“Where are they now?”
“The wife and children?”
“Leach and Rosemary,” Gabriel answered impatiently.
“A little wine bar in Jermyn Street. Quiet table in the far corner. Very cozy.”
“You’ll get me a picture, won’t you, Graham? A little something to keep in my back pocket in case he digs in his heels?”
Seymour ran a hand through his gray locks, then nodded.
“I’d like to move on him tomorrow,” Gabriel said. “What’s his schedule like?”
“Appointments all morning at Christie’s, then he’s attending a meeting of something called the Raphael Club. We have a researcher checking it out.”
“You can tell your researcher to stand down, Graham. I can assure you the members of the Raphael Club pose no threat to anyone except themselves.”
“What is it?”
“A monthly gathering of art dealers, auctioneers, and curators. They do nothing more seditious than drink far too much wine and bemoan the shifting fortunes of their trade.”
“Shall we do it before the meeting or after?”
“After, Graham. Definitely after.”
“You don’t happen to know where and when these gentlemen gather, do you?”
“Green’s Restaurant. One o’clock.”
29
ST. JAME’S, LONDON
The members of the little-known but much-maligned Raphael Club began trickling into the enchanted premises of Green’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar, Duke Street, St. James’s, shortly before one the following afternoon. Oliver Dimbleby, a lecherous independent dealer from Bury Street, arrived early, but then Oliver always liked to have a gin or two at the bar alone, just to get the mood right. The unscrupulous Roddy Hutchinson came next, followed by Jeremy Crabbe, the tweedy director of Old Master Paintings from Bonhams. A few minutes later came a pair of curators, one from the Tate and another from the National. Then, at one sharp, Julian Isherwood, the Raphael Club’s founder and beating heart, came teetering up the front steps, looking hungover as usual.
By 1:20, the guest of honor—at least in the estimation of Gabriel and Graham Seymour, who were sitting across the street from Green’s in the back of an MI5 surveillance van—had not yet arrived. Seymour telephoned the MI5 listeners and asked whether there was any recent activity on Leach’s work line or his mobile. “It’s the Beast,” explained the listener. “She’s giving him a list of errands he’s to run on the way home from work.” At 1:32, the listener called back again to say that Leach’s line was now inactive, and, at 1:34, a surveillance team in King Street reported that he had just left Christie’s in “a highly agitated state.” Gabriel spotted him as he rounded the corner, a reedlike figure with rosy patches on his cheeks and two wiry tufts of hair above his ears that flapped like gray wings as he walked. A team inside Green’s reported that Leach had joined the proceedings and that the white Burgundy was now flowing.
The luncheon was three hours and fifteen minutes in length, which was slightly longer than usual, but then it was June and June was a rather slow time of the year for all of them. The final wine count was four bottles of Sancerre, four bottles of a Provençal rosé, and three more bottles of an excellent Montrachet. The bill, when it finally arrived, caused something of a commotion, but this, too, was Raphael ritual. Estimated at “somewhere north of fifteen hundred pounds” by the team inside the restaurant, it was collected by means of a passed plate, with Oliver Dimbleby, tubbiest of the club’s members, cracking the whip. As usual, Jeremy Crabbe was short of cash and was granted a bridge loan by Julian Isherwood. Alistair Leach tossed a couple hundred quid onto the plate as it passed beneath his nose and he finished his last glass of wine. The interior team would later report that he had the look of a man who seemed to know his world was about to change, and not necessarily for the better.
They clustered briefly outside in Duke Street before going their separate ways. Alistair Leach lingered a moment with Julian Isherwood, then turned and started back toward Christie’s. He would get no farther than the corner of Duke and King streets, for it was there that Graham Seymour had chosen to make the scoop. The task was handled by a young operative named Nigel Whitcombe, who had a face like a parson and the grip of a blacksmith. Leach offered only token resistance as he was led by the elbow toward a waiting MI5 Rover.
“Mind telling me what this is all about?” he asked meekly as the car pulled away from the curb.
“I’d love to tell you more, Alistair, but I’m afraid I’m just the delivery boy.”
“It’s not a long drive, is it? I’m afraid you caught me at a delicate moment. A little too much wine at lunch. That damn Oliver Dimbleby. He’s trouble, Oliver. Always was. Always will be. He’s the one you should be picking up.”
