Page 106 of Ransom

For the second time that summer the art world in all its glory came rolling through the gate of Edward Knight’s estate in Devon. The official guest list had some four hundred and fifty names, but an untold number simply showed up at Knight’s door uninvited like revelers drawn to Gatsby’s house in West Egg. Smiling young girls from Bonhams granted them admission regardless, the evening’s host having decreed that no one was to be turned away. Once inside the grand entrance hall they ran a gauntlet of dark-suited private security types with earpieces and wrist mics and handheld magnetometers. Some of the attendees bristled at the intrusive searches, but most opened their bags and blazers without complaint. Edward Knight, they told themselves, had good reason to be concerned about security.

So dense was the throng that most of the attendees never caught so much as a glimpse of him. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the auction he was circulating through the crowd outside on the terrace, casually but smartly attired, surrounded by no fewer than six bodyguards. “I’ll get her back,” he was overheard telling one well-wisher after ignoring the man’s outstretched hand. “I know she’s out there somewhere.” No one had the courage to tell him thathis faith was misplaced. “Poor Edward,” said the heiress to a British supermarket fortune who, if the tabloids were to be believed, had once tried to murder her philandering husband with a butcher knife. “He doesn’t seem to realize that dazzling Alice is never coming back.”

But even the supermarket heiress, whose eye was keener than most, had no sense that something might be afoot. For a start, the bodyguards surrounding Edward Knight were not employees of a private security firm; they were in actual fact officers of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. The same was true of the two figures hovering vigilantly at the billionaire’s side. One was a ruggedly handsome man with sun-bleached blond hair, the other a boyish-looking bloke with the aspect and manner of a vicar. Someone in the know said the younger of the two men, the one who looked as though he belonged in a pulpit, was Knight’s new personal assistant. “Poor lamb,” said the heiress. “I don’t envy him.”

In the far corner of the terrace was an oddball assembly of London art world figures, including the former fashion model who now ran a contemporary art gallery in King Street. She was whispering something into the ear of a reporter fromARTnews, who in turn was attempting to console the inconsolable chief auctioneer from Christie’s. A petite Scandinavian woman in a Givenchy jacket was gently fending off the advances of a corpulent art dealer with pink cheeks, much to the bemusement of the general manager of the most prominent restoration company in Venice. Her husband, the world-renowned art conservator who had spoken at the last Wickham House gathering, was searching the crowd with those unusually green eyes of his, as though trying to locate an old friend. Sarah Bancroft, who was standing at his side, raised a martini glass to her lips and said, “A perfect night for an assassination, don’t you think?”

“All we need now,” replied Gabriel, “is our assassin.”

“Any candidates?” asked Sarah.

He nodded toward a man who bore a striking resemblance to Russia’s foreign minister.

“That’s James Hargrave, you dolt. The shipping baron.”

Gabriel indicated another prospective candidate.

“Roger Gordon,” said Sarah. “Construction equipment.”

“I suppose that leaves him,” said Gabriel, and directed his gaze toward Christopher.

“Perhaps you should ring him.”

Gabriel took out his secure SIS phone and dialed. Christopher, on the opposite side of the terrace, answered at once. “If you’re wondering whether I’ve spotted the guest of honor,” he said, “the answer is no. In my professional opinion it’s a thoroughly British crowd. My colleagues are of a similar mind.”

“I think we should wait a few more minutes before starting the auction. Our guests seem to be enjoying the champagne and canapés.” Gabriel rang off and turned to Chiara. “Let’s mingle, shall we?”

She glanced at Ingrid, who had yet to extract herself from the clutches of Oliver Dimbleby. “What about her?”

“She can look after herself.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Chiara threaded her arm through Gabriel’s and they set off across the broad terrace. “No sign of him?” she asked.

“Or her,” replied Gabriel. He took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a waiter and handed one to Chiara. In the process he scrutinized a man who was eyeing her from the garden below.

“Well?” she asked.

“Just one of your many admirers.” They carried their champagne through a pair of open French doors into a congested drawing room.Gabriel’s eyes moved left and right. “I can barely breathe in here. Let’s see if the next room is a little less crowded.”

It wasn’t. Nor was there any sign of a Russian assassin. The supermarket heiress caught Gabriel’s eye and summoned him with the wave of her jeweled left hand. In her right she held the remnants of a Beefeater and tonic.

“How lovely to see you again, Mr. Allon. What brings you to our little soirée?”

“You, of course.”

She made a skeptical face. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible liar?”

“Never,” he answered truthfully.

She directed her gaze toward Edward Knight. “What do you think? Did he do it?”

“Murder his wife? Come now,” said Gabriel.

“He’s as guilty as the day is long. Everyone says so.”

“As I recall, they said the same about you.”

“It happened to be true.” A chime sounded, signaling that the auction was about to begin. “Have you a favorite?” she asked.