“It’s too unwieldy,” he protested.
“I’m sure you’ll find Sarah Bancroft most accommodating.”
“Is it true she used to work for the CIA?”
“Wherever did you hear a thing like that?”
“The London art world is rather small, Allon.” They had arrived back at the cottage. Edward Knight opened the door of his Rolls. “I insist on being kept abreast of your every move.”
“You won’t hear from me until I have something concrete.”
“Are you forgetting the price that I paid for the Bellotto?”
“You haven’t paid anything yet.”
“I’ll transfer the money to the gallery’s account at Barclays first thing in the morning.” Knight glanced toward the entrance of the cottage. Chiara stood in the open doorway, arms folded, an inscrutable expression on her face. “I suppose you’ll have to tell her everything.”
“There are no secrets between us.”
“You’re a very lucky man, Allon.”
Knight slid behind the wheel of the Rolls and started the engine. Gabriel waited until the car had passed through the security gate, then turned and set off across the drive. It was all Julian’s fault, he would tell his wife. It usually was.
“And how exactly are you supposed to find her?”
“I have a terrible feeling I won’t.”
“She’s dead, you mean?”
“It sounds as though the Spanish authorities are leaning in that direction.”
Gabriel was seated atop a stool in the kitchen, watching Chiara prepare dinner. On the counter before him was a laptop computer and a platter of bruschetta topped with creamy polenta and caramelized mushrooms. They paired well with the wine he was drinking, a perfectly reasonable Sancerre he had picked up at the Morrisons in Long Rock.
Chiara refilled his glass. “You realize, I hope, that your new friend Edward Knight may know more about his wife’s disappearance than he’s telling you.”
“Much more,” agreed Gabriel.
“And yet you know nothing about him.”
“That’s not quite true.” Gabriel indicated the laptop. “It says here that Knight cracked the top one hundred on the Times Rich List this year for the first time, with an estimated net worth of two point three billion pounds. A remarkable achievement, given the fact that his divorce from wife number one cost him nearly a billion.”
“I suppose Alice was to blame.”
“Boys will be boys.”
“How did they meet?”
“Alice was working as a freelance journalist at the time. Edward granted her a rare interview.”
“Rather unprofessional on her part, don’t you think?”
“These things happen,” lamented Gabriel with a sigh.
Chiara spooned a mixture of ricotta and leeks onto a sheet of freshly made pasta dough. “And how, precisely, did Edward Knight earn his billions?”
“As far as I can tell, he’s never built an actual building in his life. He simply buys existing commercial and residential properties and rents them out.”
“He’s a glorified landlord—is that what you’re saying?”
