Coyle dropped Lucy’s leash and started to run, but the FBI agents swarmed him in an instant. Gabriel remained in the park until Coyle was gone, then headed down the footpath to MacArthur Boulevard. By noon the following day, he was back in Cornwall.
Chapter 71
The Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall
HE WAS A CHANGED MAN when he came back from America; they could see that. The wounds had healed, the siege had been lifted, and whatever calamity he had suffered seemed finally to have passed. After encountering him one drizzly morning outside the old flint church, Vera Hobbs declared him fully restored and suitable for framing. But to whom had he entrusted the job? “Our mysterious friend from the cove isn’t the sort to place himself in the care of others,” replied Dottie Cox. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say he propped himself on an easel and did the work with his own hand. That’s why he turned out so well.”
By then, it was mid-autumn again, and the days were short, a few hours of pale gray amid a seemingly endless night. They would see him in the morning when he came into the village to do the marketing, and again in the afternoon when he walked the cliffs alone. Of meaningful work there was no evidence. Occasionally, they would glimpse him in the gazebo with a sketchbook on his lap, but his easel stood empty in his studio. Dottie feared he had fallen victim to a bout of aimlessness, but Vera suspected the explanation lay elsewhere. “He’s happy for the first time in his life,” she said. “All he needs now is a couple of little ones to go with that gorgeous wife of his.”
Oddly, it was the wife who appeared restless now. She was still unfailingly polite on the streets of the village, but it was clear she was dreading the prospect of the coming winter. She busied herself by cooking elaborate meals that filled the cove with the savor of rosemary and garlic and tomato. Sometimes, if the windows were open, and if one paused in just the right spot, it was possible to hear her singing in Italian in that sultry voice of hers. Invariably, the tunes were hauntingly sad. Duncan Reynolds diagnosed her condition as cabin fever and suggested that the women invite her out for a girls-only night up at the Godolphin Arms. They tried. She turned them down. Politely, of course.
If the restorer was aware of his wife’s predicament, he gave no outward sign of it. Fearing the couple was headed for a crisis, Dottie Cox decided to have a word with him next time he came to her shop alone. A week would elapse before she was presented with an opportunity. Appearing at his usual time, half past ten, he took a plastic basket from the stack near the door and began filling it with all the joy of a soldier foraging for supplies. Dottie watched him nervously from behind the cash register, rehearsing her speech in her head, but when the restorer began placing his items on the counter, she was able to manage nothing more than her usual, “Morning, luv.”
Something about Dottie’s tone made the restorer fix her briefly with a suspicious stare. Then he looked down at the newspapers stacked on the floor and furrowed his brow before handing over a crumpled twenty-pound note. “Wait,” he said suddenly, taking a copy of the Times. “This, too.” Dottie slipped the newspaper into the sack and watched the restorer depart. Then she leaned over the counter to have a look at the paper. The lead story concerned the imminent collapse of the regime in Syria, but just below there was a piece about a recent anonymous donation of a painting by Titian to the National Gallery in London. No one in Gunwalloe imagined there might be any connection. And they never would.
The National Gallery released a vague official statement concerning the donation, but within the corridors of British intelligence there came to exist an unofficial version of the story that unfolded roughly along the following lines. It seemed the legendary Israeli intelligence officer Gabriel Allon, with the full knowledge and approval of MI5, had cleverly manipulated a sale at the venerable Christie’s auction house in order to channel several million pounds into the terror network of Rashid al-Husseini. As a result, a newly rediscovered painting by Titian briefly entered the collection of the Saudi heiress Nadia al-Bakari. But upon her death, it was quietly returned to its rightful owner, the noted London art dealer Julian Isherwood. For understandable reasons, Isherwood initially considered keeping the painting but thought better of it after the aforementioned Allon suggested a far nobler course of action. The art dealer then made contact with an old chum from the National Gallery—an Italian Old Master expert who had unwittingly played a role in the initial deception—thus setting in motion one of the most important donations to a public British institution in years.
