Christie’s could find no record of it in her logbook.
“Would it be too much trouble to actually ring him?” the handsome young man asked through a
benedictory smile. “I’m sure he’s just forgotten to notify you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the receptionist. “Give me a moment, please.”
She picked up the receiver of her impressive multiline telephone and punched in a four-digit
extension.
“Owens,”
she said, repeating the name for the third time. “
Jonathan
Owens… Cambridge
Online Journal of Contemporary Art. Youngish chap… Yes, that’s him, Mr. Leach… Quite lovely
manners.”
She hung up the phone and handed the young visitor a temporary guest identification badge, which he
affixed to the lapel of his suit jacket.
“Third floor, dear. Turn left after you come off the lift.”
He stepped away from the receptionist’s desk and, after clearing a security checkpoint, boarded a
waiting elevator. Alistair Leach was waiting in the doorway of his office. He regarded his visitor with a
somewhat baleful expression, as though he were a debt collector, which, to some degree, he was.
“What can I do for you, Mr.
Owens
?”
Nigel Whitcombe closed the door and handed Leach the script.
“Think you can do it cold, Alistair, or do you want to run through it a time or two?”
“I do this for a living. I think I can manage it on my own.”
“You’re sure, Alistair? We have a lot of time and money invested in this. It’s important you not
stumble over your delivery.”
Leach lifted the receiver of his telephone and dialed the number from memory. Ten seconds later, in
the opinion of young Nigel Whitcombe, Gabriel’s operation truly took flight.
“Elena, darling. It’s Alistair Leach from Christie’s. Am I catching you at a perfectly dreadful time?”
He hadn’t, of course. In fact, at the moment her mobile rang, Elena Kharkov was having tea with her
seven-year-old twins, Anna and Nikolai, at the café atop Harrods department store. She had arrived there
after taking the children for a boat ride on the Serpentine in Hyde Park-an idyllic scene that might have
been painted by Mary Cassatt herself were it not for the fact that Mrs. Kharkov and her children were
shadowed the entire time by two additional boats filled with Russian bodyguards. They were with her
now, seated at an adjacent table, next to several veiled Saudi women and their African servants. The
telephone itself was in a rather smart Italian leather handbag; withdrawing it, she appeared to recognize
the number in the caller ID screen and was already smiling when she lifted the phone to her ear. The
conversation that followed was forty-nine seconds in length and was intercepted at multiple transmission
points and by multiple services, including the U.S. National Security Agency, Britain’s GCHQ, and even
by the Russian eavesdropping service, which made nothing of it. Gabriel and Graham Seymour listened to
it live by means of a direct tap on Leach’s line at Christie’s. When the connection went dead, Gabriel
looked at one of the technicians-Marlowe or Mapes, he could never be certain which was which-and
asked him to play it again.
Elena, darling, it’s Alistair Leach. Am I catching you at a perfectly dreadful time?”
"Of course not, Alistair. What can I do for you?”
"Actually, darling, it’s what I can do for you. I’m pleased to say that I have some extremely
interesting news about our mutual friend, Madame Cassatt.”
“What sort of news?”
“It seems our man may have had a change of heart. He rang me this morning to say he’s
interested in discussing a sale. Shall I call you later or would you like to hear the rest now?”
“Don’t be a tease, Alistair! Tell me everything.”
“He says he’s had a chance to reconsider. He’s says if the price is right, he’ll let it go.”
“How much does he want for it?”
“In the neighborhood of two and a half, but you might be able to do a bit better than that.
Between us, Elena, his finances aren’t what they once were.”
“I’m not going to take advantage of him.”
“Of course you are, darling. You’re the one with the money.”
“Are you sure about the attribution and the provenance?”
“Signed, dated, and airtight.”
“When can I see it?”
“That’s completely up to you.”
“Tomorrow, Alistair. Definitely tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to check to see if he’s free, but I suspect he’ll be able to squeeze you in. His funds
aren’t unlimited, but time is something he has in plentiful supply.”
“Can you reach him now?”
“I’ll try, love. Shall I call you back this afternoon or would you rather it wait till morning?”
“Call me right away! Ciao, Alistair!”
The technician clicked the PAUSE icon. Graham Seymour looked at Gabriel and smiled.
“Congratulations, Gabriel. Looks like you’ve managed to get your hooks in her.”
“How long is it going to take her to get from Knightsbridge to Havermore?”
“The way those Russians drive? No more than two hours door to door.”
