already and is in the market for more. She’s on a first-name basis with every significant dealer in Paris,
London, and New York. She’s also got excellent contacts at the big auction houses, including the director
of the Impressionist and Modern Art department at Christie’s in London.”
“Know him?”
“In another life.”
“I take it you’re planning to renew your professional relationship?”
“One step at a time, Adrian.”
Carter walked in silence for a moment, with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes cast
downward. “I had a chance to peruse her file. Elena’s an interesting woman, to say the least. She’s a
Leningrad girl. Did you notice that, Gabriel?”
“Yes, Adrian, I did notice that.”
“Her father was a Party muckety-muck. Worked for Gosplan, the central planning bureaucracy that
oversaw the Rube Goldberg contraption once known as the Soviet economy. She went to Leningrad State
University and was supposed to be an economist like her father. But apparently she had a change of heart
and decided to study languages and art instead. It seems she was working at the Hermitage when she met
Ivan. One wonders what she saw in him.”
“They had similar backgrounds. Both were children of the elite.”
“There’s a big difference between Gosplan and the KGB.”
Gabriel heard footfalls and looked up to see a floppy-haired runner bounding toward them with
headphones over his ears. He envied those innocent souls who could go out in public deprived of a vital
sense. When they were alone again, Carter asked, “How do you intend to play this?”
“After listening to those intercepts, I’m convinced that if a painting by Mary Cassatt were to come
quietly onto the market Elena Kharkov would jump at the opportunity to have a look.”
“And you would be standing next to it when she did?”
“Or one of my associates. Someone with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for the paintings of
Mary Cassatt. Someone who won’t make Elena’s bodyguards nervous.”
Carter absently patted his right pocket, as if looking for his pipe. “Should I assume this encounter
would take place on British soil?”
“You should.”
“That means you’re going to have to bring the British into the picture. Ivan and his entourage are
under full-time MI5 surveillance whenever they’re in London. I suspect our British cousins will be more
than willing to cooperate. The British have been pressing us to do something about Ivan for years.”
Twenty yards ahead, a young woman was being pulled along the towpath by a panting Siberian
husky. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary in the trade, deftly switched places with Carter and
watched with a certain professional satisfaction as the dog pressed its dripping muzzle against the leg of
Carter’s tracksuit.
“This agent with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for Mary Cassatt,” Carter said as he wiped
away the spittle. “Do you have someone in mind for the job yet?”
“I’m inclined to use a woman. She would have to be able to pass as an American or a Brit. We have
several suitable candidates but none with any real expertise when it comes to art. Which means I’d have
to start from scratch to get them ready.”
“That’s a shame. After all, the clock is ticking.”
“Yes, Adrian, I realize that.”
“As you may recall, we have someone who might fit the bill. She has a Ph.D. in art history from
Harvard and she’s done a job like this before. She’s even operated with your service on a couple of
occasions, which means she understands your rather archaic Hebrew-based lexicon.”
“It might be complicated, Adrian.”
“Because she’s secretly in love with you.” Carter glanced at Gabriel to see his reaction but received
only a blank stare in return. “She’s a big girl, Gabriel. And thanks to you, she’s a true professional now.”
“Where is she?”
“Still at the Counterterrorism Center at Langley, which means she’s technically under my control. If
you want her, she’s yours.”
“Poor choice of words, Adrian.”
“I was speaking in a professional sense, of course.”
Gabriel walked in silence for a moment. “Obviously, she’s perfect for the job. But are you sure she’s
ready to go back into the field?”
“She worked with you during the Halton affair.”
“As a liaison only. This operation would require sending her undercover again.”
“I’m given regular updates on her progress. The Agency psychiatrist we assigned to her says she’s
coming along nicely. Personnel says she’s had no problems adapting to her new cover identity, and her
superiors at the CTC have given her extremely high marks.”
“Not surprising, Adrian. She’s a star. God only knows why your recruiters rejected her in the first
place.”
“They thought she was too independent-and maybe a bit too intelligent. We’re not like you, Gabriel.
We like our case officers to think
inside
the box.”
“And you wonder why your most talented operatives are working for private contractors now.”
“Spare me the critique, Gabriel. Do you want to use her or not?”
“I’ll know after I talk to her.”
“She comes on duty in the CTC at noon.”
“ Langley?” Gabriel shook his head. “I want to see her somewhere the Agency isn’t listening.”
“That narrows our options considerably.” Carter made a show of careful consideration. “How about
Dumbarton Oaks? The gardens, at noon.”
“Just make sure she’s alone.”
Carter smiled sadly. “Thanks to you, Gabriel, she never goes anywhere alone. And she probably
never will.”
26 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON
The sun managed to burn through the veil of haze by mid-morning, and by the time Gabriel presented
himself at the entrance of Dumbarton Oaks it had grown appallingly hot. He purchased an admission ticket
from a man in a little booth and was handed a glossy brochure. He consulted it frequently while he
strolled past the elaborate arbors, trellises, and ornamental pools. A few minutes after noon, he made his
way to a distant corner of the gardens, where he found an attractive woman in her early thirties seated
primly on a wooden bench, a paperback book open in her lap, lilies of the valley at her feet. She wore a
simple cotton sundress and sandals. Her blond hair had grown out since he had seen her last; her alabaster
skin was beginning to turn red from the intense sun. She looked up sharply as Gabriel approached, but her
face remained oddly expressionless, as if it had been rendered by the hand of Mary Cassatt.
