final version, but Gabriel felt no need to practice, nor was he possessed with an abundance of time. He
placed the easels side by side, with Cassatt’s original on the left, and immediately prepared his first
palette. He worked slowly for the first few days, but as he grew more accustomed to Cassatt’s style, he
was able to apply the paint to the canvas with increasing confidence and swiftness. Sometimes he had the
sensation she was standing at his shoulder, carefully guiding his hand. Usually, she appeared to him alone,
in a floor-length dress and ladylike bonnet, but occasionally she would bring along her mentors-Degas,
Renoir, and Pissarro-to instruct him on the finer points of palette and brushwork.
Though the painting consumed most of Gabriel’s attention, Ivan and Elena Kharkov were never far
from his thoughts. NSA redoubled its efforts to intercept all of Ivan’s electronic communications, and
Adrian Carter arranged for a man from London Station to make regular trips to Havermore to share the
take. As a child of the KGB, Ivan had always been careful on the telephone and remained so now. He
spent those days largely sequestered in his walled mansion in Zhukovka, the restricted secret city of the
oligarchs west of Moscow. Only once did he venture outside the country: a day trip to Paris to spend a
few hours with Yekatarina, his supermodel mistress. He phoned Elena three times from Yekatarina’s bed
to say that his business meetings were going splendidly. One of the calls came while she was dining with
two companions at the exclusive Café Pushkin, and the moment was captured by an Office watcher with a
miniature camera. Gabriel couldn’t help but be struck by the melancholy expression on her face,
especially when compared to the outward gaiety of her two companions. He tacked the picture to the wall
of his makeshift studio and called it
Three Ladies in a Moscow Café
.
One salient operational fact eluded Gabriel: the precise date Ivan and Elena were planning to leave
Moscow and return to Knightsbridge. As he labored alone before the canvas, he became gripped by a fear
he was about to throw an elaborate party that no one would attend. It was an irrational notion; Ivan
Kharkov tolerated his native country only in small doses and it was only a matter of time before he would
be overcome by the urge to leave it once more. Finally, an MI5 team monitoring the Kharkov mansion in
Rutland Gate witnessed the delivery of a large consignment of vodka, champagne, and French wine-strong
evidence, they argued, of Ivan’s impending return. The next day, NSA intercepted a telephone call from
Ivan to Arkady Medvedev, the chief of his personal security and intelligence service. Buried within a
lengthy discussion about the activities of a Russian rival was the nugget of intelligence for which Gabriel
had been so anxiously waiting: Ivan was coming to London in a week for what he described as a round of
important business meetings. After leaving London, he would travel to the South of France to take up
residence at Villa Soleil, his sumptuous summer palace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea near Saint-
Tropez.
That evening, Gabriel ate dinner while standing before the canvas. Shortly after nine, he heard the
sound of car tires crunching over the gravel drive and an engine note that was unfamiliar to him. He
walked over to the window and peered down as a tall woman with pale blond hair emerged with a single
bag slung over her shoulder. She came upstairs to the studio and stood at his shoulder while he worked.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re forging a Cassatt?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
“The owner won’t sell me the original.”
“What happens when it’s finished?”
“You’re going to sell it to Elena Kharkov.”
“Ask a silly question.” She leaned forward and scrutinized the canvas. “Watch your brushwork on
the hands, Gabriel. It’s a bit too impasto.”
“My brushwork, as usual, is flawless.”
“How foolish of me to suggest otherwise.” She smothered an elaborate yawn. “I’m running on
fumes.”
“You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow, you’re moving up to the main house. Uncle John is
expecting you.”
“What’s he like?”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“If you need any more advice, don’t hesitate to wake me.”
“I think I can manage on my own.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Sarah kissed his cheek and slipped silently through the doorway. Gabriel pressed the PLAY button
on a small portable stereo and stood motionless while the first notes of
La Bohème
filled the room. Then
he tapped his brush against the palette and painted alone until midnight.
Sir John Boothby was introduced to his American niece, an attractive young woman now using the
name Sarah Crawford, over breakfast the following morning. Gabriel swiftly sketched the missing
chapters of their long and cordial relationship. Though Sarah’s mother, now deceased, had been foolish
enough to marry a Wall Street banker, she had made certain her daughter maintained strong connections to
England, which is why Sarah had spent summers at Havermore, and why she still made an annual
pilgrimage to the estate now that she was in her thirties. As a young girl, she had stayed in the nursery and
formed a deep bond with
Two Children on a Beach
. Therefore, it would be natural for Sarah to show
Elena Kharkov the painting rather than her uncle, who had never really cared for it. The Cassatt would be
viewed “in situ,” meaning that Sarah would be required to escort Elena to the upstairs to see it, thus
leaving her ample time for a quiet but unmistakable approach. Uncle John’s task would be to assist in the
separation of Elena from her bodyguards. Gabriel estimated they would have ten minutes. Any more than
that, he reckoned, and the bodyguards would start getting jumpy. And jumpy Russian bodyguards were the
last thing they needed.
With Sarah’s arrival, the pace of the preparations increased dramatically. M amp;M Audio and
Video rolled into Havermore, disguised as local electricians, and installed cameras and microphones
around the house and the grounds. They also created a makeshift command post in the hayloft of the barn,
where the feeds could be monitored and recorded. Sarah spent her mornings “reacquainting” herself with
a home she knew well and cherished deeply. She spent many pleasant hours with her uncle, familiarizing
herself with the vast old manor house, and led herself on long walks around the estate with Punch and
Judy, Boothby’s poorly behaved Pembroke Welsh corgis, trotting at her heels. Old George Merrywood
invariably stopped her for a chat. His local Gloucestershire accent was so broad that even Sarah, who
had spent much time in England, could barely understand a word he said. Mrs. Devlin pronounced her
“simply the most delightful American I’ve ever met.” She knew nothing of Sarah’s alleged blood
relationship to her employer-indeed, she had been told by Sir John that Sarah was the daughter of an
American friend and had recently gone through a nasty divorce.