“And by the way, petal, I still haven’t received one red cent from the CIA.”
“Neither have I, Julian.”
“They don’t pay you for these little errands you’re always running for them?”
“Apparently, they regard my services as pro bono publico.”
“I suppose they are.”
They were walking along the Coastal Path. Isherwood wore country tweeds and Wellington boots. His steps were precarious. Gabriel, as always, had to resist an urge to reach out and steady him.
“How much bloody farther do you intend to make me walk?”
“It’s only been five minutes, Julian.”
“Which means we’ve already substantially exceeded the distance of my twice-daily trek from the gallery to the bar at Green’s.”
“How’s Oliver?”
“As ever.”
“Is he behaving himself?”
“Of course not,” said Isherwood. “But he hasn’t breathed a word about his role in your little caper.”
“Our little caper, Julian. You were involved, too.”
“But I’ve been involved from the beginning,” Isherwood replied. “This is all new and exciting for Oliver. Lord knows he has his faults, but beneath all that blubber and bluster beats the heart of a patriot. Don’t worry about Oliver. Your secret is safe with him.”
“And if it isn’t, he’ll be hearing from MI5.”
“I think I’d actually pay to see that.” Isherwood’s pace was beginning to flag. “I don’t suppose there’s a pub up ahead. I feel a drink coming on.”
“There’s time for that later. You need exercise, Julian.”
“What’s the point?”
“You’ll feel better.”
“I feel fine, petal.”
“Is that why you want me to take over the gallery?”
Isherwood stopped and placed his hands on his hips. “Not next week,” he said after a moment. “Not next month. Not even next year. But someday.”
“Sell it, Julian. Retire. Enjoy your life.”
“Sell it to whom? Oliver? Roddy? Some bloody Russian oligarch who wants to dabble in culture?” Isherwood shook his head. “I’ve put too much into the place to let it fall into the hands of a stranger. I want it to stay in the family. Since I have none, that leaves you.”
Gabriel was silent. Isherwood reluctantly started walking again.
“I’ll never forget the day Shamron brought you into my gallery for the first time. You were so quiet, I wasn’t sure you could actually speak. Your temples were as gray as mine. Shamron called it—”
“The stain of a boy who’d done a man’s job.”
Isherwood smiled sadly. “When I saw you with a brush in your hand, I hated Shamron for what he’d done. He should have left you at Bezalel to finish your studies. You would have been one of your generation’s finest painters. As of this moment, everyone in New York is trying to figure out who painted that portrait of Nadia al-Bakari. I only wish they knew the truth.”
Isherwood paused again to gaze down at the waves beating against the black rocks at the northern end of the cove. “Come to work for me,” he said. “I’ll teach you the tricks of the trade, such as how to lose your shirt in ten easy steps or less. And when it’s time for me to devote my remaining energy to gardening, I’ll leave you with more than enough resources to carry on in my absence. It’s what I want, petal. More important, it’s what your wife wants.”
“It’s very generous, Juli
an, but I can’t accept.”
“Why not?”
“Because one day, an old enemy will make an appointment to see a Bordone or a Luini, and I’ll end up with several bullets in my head. And so will Chiara.”
“Your wife is going to be disappointed.”
“Better disappointed than dead.”
“Heaven knows I’m no expert when it comes to long-term relationships,” said Isherwood, “but I have a hunch your wife might be in need of a change of scenery.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, smiling, “she’s made that abundantly clear.”
“So come to London, at least for the winter. It will give Chiara the distraction she needs, and it will save me a fortune in shipping fees. I have a panel by Piero di Cosimo that’s in desperate need of your attention. I’ll make it well worth your while.”
“Actually, I may have something in Rome.”
“Really?” asked Isherwood. “Public or private?”
