“What’s the worst possible thing that could happen tonight?”
“The world might come to an end.”
“Short of that,” said Chiara.
Gabriel considered his answer. “I suppose one of the valets could scratch my new Range Rover.”
He had taken delivery of the vehicle the previous afternoon. His young daughter, an aspiring climate militant, was appalled by his decision to purchase a petrol-powered behemoth rather than something small and green. He had rationalized his decision by pointing out that for nine months each year the Allon family resided in an apartment overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice, where they utilized public transport or moved about the city on foot. Furthermore their newly renovated Cornish summer cottage was fitted with solar panels that provided most of their electricity. All things being equal, Gabriel was as carbon-neutral as a man could be.
“I was referring to your appearance at this evening’s gala,” said Chiara.
“I just know I’m going to regret it.”
“You might actually enjoy yourself, you know.”
“Impossible.”
“Try, darling. Give the audience a glimpse behind the curtain.”
“At what?”
“The real Gabriel Allon.”
“Can you imagine?”
“It would definitely be a night to remember.”
The real Gabriel Allon was now regarded as the world’s finest restorer of Italian Renaissance paintings, a distinction bestowedupon him after his recent restoration of a newly discovered portrait by Leonardo da Vinci. But he had spent most of his career living and working under an assumed identity created for him by an intelligence service headquartered in Tel Aviv. Julian Isherwood had been complicit in his decades-long deception, and Sarah Bancroft had been one of his most effective weapons. Sarah knew all of his dirty secrets. And for better or worse, Gabriel knew hers.
He cast a sideways glance toward Chiara, who was examining her appearance in the vanity mirror. Her hair was dark and riotous, with shimmering highlights of auburn and chestnut. Her eyes were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. The strapless evening gown she wore left little to the imagination.
“You should probably return your eyes to the road,” she said. “Otherwise you might have an accident.”
“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
Chiara recited the imaginary headline. “Renowned art conservator injured on the A30.”
“Slightly injured, thank goodness. But regrettably he was forced to cancel his appearance at a gala fundraiser at Wickham House.”
“Was the conservator’s wife injured?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Leaving her capable of nursing the conservator back to health?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Physical therapy?”
“Several hours a day.”
Chiara raised the visor. “Poor you.”
“Is this the sort of thing I should talk about tonight?”
“Your boundless sexual needs? Probably not.”
“What about the time I killed that dirty bomber outside the gates of Downing Street? Or the time Sarah shot that Moscow Center assassin in Zurich? I think the audience might find that interesting.”