Poor lamb,
thought Mrs. Devlin one
afternoon as she watched Sarah emerge from the dappled light of the North Wood with the dogs at her
heels.
What idiot would ever let a girl like that slip through his fingers?
In the evenings, Sarah would wander out to the gamekeeper’s cottage to discuss the real purpose of
her stay at Havermore, which was the recruitment of Elena Kharkov. Gabriel would lecture her while he
stood before his easel. At first, he spoke about the craft in general terms, but as the date of Elena’s arrival
drew nearer, his briefings took on a decidedly more pointed tone. “Remember, Sarah, two people are
already dead because of her. You can’t push too hard. You can’t force the issue. Just open the door and let
her walk through it. If she does, get as much information as you can about Ivan’s deal and try to arrange a
second meeting. Whatever you do, don’t let the first encounter last longer than ten minutes. You can be
sure the bodyguards will be watching the clock. And they report
every
thing to Ivan.”
The following morning, Graham Seymour called from Thames House to say that Ivan Kharkov’s
plane-a Boeing Business Jet, tail number N7287IK-had just filed a flight plan and was due to arrive at
Stansted Airport north of London at 4:30 P.M. After hanging up the phone, Gabriel applied the final
touches of paint to his ersatz version of
Two Children on a Beach
by Mary Cassatt. Three hours later, he
removed the canvas from its stretcher and carried it downstairs to the kitchen, where he placed it in a
350-degree oven. Sarah found him there twenty minutes later, leaning nonchalantly against the counter,
coffee mug in hand.
“What’s that smell?”
Gabriel glanced down at the oven. Sarah peered through the window, then looked up in alarm.
“Why are you baking the Cassatt?”
Just then the kitchen timer chimed softly. Gabriel removed the canvas from the oven and allowed it
to cool slightly, then laid it faceup on the table. With Sarah watching, he took hold of the canvas at the top
and bottom and pulled it firmly over the edge of the table, downward toward the floor. Then he gave the
painting a quarter turn and dragged it hard against the edge of the table a second time. He examined the
surface for a moment, then, satisfied, held it up for Sarah to see. Earlier that morning, the paint had been
smooth and pristine. Now the combination of heat and pressure had left the surface covered by a fine
webbing of fissures and cracks.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
“It’s not amazing,” he said. “It’s craquelure.”
Whistling tunelessly to himself, he carried the canvas upstairs to his studio, placed it back on the
original stretcher, and covered the painting with a thin coat of yellow-tinted varnish. When the varnish
had dried, he summoned Sarah and John Boothby to the studio and asked them to choose which canvas
was the original, and which was the forgery. After several minutes of careful comparison and
consultation, both agreed that the painting on the right was the original, and the one on the left was the
forgery.
“You’re absolutely sure?” Gabriel asked.
After another round of consultation, two heads nodded in unison. Gabriel removed the painting on
the right from its easel and mounted it in the new frame that had just arrived from Arnold Wiggins amp;
Sons. Sarah and John Boothby, humiliated over being duped, carried the forgery up to the main house and
hung it in the nursery. Gabriel climbed into the back of an MI5 car and, with Nigel Whitcombe at his side,
headed back to London. The operation was in Alistair Leach’s hands now. But, then, it always had been.
33 THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
Gabriel knew that discretion came naturally to those who work the highlands of the art trade, but
even Gabriel was surprised by the extent to which Alistair Leach had remained faithful to his vow of
silence. Indeed, after more than a week of relentless digging and observation MI5 had found no trace of
evidence to suggest he had broken discipline in any way-nothing in his phone calls, nothing in his e-mail
or faxes, and nothing in his personal contacts. He had even allowed things to cool with Rosemary
Gibbons, his lady friend from Sotheby’s. Whitcombe, who had been appointed Leach’s guardian and
confessor, explained why during a final preoperational dinner. “It’s not that Alistair’s no longer fond of
her,” he said. “He’s chivalrous, our Alistair. He knows we’re watching him and he’s trying to protect her.
It’s quite possible he’s the last decent man left in the whole of London -present company excluded, of
course.” Gabriel gave Whitcombe a check for one hundred thousand pounds and a brief script. “Tell him
not to blow his lines, Nigel. Tell him expectations couldn’t be higher.”
Leach’s star turn was to occur during a matinee performance but was no less significant because of
it. For this phase of the operation, Graham Seymour insisted on using Thames House as a command post,
and Gabriel, having no other choice, reluctantly agreed. The ops room was a hushed chamber of blinking
monitors and twinkling lights, staffed by earnest-looking young men and women whose faces reflected the
rainbow racial quilt of modern Britain. Gabriel wore a guest pass that read BLACKBURN: USA. It
fooled no one.
At 2:17 P.M., he was informed by Graham Seymour that the stage was now set and the performance
ready to commence. Gabriel made one final check of the video monitors and, with several MI5 officers
watching expectantly, nodded his head. Seymour leaned forward into a microphone and ordered the
curtain to be raised.
He was conservatively dressed and possessed a churchman’s forgiving smile. His card identified
him as Jonathan Owens, associate editor of something called the Cambridge Online Journal of
Contemporary Art. He claimed to have an appointment. Try as she might, the receptionist in the lobby of