
“What happens when it’s finished?”
“You’re going to sell it to Elena Kharkov.”
“Ask a silly question.” She leaned forward and scrutinized the canvas. “Watch your brushwork on the hands, Gabriel. It’s a bit too impasto.”
“My brushwork, as usual, is flawless.”
“How foolish of me to suggest otherwise.” She smothered an elaborate yawn. “I’m running on fumes.”
“You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow, you’re moving up to the main house. Uncle John is expecting you.”
“What’s he like?”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“If you need any more advice, don’t hesitate to wake me.”
“I think I can manage on my own.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Sarah kissed his cheek and slipped silently through the doorway. Gabriel pressed the PLAY button on a small portable stereo and stood motionless while the first notes of La Bohème filled the room. Then he tapped his brush against the palette and painted alone until midnight.
Sir John Boothby was introduced to his American niece, an attractive young woman now using the name Sarah Crawford, over breakfast the following morning. Gabriel swiftly sketched the missing chapters of their long and cordial relationship. Though Sarah’s mother, now deceased, had been foolish enough to marry a Wall Street banker, she had made certain her daughter maintained strong connections to England, which is why Sarah had spent summers at Havermore, and why she still made an annual pilgrimage to the estate now that she was in her thirties. As a young girl, she had stayed in the nursery and formed a deep bond with Two Children on a Beach. Therefore, it would be natural for Sarah to show Elena Kharkov the painting rather than her uncle, who had never really cared for it. The Cassatt would be viewed “in situ,” meaning that Sarah would be required to escort Elena to the upstairs to see it, thus leaving her ample time for a quiet but unmistakable approach. Uncle John’s task would be to assist in the separation of Elena from her bodyguards. Gabriel estimated they would have ten minutes. Any more than that, he reckoned, and the bodyguards would start getting jumpy. And jumpy Russian bodyguards were the last thing they needed.
With Sarah’s arrival, the pace of the preparations increased dramatically. M&M Audio and Video rolled into Havermore, disguised as local electricians, and installed cameras and microphones around the house and the grounds. They also created a makeshift command post in the hayloft of the barn, where the feeds could be monitored and recorded. Sarah spent her mornings “reacquainting” herself with a home she knew well and cherished deeply. She spent many pleasant hours with her uncle, familiarizing herself with the vast old manor house, and led herself on long walks around the estate with Punch and Judy, Boothby’s poorly behaved Pembroke Welsh corgis, trotting at her heels. Old George Merrywood invariably stopped her for a chat. His local Gloucestershire accent was so broad that even Sarah, who had spent much time in England, could barely understand a word he said. Mrs. Devlin pronounced her “simply the most delightful American I’ve ever met.” She knew nothing of Sarah’s alleged blood relationship to her employer—indeed, she had been told by Sir John that Sarah was the daughter of an American friend and had recently gone through a nasty divorce. Poor lamb, thought Mrs. Devlin one afternoon as she watched Sarah emerge from the dappled light of the North Wood with the dogs at her heels. What idiot would ever let a girl like that slip through his fingers?
In the evenings, Sarah would wander out to the gamekeeper’s cottage to discuss the real purpose of her stay at Havermore, which was the recruitment of Elena Kharkov. Gabriel would lecture her while he stood before his easel. At first, he spoke about the craft in general terms, but as the date of Elena’s arrival drew nearer, his briefings took on a decidedly more pointed tone. “Remember, Sarah, two people are already dead because of her. You can’t push too hard. You can’t force the issue. Just open the door and let her walk through it. If she does, get as much information as you can about Ivan’s deal and try to arrange a second meeting. Whatever you do, don’t let the first encounter last longer than ten minutes. You can be sure the bodyguards will be watching the clock. And they report everything to Ivan.”
The following morning, Graham Seymour called from Thames House to say that Ivan Kharkov’s plane—a Boeing Business Jet, tail number N7287IK—had just filed a flight plan and was due to arrive at Stansted Airport north of London at 4:30 P.M. After hanging up the phone, Gabriel applied the final touches of paint to his ersatz version of Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt. Three hours later, he removed the canvas from its stretcher and carried it downstairs to the kitchen, where he placed it in a 350-degree oven. Sarah found him there twenty minutes later, leaning nonchalantly against the counter, coffee mug in hand.
“What’s that smell?”
Gabriel glanced down at the oven. Sarah peered through the window, then looked up in alarm.
“Why are you baking the Cassatt?”
Just then the kitchen timer chimed softly. Gabriel removed the canvas from the oven and allowed it to cool slightly, then laid it faceup on the table. With Sarah watching, he took hold of the canvas at the top and bottom and pulled it firmly over the edge of the table, downward toward the floor. Then he gave the painting a quarter turn and dragged it hard against the edge of the table a second time. He examined the surface for a moment, then, satisfied, held it up for Sarah to see. Earlier that morning, the paint had been smooth and pristine. Now the combination of heat and pressure had left the surface covered by a fine webbing of fissures and cracks.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
“It’s not amazing,” he said. “It’s craquelure.”
