Gabriel planned to place the call himself, though not in the presence of Edward Knight. He did not know why the billionaire real estate investor had driven himself to deepest Cornwall, but he suspected it had little to do withView of the Grand Canal with the Rialto Bridgeby Bernardo Bellotto.
Together they headed up the flagstone walk and through the opendoor of the studio. The painting was awash in the searing white light of two halogen lamps. Knight planted himself before it, hands on his hips, elbows splayed.
“Extraordinary, don’t you think?”
“It would certainly be a worthy addition to your collection.”
“How much do you suppose it’s worth?”
“Julian would know better. I’m only a conservator.”
“Come now, Allon. Modesty doesn’t suit you.”
He gave it a moment of thought. “View of Verona with the Ponte delle Navifetched ten and a half at auction not long ago. I think this painting is better.”
“How much better?”
“It might go for as much as twelve.”
“And what would be your share of the proceeds?”
“You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
“Ten percent?” persisted Edward Knight.
“More like five.”
“And if the painting went for twenty million?”
“You would be vastly overpaying.”
Knight set off on a slow tour of the studio, pausing at Gabriel’s stainless-steel trolley. “The tools of your trade. One of them, at least.”
“I only have one trade these days.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Believe what you like, Mr. Knight.”
“I believe you still find time to dabble in your old line of work.” Knight returned to his original position before the canvas and folded his arms in thought. “And what if I required your services, Allon? How much would it cost me?”
“That depends on the size, condition, and approximate value of the work in question.”
“She’s five feet ten inches tall and worth an extraordinary amount of money.”
“Your wife?”
Edward Knight nodded gravely.
“Current condition?” asked Gabriel.
“Gone,” answered Knight. “Vanished without a trace.”
5
Land’s End
Gabriel pulled on a pair of Wellington boots and led Edward Knight across the flower-strewn meadow to the Coast Path. After a moment’s deliberation they headed north, past the National Coastwatch Institution observation point, around a pair of rocky coves, toward Land’s End. Knight, seemingly oblivious to the beauty of his surroundings, was describing a piece of real estate, a lavish home on the northern coast of Ibiza, afincain the lexicon of the island, rentable for the princely sum of two hundred and fifty thousand euros a week during the summer high season. He had arranged for his wife and three old friends from Cambridge to stay at the property the previous week. It was, he explained, something of an annual ritual.