“Were you able to spot Adrian ’s watchers?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
He kissed her cheek and led her toward the shade of a nearby trellis. “A nearsighted probationer
fresh out of the academy could have spotted Adrian ’s watchers.”
"Let’s hear it.”
“Woman with the sunhat, man with the plaid Bermuda shorts, the couple wearing matching ‘I Love
New York ’ shirts.”
“Very good. But you missed the two boys in the dark sedan on R Street.”
“I didn’t miss them. They might as well have just waved hello to me as I came inside.”
They sat down together, but even in the shade there was little relief from the heavy wet heat. Sarah
pushed her sunglasses into her hair and brushed a trickle of perspiration from her cheek. Gabriel gazed at
her in profile while her eyes flickered restlessly around the gardens. The daughter of a wealthy Citibank
executive, Sarah Bancroft had spent much of her childhood in Europe, where she had acquired a
Continental education along with a handful of Continental languages and impeccable Continental manners.
She had returned to America to attend Dartmouth, and later, after spending a year studying at the
prestigious Courtauld Institute of Art in London, became the youngest woman ever to earn a Ph.D. in art
history at Harvard. While finishing her dissertation, she began dating a young lawyer named Ben
Callahan, who had the misfortune of boarding United Airlines Flight 175 on the morning of September 11,
2001. He managed to make one telephone call before the plane plunged into the South Tower of the World
Trade Center. That call was to Sarah. Gabriel had given her the chance that Langley had denied her: to
fight back against the murderers. With Carter’s blessing, and with the help of a lost Van Gogh, he had
inserted her into the entourage of a Saudi billionaire named Zizi al-Bakari and ordered her to find the
terrorist mastermind lurking within it. She had been lucky to survive. Her life had never been the same
since.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“Why ever would you think that? Because in the midst of a very tense operation, I committed the
terribly unprofessional act of confessing my true feelings for you?”
“That was one reason.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Gabriel. I’m over you now.” She looked at him and smiled. “Is
it my imagination or do you seem a little disappointed?”
“No, Sarah, I’m not disappointed.”
“Of course you are. The question is, do you really want
me
tagging along on another operation?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because your lovely new Italian bride might not approve.” She adjusted the thin straps of her
sundress. It clung to her breasts in a way that could cause even the most faithful eye to wander. “You
know, for a man of your many gifts, your knowledge of women is shockingly deficient.”
“I make up for it in other ways.”
“With your unfailingly pleasant demeanor?”
“For starters.”
She gazed at him for a moment as though he were a dull student. “The last person Chiara wants to see
in the field again is
me
.”
“You were a guest at our wedding.”
“One of the worst days of my life. And that’s saying something, because I’ve had some pretty terrible
days.”
“But you’re over me now?”
“Not even a flicker of interest.”
A pair of Japanese tourists approached and, in a combination of broken English and halting gestures,
asked Sarah to take their photograph. She agreed, much to Gabriel’s displeasure.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“What have I done now?”
“What if there had been a bomb in that camera?”
“Who would put a bomb in a camera?”
“
We
would.”
“If it was so dangerous, then why did you let me do it?”
“Because they were obviously harmless Japanese tourists.”
“How did you know that?”
“I can tell.”
“Just by looking at them?”
“Yes, I can tell just by looking at them.”
She laughed. “You’d better be careful, Gabriel. Otherwise, you might make me fall in love with you
again.”
“And we can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t.”
Gabriel gazed across the gardens and asked how much Carter had told her.
“Only that you’re going after Ivan Kharkov.”
“Know much about him?”
“He’s not formally under the purview of the CTC, but he probably should be. We went to war in
Iraq, in part, because we feared that Sad-dam might be willing to supply the terrorists with sophisticated
weaponry or even weapons of mass destruction. But the terrorists don’t have to go to a state like Iraq to
get their weapons. They can go to a nonstate actor like Ivan instead. For the right amount of money, he’ll
sell them whatever they want and route it to them through one of his customers in Africa or Latin
America.”
“You’ve obviously learned your craft well.”
“I was well trained.” She crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the wrinkles from her
sundress. “What do you need me to do this time?”
“Memorize the CIA’s files on Ivan and his network, and read everything you can about Mary Cassatt.
Adrian will tell you the rest.”
“ Kharkov and Cassatt? Only a Gabriel Allon operation could feature a combination like that.” She
lowered her sunglasses. “Should I assume you’ll need me to go undercover again?”
“Yes, you should.” A silence fell between them, heavy as the midday heat. “If you don’t want to do
it, Sarah, just tell me. God knows, you’ve done more than enough already.”
She looked at him and smiled. It was a brave smile, thought Gabriel. The kind that didn’t quite
extend to the rest of the face. “And miss all the fun?” She fanned herself dramatically with her book.
“Besides, I’d do just about anything to get out of here for a few days. I can’t stand Washington in the
summer.”
27 LONDON
Number 7 Mornington Terrace was a sooty postwar apartment block overlooking the rail tracks of
Euston Station. When Gabriel rang the bell of Apartment 5C, the door opened a few inches and a pair of
gray eyes regarded him coolly over the chain. They didn’t look pleased to see him. They rarely did.
Free of the chain, the door swung open a more hospitable distance. Gabriel stepped inside and took
stock of his surroundings: a dreary little bed-sit, with a cracked linoleum floor and flea market
furnishings. The man waiting inside looked as though he had wandered into the flat by mistake. He wore a
pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, and cuff links the size of shillings. His hair had been blond once;
now it had the cast of pewter. It gave him the appearance of a model in a magazine advertisement for fine