Whistling tunelessly to himself, he carried the canvas upstairs to his studio, placed it back on the original stretcher, and covered the painting with a thin coat of yellow-tinted varnish. When the varnish had dried, he summoned Sarah and John Boothby to the studio and asked them to choose which canvas was the original, and which was the forgery. After several minutes of careful comparison and consultation, both agreed that the painting on the right was the original, and the one on the left was the forgery.
“You’re absolutely sure?” Gabriel asked.
After another round of consultation, two heads nodded in unison. Gabriel removed the painting on the right from its easel and mounted it in the new frame that had just arrived from Arnold Wiggins & Sons. Sarah and John Boothby, humiliated over being duped, carried the forgery up to the main house and hung it in the nursery. Gabriel climbed into the back of an MI5 car and, with Nigel Whitcombe at his side, headed back to London. The operation was in Alistair Leach’s hands now. But, then, it always had been.
33
THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
Gabriel knew that discretion came naturally to those who work the highlands of the art trade, but even Gabriel was surprised by the extent to which Alistair Leach had remained faithful to his vow of silence. Indeed, after more than a week of relentless digging and observation MI5 had found no trace of evidence to suggest he had broken discipline in any way—nothing in his phone calls, nothing in his e-mail or faxes, and nothing in his personal contacts. He had even allowed things to cool with Rosemary Gibbons, his lady friend from Sotheby’s. Whitcombe, who had been appointed Leach’s guardian and confessor, explained why during a final preoperational dinner. “It’s not that Alistair’s no longer fond of her,” he said. “He’s chivalrous, our Alistair. He knows we’re watching him and he’s trying to protect her. It’s quite possible he’s the last decent man left in the whole of London—present company excluded, of course.” Gabriel gave Whitcombe a check for one hundred thousand pounds and a brief script. “Tell him not to blow his lines, Nigel. Tell him expectations couldn’t be higher.”
Leach’s star
turn was to occur during a matinee performance but was no less significant because of it. For this phase of the operation, Graham Seymour insisted on using Thames House as a command post, and Gabriel, having no other choice, reluctantly agreed. The ops room was a hushed chamber of blinking monitors and twinkling lights, staffed by earnest-looking young men and women whose faces reflected the rainbow racial quilt of modern Britain. Gabriel wore a guest pass that read BLACKBURN: USA. It fooled no one.
At 2:17 P.M., he was informed by Graham Seymour that the stage was now set and the performance ready to commence. Gabriel made one final check of the video monitors and, with several MI5 officers watching expectantly, nodded his head. Seymour leaned forward into a microphone and ordered the curtain to be raised.
He was conservatively dressed and possessed a churchman’s forgiving smile. His card identified him as Jonathan Owens, associate editor of something called the Cambridge Online Journal of Contemporary Art. He claimed to have an appointment. Try as she might, the receptionist in the lobby of Christie’s could find no record of it in her logbook.
“Would it be too much trouble to actually ring him?” the handsome young man asked through a benedictory smile. “I’m sure he’s just forgotten to notify you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the receptionist. “Give me a moment, please.”
She picked up the receiver of her impressive multiline telephone and punched in a four-digit extension. “Owens,” she said, repeating the name for the third time. “Jonathan Owens . . . Cambridge Online Journal of Contemporary Art. Youngish chap . . . Yes, that’s him, Mr. Leach . . . Quite lovely manners.”
She hung up the phone and handed the young visitor a temporary guest identification badge, which he affixed to the lapel of his suit jacket.
“Third floor, dear. Turn left after you come off the lift.”
He stepped away from the receptionist’s desk and, after clearing a security checkpoint, boarded a waiting elevator. Alistair Leach was waiting in the doorway of his office. He regarded his visitor with a somewhat baleful expression, as though he were a debt collector, which, to some degree, he was.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Owens?”
Nigel Whitcombe closed the door and handed Leach the script.
“Think you can do it cold, Alistair, or do you want to run through it a time or two?”
“I do this for a living. I think I can manage it on my own.”
“You’re sure, Alistair? We have a lot of time and money invested in this. It’s important you not stumble over your delivery.”
Leach lifted the receiver of his telephone and dialed the number from memory. Ten seconds later, in the opinion of young Nigel Whitcombe, Gabriel’s operation truly took flight.
“Elena, darling. It’s Alistair Leach from Christie’s. Am I catching you at a perfectly dreadful time?”