“Perhaps another time.” Whitcombe’s smile was like balm. “Do try to relax, Alistair. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to borrow some of your connections and expertise.”
“Any idea how long we’ll be?”
“I suppose that depends on you.”
“I’ll need to call Abigail if we’re going to be late. She’s a worrier, you know.”
Yes, thought Whitcombe. We know all about Abigail.
They had debated over where to take him next. Graham Seymour had recommended the imposing formality of Thames House, but Gabriel, who had a field man’s aversion to all things Headquarters, successfully lobbied for something cozier and less official. And so it was that, twenty minutes after he was plucked from King Street, Alistair Leach was shown into the drawing room of a hastily leased mews house not far from Sloane Square. It was a pleasant room with good books on the shelves and good whiskey on the trolley. The blinds were partially open and the agreeable light of late afternoon was filtering through the slits and making striped patterns along the wood flooring. Graham Seymour was slowly pacing in order to better showcase his English scale, his English good looks, and his perfectly tailored English suit. Gabriel, who had not yet been invited to join the proceedings,was seated before a television monitor in an upstairs bedroom. He had two MI5 technicians for company, one called Marlowe and the other called Mapes. Inside the Service, they were better known as M&M Audio and Video.
Whitcombe instructed Leach to sit on the couch, then sat next to him. On the coffee table was a single sheet of paper. Graham Seymour drew a pen from his pocket and held it toward Leach like a loaded gun.
“Be a love, Alistair, and sign that for me. It’s a copy of the Official Secrets Act. You needn’t bother reading it, since the wording isn’t terribly important. Rest assured, it gives us the right to lock you away in the Tower and lop off your head if you ever breathe a word of what is about to transpire here. You’re not to talk about it with anyone. Not with your colleagues. Not with Abigail or your children. And not with any other friend or acquaintance with whom you might share the occasional intimacy.”
Leach looked up sharply, and for an instant Gabriel feared that Seymour had played his ace when a jack would have done the trick. Then Leach looked at Whitcombe, who nodded gravely.
“What have I done?” Leach asked, pen to the document. “Short-changed Inland Revenue? Misbehaved on the Tube? Said something nasty about the current occupant of Number Ten?”
“You’re fortunate enough to have been born in a free country,” said Seymour. “You can say anything you like—within certain limits, of course. You’re here not because of your own actions but because of your association with a man who is a threat to British national security. A rather serious threat, actually.”
“Where’s here?” Leach looked around the room, then at Seymour. “And who are we?”
“The here is not important. This is all temporary. As for the we, that’s a bit more permanent. We’re from the Security Service, sometimes referred to as MI5. I’m Charles.” He nodded toward Whitcombe. “This is my colleague, Gerald.”
“And this association of mine who’s a threat to national security? Who might that be? My newsagen
t? The bloke who brings us coffee at the office?”
“It’s one of your clients, actually.”
“I’m afraid one encounters all sorts in a business like mine and not all of them are candidates for sainthood.”
“The client I’m talking about need never apply for admission to God’s heavenly kingdom, Alistair. He’s not your average robber baron or hedge fund thief. He’s been pouring weapons into the most volatile corners of the Third World for years. And it now appears he’s about to conclude a transaction that could make the London bombings seem like child’s play.”
“He’s an arms dealer? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They’re an unscrupulous lot by definition. This man is the worst of the worst.”
“Does he have a name?”
“You don’t get to know his name yet—not until you’ve agreed to help us.”
“But what can I do? I sell paintings.”
“We’re asking you to make a telephone call, Alistair. Nothing more. For that telephone call, you will be handsomely compensated. More important, we are giving you the opportunity to help defend your country and your fellow citizens of the world from an enemy that thinks nothing of slaughtering innocents.” Seymour stopped walking. His eyes were concealed by shadow. “Shall I go on or should we run you home to Abigail and pretend this encounter never took place?”
Leach, at the second mention of his wife’s name, shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked at Whitcombe, like a witness looking to his lawyer for counsel. Whitcombe gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, as if imploring Leach to join their crusade.
“Go on,” said Leach to no one in particular.
Seymour resumed his slow pacing. “Because the threat is international, our effort to counter it is international as well. You are about to meet an officer from the intelligence service of another country, a country allied with our own in the struggle against terrorism and global Islamic extremism. What’s more, it is quite possible you will recognize this gentleman from your professional life. The document you signed covers your contact with this man as well as us.”
