“I suppose you could tell them about Zizi al-Bakari.”
“What about Ivan Kharkov?”
“I’d leave Ivan out of it,” said Chiara. “Ivan was a real downer.”
And then there was the night he had killed the second-in-command of the PLO in front of his wife and children in Tunis. Or the night a bomb exploded beneath his car in Vienna—the night that was different from all others. But all that was in his past now. He was no longer Israel’s angel of vengeance, he was the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration Company, the most prominent such enterprise in Venice. Chiara was the firm’s general manager. Which meant that, for all intents and purposes, Gabriel worked for his wife.
He headed southward toward the sea along a series of narrow B-roads, through Bridge End and Bantham Cross and South Milton, and slowed to a stop at an imposing stone gate at the stroke of 7:00p.m.A line of luxury motorcars stretched along the gravel drive, at the end of which stood stately Wickham House, originally built in 1681 by a member of the House of Commons, currently owned by Edward Knight, a billionaire real estate baron and collector of Old Master paintings.
An attendant in a royal blue windcheater directed Gabriel toward an empty space on the green lawn. He pulled on his suit jacket and escorted Chiara toward the entrance of the manor house. Her stiletto-heeled pumps added ten problematic centimeters to her already statuesque frame. She gave him a downward glance.
“Well?” she asked.
“Something tells me you’re going to be the center of attention this evening.”
“No chance of that, darling. Wait until you get a look at our host’s wife.”
“And how shall I refer to her? Lady Knight?”
“Winter,” replied Chiara. “Her name is Alice Winter.”
3
Wickham House
The London art world and its mistress had descended on Edward Knight’s grand terrace. Gabriel plucked two glasses from a passing tray, champagne for Chiara, sparkling water for himself, and searched the crowd for a familiar face. After a moment he spotted Julian Isherwood tilted precariously against the balustrade, chatting with Niles Dunham. He took Chiara by the hand and started toward them, but Amelia March appeared seemingly out of nowhere and blocked their path. Gabriel was surprised to see her. He had been assured the event would be closed to the press.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Tonight’s hostess.”
“Where is she?” asked Chiara. “I’d love to meet her.”
“So would I, but Alice has yet to make an appearance. Neither has her husband, for that matter.” Amelia drew a reporter’s notebook from her handbag. “Might I trouble you for a quote, Mr. Allon?”
“On what particular subject?”
“Your presence here this evening.”
“My remarks are entirely off the record. And if you so much asprint a single word of them in your magazine, you will lose a very valuable source.”
Amelia went in search of other prey, and an enormous man with snow-white hair and a crimson nose took her place. “You’re him,” he blared, pumping Gabriel’s hand. “I’m Montagu, by the way.”
“What do you do, Mr. Montagu?”
“It’s Lord Montagu, if you must know. And I don’t do much at all.” He turned to Chiara. “Is this lovely creature your wife?”
“My bodyguard, actually.”
“Dangerous business, art restoration?”
“It can be.”
His lordship beckoned her ladyship, who brought along two other couples, and soon Gabriel was surrounded and under siege. At last he felt the soft touch of a female hand and, turning, found himself gazing into the flawless face of Sarah Bancroft. She looked ravishing in her black cocktail dress.