He hadn’t, of course. In fact, at the moment her mobile rang, Elena Kharkov was having tea with her seven-year-old twins, Anna and Nikolai, at the café atop Harrods department store. She had arrived there after taking the children for a boat ride on the Serpentine in Hyde Park—an idyllic scene that might have been painted by Mary Cassatt herself were it not for the fact that Mrs. Kharkov and her children were shadowed the entire time by two additional boats filled with Russian bodyguards. They were with her now, seated at an adjacent table, next to several veiled Saudi women and their African servants. The telephone itself was in a rather smart Italian leather handbag; withdrawing it, she appeared to recognize the number in the caller ID screen and was already smiling when she lifted the phone to her ear. The conversation that followed was forty-nine seconds in length and was intercepted at multiple transmission points and by multiple services, including the U.S. National Security Agency, Britain’s GCHQ, and even by the Russian eavesdropping service, which made nothing of it. Gabriel and Graham Seymour listened to it live by means of a direct tap on Leach’s line at Christie’s. When the connection went dead, Gabriel looked at one of the technicians—Marlowe or Mapes, he could never be certain which was which—and asked him to play it again.
Elena, darling, it’s Alistair Leach. Am I catching you at a perfectly dreadful time?”
"Of course not, Alistair. What can I do for you?”
"Actually, darling, it’s what I can do for you. I’m pleased to say that I have some extremely interesting news about our mutual friend, Madame Cassatt.”
“What sort of news?”
“It seems our man may have had a change of heart. He rang me this morning to say he’s interested in discussing a sale. Shall I call you later or would you like to hear the rest now?”
“Don’t be a tease, Alistair! Tell me everything.”
“He says he’s had a chance to reconsider. He’s says if the price is right, he’ll let it go.”
“How much does he want for it?”
“In the neighborhood of two and a half, but you might be able to do a bit better than that. Between us, Elena, his finances aren’t what they once were.”
“I’m not going to take advantage of him.”
“Of course you are, darling. You’re the one with the money.”
“Are you sure about the attribution and the provenance?”
“Signed, dated, and airtight.”
“When can I see it?”
“That’s completely up to you.”
“Tomorrow, Alistair. Definitely tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to check to see if he’s free, but I suspect he’ll be able to squeeze you in. His funds aren’t unlimited, but time is something he has in plentiful supply.”
“Can you reach him now?”
“I’ll try, love. Shall I call you back this afternoon or would you rather it wait till morning?”
“Call me right away! Ciao, Alistair!”
The technician clicked the PAUSE icon. Graham Seymour looked at Gabriel and smiled.
“Congratulations, Gabriel. Looks like you’ve managed to get your hooks in her.”
“How long is it going to take her to get from Knightsbridge to Havermore?”
“The way those Russians drive? No more than two hours door to door.”
“And you’re sure about Ivan’s schedule?”
“You’ve heard the intercepts yourself.”
“Humor me, Graham.”
“He’s got a delegation of City investment bankers coming to Rutland Gate for lunch at one. Then he’s got a four o’clock conference call with Zurich. He’ll be tied up all afternoon.”
A voice crackled over the monitors. It was one of the watchers at Harrods. Elena had asked for the check. The bodyguards were setting a perimeter. Departure imminent.
“Call her back,” Gabriel said. “Tell her to come at four. Tell her not to be late.”
“Shall we do it now or should we make her wait?”
“She has enough stress in her life, don’t you think?”
Seymour snatched up the phone and dialed.
Whitcombe’s mobile purred. He listened in silence for a moment, then looked at Alistair Leach.
"The reviews are in, Alistair. Looks like we’ve got a smash hit on our hands.”
“What now?”
Whitcombe answered. Leach pressed the REDIAL button and waited for Elena’s voice to come back on the line.
It was 5:30 that same evening when Mrs. Devlin entered the library at Havermore, bearing a silver tray with a glass of whiskey in the center of it. Sir John was reading the Telegraph. He always read the Telegraph at this time of day; like most idle men, he kept to a strict regime. He took a single sip of the whiskey and watched while Mrs. Devlin began straightening the books and papers on his desk. “Leave it, Lillian,” he said. “Whenever you clean my library, I spend the next week searching for my things.”
“If you’ve nothing else for me, Sir John, I’ll be going home now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”
“What are we having tonight?”
“Rack of lamb.”
“Divine,” he murm
ured.
Mrs. Devlin bade him a good evening and started toward the door. Boothby lowered his newspaper. “Oh, Lillian?”
“Yes, Sir John?”
“We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow afternoon.”
“More visitors, Sir John?”
“I’m afraid so. She won’t be staying long. She’s just going to have a look at the painting in the nursery.”
The painting in the nursery . . . The painting that spent a week in the gamekeeper’s cottage, in the possession of the man whose presence she had been told to say nothing about.
“I see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”
“She’s not exactly a scone person, if you catch my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”
“She’s a Russian, Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”
Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.
“Something bothering you, Lillian?”
“May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”
“You usually do.”
“Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”
“Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
“The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced they’re up to no good in the barn!”
“Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”
“And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a Russian? Your poor father, may he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”
“I need the money, Lillian. We need the money.”
She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father was alive.”