“Please tell me he isn’t a bloody American.”
“Worse, I’m afraid.”
“The only thing worse than an American is an Israeli.”
Whitcombe gave Leach an admonitory tap on the side of the knee.
“Have I put my foot in it?” Leach asked.
“I’m afraid so,” said Seymour.
“You won’t say anything to him, will you? They do tend to get their back up at even the slightest insult.”
Seymour gave a ghost of a smile. “It will be our little secret.”
30
CHELSEA, LONDON
Gabriel entered the drawing room and, without a word, lowered himself into the armchair opposite Leach.
"Dear heavens, you’re—”
"I’m no one,” said Gabriel, finishing the sentence for him. “You don’t know me. You’ve never seen me before in your life. You’ve never heard my name. You’ve never seen my face. Are we clear, Alistair?”
Leach looked at Seymour and appealed for assistance. “Are you going to stand there and do nothing? For Christ’s sake! The man just threatened me.”
“He did nothing of the sort,” Seymour said. “Now, answer his question.”
“But I do know his name. I know both his names. He’s Mario Delvecchio. He used to clean pictures for juicy Julian Isherwood. He was the best. Painted like an angel and could authenticate a work simply by running his fingers over the brushstrokes. Then he broke our hearts. You see, the entire time he was cleaning for Julian, he was killing on behalf of the Israeli secret service.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else, Alistair.”
“That’s not what The Times says. According to The Times, you were one of the gunmen who killed those poor sods in front of Westminster Abbey on Christmas morning.”
“ ‘Those poor sods,’ as you call them, were hardened terrorists who were about to commit an act of mass murder. As for the affiliation of the men who killed them, the official record states that they were attached to the S019 division of the Metropolitan Police.”
“The Times had your picture, though, didn’t it?”
“Even a newspaper as reputable as The Times occasionally makes a mistake,” said Graham Seymour.
Gabriel silently handed Leach a single sheet of paper.
“Read this.”
“What is it?”
“A transcript of a phone conversation.”
“Whose telephone conversation?”
“Read it, Alistair.”
Leach did as instructed, then looked up at Gabriel in anger.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s not important.”
“Tell me where you got this or this conversation is over.”
Gabriel capitulated. In recruitments, Shamron always said, it was sometimes necessary to accept small defeats in order to secure ultimate victory.
“It was given to us by the Americans.”
“The Americans? Why in God’s name are the Americans tapping my phones?”
“Don’t be grandiose,” Seymour interjected. “They’re not tapping your telephones. They’re tapping hers.”
“Are you trying to tell me Elena Kharkov is an arms dealer?”
“Ivan Kharkov is the arms dealer,” Gabriel said pedantically. “Elena just gets caught when she happens to place a call from one of the phones they’re monitoring. On that day, she was calling you from her home in Knightsbridge. Look at the transcript, Alistair. Refresh your memory, if you need to.”
“I don’t need to refresh anything. I remember the conversation quite clearly. The Americans have no right to record these calls and store them away in their supercomputers. It’s like opening someone else’s mail. It’s unseemly.”
“If it makes you feel any better, no one bothered to read it—until I came along. But let’s put all that aside and focus on what’s important. You were talking to her about a painting that day—a painting by Mary Cassatt, to be precise.”
“Elena has a thing for Cassatt. An obsession, really. Buys anything that comes on the market. I thought I’d managed to pry loose a painting for her from a minor collector—a picture called Two Children on a Beach that Cassatt painted in 1884 while convalescing from a case of bronchitis. The collector kept us hanging for several weeks before finally telling me that he wasn’t ready to sell. I placed a call to Elena and got her machine. She called me back and I gave her the bad news.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“The painting? Yes, it’s quite lovely, actually.”
“Did you ever tell Elena the name of the owner?”
“You know better than to ask that, Signore Delvecchio.”
Gabriel looked at Graham Seymour, who had wandered over to the shelves and was pulling down books for inspection. “Who is he, Alistair? And don’t try to hide behind some claim of dealer-client privilege.”
“Can’t do it,” said Leach obstinately. “Owner wishes to remain anonymous.”
Nigel Whitcombe made a church steeple with his fingertips and pressed it thoughtfully against his lips, as if pondering the morality of Leach’s refusal to answer.