“Private,” replied Gabriel. “The owner lives in the very large house at the end of the Via della Conciliazione. He’s offering me a chance to clean one of my favorite pictures.”
“Which one?”
Gabriel answered.
“I’m afraid I can’t compete with that,” Isherwood said. “Is he going to pay you anything?”
“Acorns,” said Gabriel, “but it will be worth it. For Chiara’s sake, if nothing else.”
“Just try to stay out of trouble while you’re there. The last time you were in town . . .”
Isherwood stopped himself. It was clear from Gabriel’s expression he no longer wished to dwell on the past.
The wind had torn a hole in the veil of clouds, and the sun was hovering just above the sea like a white disk. They remained atop the cliffs a moment longer, until the sun was gone, then started toward home. As they entered the cottage, they could hear Chiara singing. It was one of those silly Italian pop songs she always sang when she was happy.
Author’s Note
PORTRAIT OF A SPY IS a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene portrayed in the novel does not exist. If it did, it would bear a striking resemblance to a similar painting by Tiziano Vecellio, also known as Titian, that hangs in the State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Lot 12, Ocher and Red on Red, oil on canvas, by Mark Rothko, is also fictitious, though in May 2007, a similar painting, White Center (Yellow, Pink and Lavender on Rose), fetched $72.84 million at auction in New York, a record for the artist. According to published reports, the buyer was the ruler of Qatar.
The art dealers, auctioneers, and consultants who appear in the novel, along with other books in the series, were created by the author and are in no way meant to be construed as fictitious renderings of real people. There is indeed an enchanting art gallery at 7–8 Mason’s Yard in London, though its owner, the inimitable Patrick Matthiesen, shares nothing with Julian Isherwood other than his warmth and brilliant wit. The techniques for the restoration and relining of paintings described in the novel are accurate, including the speed with which a gifted restorer, if necessary, could knock a picture into shape. Deepest apologies to the management of Christie’s in London for using an Old Master auction to fund a terrorist network, but I’m afraid operational security required keeping the affair secret.
Students of the global war on terror will no doubt recognize that, in creating the character Rashid al-Husseini, I have borrowed much from the curriculum vitae of the American-born al-Qaeda cleric and recruiter Anwar al-Awlaki—including his Yemeni background, his disturbing connection to two of the 9/11 hijackers in San Diego and Northern Virginia, and his apparent journey from moderation to radicalism and terror. The fictitious Malik al-Zubair was also inspired by real terror masterminds—namely, Yahya Ayyash, the Hamas master bomb-maker known as “the Engineer,” and Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the Jordanian terrorist who led al-Qaeda in Iraq. Ayyash was killed in January 1997 by a small bomb concealed in a cellular phone. Zarqawi, who was responsible for the death of hundreds of innocent Iraqis during the bloodiest phase of the Iraq insurgency, was killed in an American air strike on a safe house north of Baghdad in June 2006.
The border crossing between the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia described in the novel does not exist. The actual crossing is many miles to the north and in recent months has been prone to long backups due to changes in Saudi customs procedures. The spectacular rise and fall of Dubai has been faithfully portrayed, along with the deplorable treatment of its large foreign workforce. Unfortunately, Dubai is not the only Gulf emirate where foreign workers are routinely abused and treated as virtual indentured servants. In March 2011, the Guggenheim Museum under construction in neighboring Abu Dhabi faced a threatened boycott by more than a hundred prominent artists who were outraged over conditions at the site. “Those working with bricks and mortar,” the Lebanese-born media artist Walid Raad said in a statement, “deserve the same kind of respect as those working with cameras and brushes.”
Financial intelligence, or “finint,” has been an important weapon in the war on terror for many years now. The Treasury Department’s Office of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence collects and analyzes transactional data, as does the FBI’s Terrorist Financing Operations Section. In addition, the CIA and numerous private companies connected to the vast American national-security complex all routinely track the flow of money through the bloodstream of the global jihadist movement.