“And you’re sure about Ivan’s schedule?”
“You’ve heard the intercepts yourself.”
“Humor me, Graham.”
“He’s got a delegation of City investment bankers coming to Rutland Gate for lunch at one. Then he’s
got a four o’clock conference call with Zurich. He’ll be tied up all afternoon.”
A voice crackled over the monitors. It was one of the watchers at Harrods. Elena had asked for the
check. The bodyguards were setting a perimeter. Departure imminent.
“Call her back,” Gabriel said. “Tell her to come at four. Tell her not to be late.”
“Shall we do it now or should we make her wait?”
“She has enough stress in her life, don’t you think?”
Seymour snatched up the phone and dialed.
Whitcombe’s mobile purred. He listened in silence for a moment, then looked at Alistair Leach.
"The reviews are in, Alistair. Looks like we’ve got a smash hit on our hands.”
“What now?”
Whitcombe answered. Leach pressed the REDIAL button and waited for Elena’s voice to come back
on the line.
It was 5:30 that same evening when Mrs. Devlin entered the library at Havermore, bearing a silver
tray with a glass of whiskey in the center of it. Sir John was reading the
Telegraph
. He always read the
Telegraph
at this time of day; like most idle men, he kept to a strict regime. He took a single sip of the
whiskey and watched while Mrs. Devlin began straightening the books and papers on his desk. “
Leave
it,
Lillian,” he said. “Whenever you clean my library, I spend the next week searching for my things.”
“If you’ve nothing else for me, Sir John, I’ll be going home now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”
“What are we having tonight?”
“Rack of lamb.”
“Divine,” he murmured.
Mrs. Devlin bade him a good evening and started toward the door. Boothby lowered his newspaper.
“Oh, Lillian?”
“Yes, Sir John?”
“We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow afternoon.”
“
More
visitors, Sir John?”
“I’m afraid so. She won’t be staying long. She’s just going to have a look at the painting in the
nursery.”
The painting in the nursery…
The painting that spent a week in the gamekeeper’s cottage, in the
possession of the man whose presence she had been told to say nothing about.
“I see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”
“She’s not exactly a
scone
person, if you catch my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”
“She’s a
Russian
, Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of
luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”
Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.
“Something bothering you, Lillian?”
“May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”
“You usually do.”
“Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”
“Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
“The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of
your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced
they’re up to no good in the barn!”
“Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”
“And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a
Russian
? Your poor father, may
he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”
“I need the money, Lillian.
We
need the money.”
She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think
something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father
was alive.”
Boothby gave her a conspiratorial look over his whiskey. “The Russians will be arriving at four
o’clock sharp, Lillian.” He paused. “If you would rather not be here-”
“I’ll be here, Sir John,” she said quickly.
“What about Old George?”
“Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”
“Perhaps we should.”
34 HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE
The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-
Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They
flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone
St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen
seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.
At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone
was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir
John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and
Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library,
pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah
Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington
boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.
Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary
was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of
the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he
had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples.
His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her
Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and
playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and
made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her
white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness
round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles
instead of contact lenses.
Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s
, the man with ash-colored
temples had told her.
Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything
.
At precisely 4:04, the pair of armored Mercedes limousines turned through the gates of Havermore
and started up the long drive. The men in the hayloft saw them first, followed by Sir John, whose library
window gave him a superb outpost from which to monitor their approach. Sarah, from her position in the
entrance hall, could not see the cars but heard them a few seconds later as they came prowling into the
gravel forecourt. Two powerful engines went silent; several doors opened and six young bodyguards with
faces of chiseled marble emerged. The men in the hayloft knew their names. Three were Oleg, Yuri, and
Gennady: Elena Kharkov’s permanent detail. The other three were Vadim, Vasily, and Viktor: “the three
V’s,"” as they were known to Kharkov watchers the world over. Their presence at Havermore was
curious, since they served almost exclusively as Ivan’s praetorian guard.
Having established a loose perimeter around the lead Mercedes, two of the guards opened the rear
doors. Elena Kharkov emerged from the driver’s side, a radiant flash of lustrous dark hair and green silk.
From the passenger side came a sturdy figure, well dressed, with hair the color of steel. For a few
seconds, the men in the hayloft mistook him for a seventh security man. Then, as he turned his face toward
the cameras, they realized he was no bodyguard. He was the man who was supposed to be on a
conference call with Zurich. The man who was not supposed to be here.