“Or maybe it’s a part you’ve played before,” suggested Olivia. “Maybe you simply reprised it.”
“Your dinner is getting cold,” said Keller evenly.
“I’ve never liked cottage pie. It reminds me of home,” she said with a frown. “Of cold and rainy nights like this.”
“They’re not so bad.”
She took an exploratory bite of the food.
“Well?” asked Keller.
“It’s not like eating in the south of France, but I suppose it will do.”
“Maybe this will help.” Keller poured her a glass of Bordeaux.
She raised it to her lips. “This is definitely a first.”
“What’s that?”
“Having dinner with the man who killed my . . .”
She faltered. Even she seemed at a loss over how to refer to Jean-Luc Martel.
“You fooled him at first. But once you told him you were British, it didn’t take him long to figure out who you really were. He said you were a former SAS officer who had spent several years hiding out on Corsica. He said you were a professional—”
“That’s quite enough,” interrupted Keller.
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” After a silence she said, “We’re not so different, you and I.”
“You’re much more virtuous than I am.”
She smiled. “You never judged me?”
“Never.”
“And your Israeli friend?”
“People in glass houses.”
“I saw him in that video,” said Olivia. “You, too. He was the one who killed the dirty bomber. And you were the one who held on to the detonator. For three hours,” she added softly. “It must have been awful.”
Keller said nothing.
“No denials?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed? he thought. He watched the rain hurling itself against the windows of the snug little alcove.
Olivia drank some of the wine. “Did you have a chance to read the papers today?”
“Could you believe that story about Victoria Beckham in the Mail?”
“How about the one in the Telegraph about the killing of Saladin? The one about how Jean-Luc Martel helped British and Israeli intelligence penetrate Saladin’s network and locate him in Morocco.”
“Interesting reading,” said Keller. “And true, for a change.”
“Not all of it.”
“Reporters,” said Keller dismissively.
“I assume your Israeli friend was responsible.”
“He usually is.”
“Why did he do it? Why rehabilitate Jean-Luc’s image after the way he acted at the camp in the Sahara?”
“Perhaps you didn’t read the rest of the article,” said Keller. “The part about how Jean-Luc’s beautiful British girlfriend didn’t know how he really made his money. The part about how the French authorities have no interest in investigating her in light of Jean-Luc’s role in eliminating the world’s most dangerous terrorist.”
“I did read that part,” she said.
“Then surely you realize he didn’t do it for Jean-Luc’s sake, he did it for yours. You’re clean now, Olivia.” Keller paused, then added, “You’re restored.”
“Just like you?”
“Much better, actually. You have your entire professional inventory of paintings plus the fifty million we gave you for the Basquiat and the Guston. Not to mention the loose change we found lying under the couch cushions in the gallery. The building alone is worth at least eight million. Needless to say,” said Keller, “you’re a very wealthy woman.”
“With a blackened name.”
“The Telegraph doesn’t seem to think so. And neither will the rest of the London art world. Besides, they’re nothing but a pack of thieves. You’ll fit right in.”
“A gallery?”
“That was the promise my friend made to you that afternoon at the villa in Ramatuelle,” said Keller. “A blank canvas upon which to paint any picture you want. A life without Jean-Luc Martel.”
“Without anyone,” she said.
“Something tells me you’ll have no shortage of suitors.”
“Who would want to be with someone like me? I’m JLM’s—”
“Eat,” said Keller, cutting her off.
She tried another bite of the pie. “How long will I have to stay here?”
“Until Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service determines that it’s safe for you to leave. Even then, it might be wise for you to retain the services of a professional security firm. They’ll assign some nice ex-SAS lads to look after you, the kind Jean-Luc always hated.”
“Any chance you can serve on my detail?”
“I’m afraid I have other commitments.”
“So I’ll never see you again?”
“It’s probably better if you don’t. It will help you forget the things you saw that night in Morocco.”
“I don’t want to forget. Not yet.” She pushed away her plate and lit a cigarette. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Marlowe.” And then, almost as an afterthought, Keller added, “Peter Marlowe.”
“It sounds as though someone made it up.”
“Someone did.”
“Tell me your real name, Peter Marlowe. The name you were born with.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand atop Keller’s. Quietly, she asked, “And are you allowed to stay here so I won’t have to be all alone on this cold and dreary English night?”
Keller turned away from Olivia’s blue eyes and watched the rain lashing against the windows.
“No,” he said. “No such luck.”
72
King Street, London
She had no plans for a splashy opening, but somehow, with the help of a hidden hand, or perhaps by magic, plans materialized. Indeed, no sooner had the sun set on the second Saturday in November than the art world and all its unclaimed baggage came flowing through her door. There were dealers and collectors and curators and critics. There were actors and directors from stage and screen, novelists, playwrights, poets, politicians, pop stars, a marquis who looked as though he’d just stepped off his yacht, and more models than anyone could count. Oliver Dimbleby pressed his gold-plated business card into the hand of any poor girl who happened to linger more than a second or two within his damp reach. Jeremy Crabbe, London’s last faithful husband, seemed incapable of speech. Only Julian Isherwood managed to mind his manners. He planted his flag at the end of the courtesy bar, next to Amelia March of ARTnews. Amelia was gazing disapprovingly at Olivia Watson, who was posing for photographs in front of her Pollock, watched over by a couple of bodyguards.
