“How much?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.”
“How about a hint?”
“It might have been in the neighborhood of a million quid. But you mustn’t quote me.”
“Global Relief sources?”
“Why not?”
“What else can you tell me?”
“The donor stipulated that the money was to be used exclusively for famine relief in Sudan.”
“So it’s all yours, then?”
“It might be, yes.”
When the story appeared, Phoebe was besieged with phone calls and texts from friends and colleagues. The attention, she had to admit, had proved a welcome distraction. It was the first time in more than a month that Alice had not been at the forefront of her thoughts.
But forty-eight hours after the story’s publication, Alice once againintruded. Not Alice herself, mind you—by all accounts she was lying in a shallow grave somewhere—but a man who claimed to be investigating her disappearance on behalf of the Metropolitan Police. Phoebe, for any number of reasons, was suspicious. In the first place, the man did not sound like the typical Met officer, or even a British subject. He spoke English with the faintest trace of a Continental accent that Phoebe couldn’t quite put her finger on. It might have been Italian, she reckoned, but there was a dollop of German and a dash of French. All in all, he struck her as an altogether shady character.
“You work at Scotland Yard?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would probably be better if we spoke in person.”
“At least tell me your name.”
“It’s Gabriel.”
“Do you have a surname, Gabriel? Or do you just go by one name, like Madonna and Sting?”
“It’s Allon.”
Phoebe entered the name into her search engine and several thousand results spilled onto the screen. The most recent item was a story inARTnewsmagazine concerning his appearance at a fundraiser hosted by Edward Knight. He wasthatGabriel Allon.
“I thought I recognized your name,” she said.
“Does that mean you’ll agree to see me.”
She had to admit, she was intrigued. “How about half past seven?”
“Perfect.”
“Bloomsbury Tavern,” she said, and rang off.
The offices of Global Relief UK were located in Great Russell Street, not far from the British Museum. Phoebe remained at her desk, reading about the exploits of the man she would soon be meeting, untiltwenty minutes past seven, when she bade her coworkers a pleasant evening and headed downstairs. The historic Bloomsbury Tavern was on the ground floor of a pie-shaped building at the intersection of Shaftesbury Avenue and West Central Street. Seated at a table in the back of the pub, lit by the dishwater-gray light streaming through a leaded window, was the legendary art restorer and erstwhile spy Gabriel Allon. Next to him was an attractive man of perhaps thirty-five. The evening, thought Phoebe, was looking better by the minute.
She walked over to the table and stared into the greenest eyes she had ever seen. “Are you him?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
She turned to his companion. “And what about you?”