Regrettably, a decade after the attacks of 9/11, much of this money still comes from the citizens of Saudi Arabia and, to a lesser extent, the Sunni Muslim emirates of the Persian Gulf. In a secret cable made public in December 2010, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton wrote, “It has been an ongoing challenge to persuade Saudi officials to treat terrorist financing emanating from Saudi Arabia as a strategic priority.” In conclusion, Clinton’s memo declares that “donors in Saudi Arabia constitute the most significant source of funding to Sunni terrorist groups worldwide.”
One would think that Saudi Arabia, the country that produced Osama Bin Laden and fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers, would do more to clamp down on terrorist fund-raising on its soil. But other diplomatic cables have revealed the House of Saud has been unable or unwilling to shut down the flow of money to al-Qaeda and its affiliates. Militant groups operate front charities inside Saudi Arabia with impunity or simply solicit cash donations openly during the annual Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca. Prince Mohammad Bin Nayef, leader of Saudi Arabia’s counterterrorism efforts, told a senior American official that “we are trying to do our best” to stem the flow of cash to extremists and murderers. But, he added, “if money wants to go” to terrorists, there is little Saudi authorities can do to stop it.
Which begs the question: Does the House of Saud, which owes its power to a covenant formed two centuries ago with Muhammad Abdul Wahhab, truly wish to sever financial ties to a Sunni extremist movement it helped to create and nurture? A tense meeting in 2007 might provide an important clue. According to leaked government cables, Frances Fragos Townsend, a senior counterterrorism adviser to President George W. Bush, asked Saudi officials to explain why the Kingdom’s ambassador to the Philippines was associating with suspected terrorist financiers. The Saudi foreign minister, Prince Saud al-Faisal, dismissed Townsend’s concerns, stating the ambassador was guilty of “bad judgment rather than intentional support for terrorism.” He then went on to criticize an American bank for raising “inappropriate and aggressive questions” about accounts maintained by the Saudi Embassy in Washington, D.C.
While the global terror threat has evolved since the morning of September 11, 2001, one thing remains unchanged: al-Qaeda and its affiliates and imitators are actively plotting to murder and maim on a mass scale in Wester
n Europe and the United States. Dame Eliza Manningham-Buller, the former head of MI5, predicted in 2006 that the struggle against Islamic terror would “be with us for a generation,” while other security officials have warned of a “forever war” that will force the West to maintain aggressive counterterrorism programs for decades, if not longer. It is likely that the ultimate length of the global war on terror will be determined, in part, by the seismic events shaking the Arab world at the time of this writing. Much will depend upon which side emerges victorious. If the forces of moderation and modernity prevail, it is possible the threat of terrorism will gradually recede. But if radical Muslim clerics and their adherents manage to seize power in countries such as Egypt, Jordan, and Syria, we might very well look back fondly on the turbulent early years of the twenty-first century as a golden age of relations between Islam and the West.
Acknowledgments
THIS NOVEL, LIKE THE PREVIOUS books in the Gabriel Allon series, could not have been written without the assistance of David Bull, who truly is among the finest art restorers in the world. Each year, David gives up many hours of his valuable time to advise me on technical matters related to the craft of restoration and to review my manuscript for accuracy. His knowledge of art history is exceeded only by the pleasure of his company, and his friendship has enriched our family in ways large and small.
I am indebted to the brilliant art consultants Gabriel Catone and Andrew Ruth for taking me to the November 2010 Postwar and Contemporary evening sale at Christie’s in New York and tutoring me on the tactics involved in purchasing paintings worth tens of millions of dollars. Truth be told, I found the world of the high-stakes auction far more intriguing than the world of spies and terrorists, and the experience had a profound impact on the ultimate course of the novel. Needless to say, Gabriel Catone and Andrew Ruth have little in common with the fictitious Nicholas Lovegrove other than their sophistication and extraordinary knowledge of the business of art.