“Worked out rather well for her in the end, don’t you think?”
“How’s that?” asked Isherwood.
“Gets herself involved with the biggest drug dealer in France, makes millions running a dirty gallery in Saint-Tropez, and now she’s set up shop in St. James’s, surrounded by you and Oliver and the rest of the Old Master fossils.”
“And we are ever grateful she did,” said Isherwood as he watched a gazelle-like girl float past his shoulder.
“You don’t find any of it odd?”
“Unlike you, petal, I adore happy endings.”
“I like mine with a grain of truth, and something about this doesn’t add up. I’ll have you know I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
“Have another drink instead. Or better yet,” said Isherwood, “have dinner with me.”
“Oh, Julian.” She pointed across the sea of heads, toward a tall, pale man standing a few feet from Olivia. “There’s your old client, Dmitri Antonov.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Is that his wife?”
“Sophie,” said Isherwood, nodding. “Lovely woman.”
“That’s not what I hear. And who’s the one next to her?” she asked. “The dishy one who looks like another bod
yguard.”
“Name’s Peter Marlowe.”
“What’s he do?”
“Couldn’t say.”
At half past eight Olivia took up a microphone and made a few remarks. She was pleased to be a part of the great London art world, she was happy to be home again. She made no mention of Jean-Luc Martel, the unsung hero of the hunt for the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin, and none of the reporters present, Amelia March included, bothered to ask her about JLM, either. She was free of him at last. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.
At the stroke of nine the lights dimmed and the music started up and another wave of guests came squeezing through the door. Many were battle-scarred survivors of the blowouts at Villa Soleil. The ones who were busy being rich together. The ones with all the time in the world for everything. The Antonovs shook a few of the better hands before slipping into the back of their Maybach limousine, never to be seen again. Keller left a few minutes later, but not before pulling Olivia aside to offer his congratulations and bid her a good night. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
“Do you like it?” she asked, beaming.
“The gallery?”
“No. The picture I painted on the blank canvas your friend gave me.” She drew him close. “I want to see you,” she whispered into his ear. “Whatever happened in your previous life, I promise I can make it all better.”
Outside, it was beginning to rain. Keller snared a taxi in Pall Mall and rode it to his maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. After paying off the driver, he stood on the pavement for a long moment and scrutinized the blinds in his many windows. His instincts told him there was danger present. Turning, he crept silently down the steps to the lower entrance and drew the Walther PPK from the small of his back before unlocking the door. He entered his own home in a whirling blur, as he had entered the room in the southeast corner of the house in Zaida, and leveled his gun at the man seated calmly at the kitchen counter.
“Bastard,” he said, lowering the weapon. “That one was close.”
“You really have to stop doing this.”
“Dropping in unannounced?”
“Breaking into my house. What would Mr. Marlowe’s posh Kensington neighbors think if they heard gunfire?” Keller tossed his Crombie overcoat on the marble-topped island, where Gabriel, illuminated by the restrained recessed lighting, sat atop a stool. “You couldn’t find anything to drink in my refrigerator?”
“Tea would be nice, thank you.”
Keller frowned and filled the electric kettle with water. “What brings you to town?”
“A meeting at Vauxhall Cross.”
“Why wasn’t I on the guest list?”
“Need to know.”
“What was the topic?”
“What part of need to know didn’t you understand?”
“Do you want tea or not?”
“The meeting concerned certain suspicious activities related to the Iranian nuclear program.”
“Imagine that.”
“Hard to believe, I know.”
“And the nature of these activities?”
“The Office is of the opinion that the Iranians are conducting weaponization research in North Korea. SIS concurs. It should,” added Gabriel. “We’re sharing the same source.”
“Who is it?”
“Something tells me you’ll know soon enough.”
Keller opened one of the cabinets. “Darjeeling or Prince of Wales?”
“No Earl Grey?”
“Darjeeling it is.” Keller dropped a teabag into a mug and waited for the water to boil. “You missed quite a party tonight.”
“So I heard.”
“Couldn’t fit it into your busy schedule?”
“Didn’t think it would be wise to show my face in a part of London where it is rather well known. Besides, I went to great effort to make Olivia presentable again. I didn’t want to spoil my work.”
“You removed the dirty varnish,” said Keller. “Retouched the losses.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“The article in the Telegraph was a lovely piece of work on your part. With one glaring exception,” added Keller.
“What’s that?”
“The heroic portrayal of Jean-Luc Martel.”
“It was unavoidable.”
“Are you forgetting he put a gun to Olivia’s head?”
“I saw the whole thing.”
“From the cheap seats.”
Keller placed the mug of tea on the island. Gabriel left it untouched.
“Obviously,” he said after a moment, “your feelings for Olivia are clouding your judgment.”
“I have no feelings for her.”
“Spare me, Mr. Marlowe. I happen to know that you were a frequent visitor to Wormwood Cottage during Olivia’s stay there.”
“Did Graham tell you that?”
“Actually, it was Miss Coventry. Furthermore,” Gabriel sailed on, “it has come to my attention that you and Olivia shared an intimate moment tonight at the opening of her gallery.”
“It wasn’t intimate.”
“Would you like to see the photograph?”
Keller wordlessly poured two fingers of whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler. Gabriel blew on his tea.
“Have I not been a good friend to you despite the unfortunate circumstances of our beginning? Have I not offered you sound advice? After all, if it wasn’t for me you’d still be—”
“Your point?” interrupted Keller.
“Don’t make the same mistake I made,” said Gabriel. “Olivia knows more about you than any woman in the world other than that crazy fortune-teller on Corsica, and she’s far too old for you. What’s more, Vauxhall Cross has already rifled through all her dirty laundry, which means SIS won’t stand in the way of your relationship. You were made for each other, Christopher. Grab on to her and never let go.”
“Her past is—”
“Nothing compared to yours,” said Gabriel. “And look how well you turned out.”
Keller held out his hand.
“What?” asked Gabriel.
“Let me see it.”
Gabriel handed his mobile phone across the countertop. “The happy couple,” he said.
Keller looked at the photograph. It had been snapped from across the room while Olivia was whispering into his ear.
Whatever happened in your previous life, I promise I can make it all better . . .
“Who took it?”
“Julian,” said Gabriel. “The true hero of the operation.”
“Don’t forget the Antonovs,” said Keller.
“How could I?”
“They put in a brief appearance tonight, by the way. They actually looked happy for a change.”
“You don’t say.”
“Think they’re going to make it?”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I think they might.”
73
King Saul Boulevard, Tel Aviv
Which left one last loose thread. Not one, actually, but several hundred million. Not to mention a haunted house in the heart of old Casablanca, a lavish villa on France’s Côte d’Azur, and a collection of paintings acquired under the expert eye of Julian Isherwood. The real estate was disposed of quietly and at a substantial loss, furnishings, caretakers, and jinns included. The paintings, as promised, found their way to Jerusalem, and onto the walls of the Israel Museum. The director wanted to call it the Dmitri and Sophie Antonov Collection. Gabriel, however, insisted the donation remain anonymous.
“But why?”
“Because Dmitri and Sophie don’t really exist.”
But the Antonovs’ charity did not end there, for they had at their disposal a vast sum of money that had to go somewhere. Money they had borrowed, interest free, from the Butcher of Damascus. Money the Butcher had looted from his people before gassing and bombing them, and dispersing them to refugee camps in Turkey, Jordan, and Lebanon. The Antonovs, through their representatives, do
nated countless millions to feed, clothe, house, and care for the medical needs of the displaced. They also pledged millions to build schools in the Palestinian territories—schools that did not teach children merely to hate—and to a facility in the Negev Desert that cared for severely disabled children, Jewish and Arab alike. Hadassah Medical Center received twenty million dollars to help construct a new suite of underground operating rooms. Another ten million went to the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design for new studio space and a scholarship program for promising Israeli artists from low-income families.
The largest portion of the Antonovs’ fortune, however, would reside at the Bank of Israel, in an account controlled by the government agency headquartered in an anonymous office block on King Saul Boulevard. The amount was sufficiently large to see to all of life’s little extras—assassinations, paid informants, defectors, false passports, safe houses, travel expenses, even an engagement party. Mikhail signed the last of the documents in Gabriel’s office. In doing so, he laid Dmitri Antonov formally to rest.
“I’ll miss him. He wasn’t all bad, you know.”
“For a Russian arms dealer,” said Gabriel. “Did you bring the ring?”
Mikhail handed over the little velvet-covered box. Gabriel thumbed open the lid and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is there a stone in there somewhere?”
“A carat and a half,” protested Mikhail.
“It’s not as nice as the one she was wearing in Saint-Tropez.”
“That’s true. But I don’t have Dmitri’s money.”
No, thought Gabriel as he slipped the paperwork into his briefcase. Not anymore.
Chiara and the children were waiting downstairs in the parking garage, in the back of Gabriel’s armored SUV. As they drove eastward across the Galilee, they were followed by a second SUV containing Uzi and Bella Navot, and a caravan of cars filled with more than two hundred members of the Office’s analytical and operational staff. It was dark by the time they all reached Tiberias, but Shamron’s villa, perched atop its escarpment overlooking the lake and the ancient battlefield, was ablaze with light. Mikhail and Natalie were the last to arrive. The ring sparkled on Natalie’s left hand. Her eyes sparkled, too.