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She summoned the waiter with a raised eyebrow and ordered a bottle of Cuatro Palmas Amontillado.
“Have you been to Spain, Mr. Dimbleby?”
“Many times.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
“I’m from Seville originally,” she informed him. “But these days I live mostly in Madrid.”
“Your English is quite extraordinary.”
“I attended a special art history program at Oxford for a year.” She was interrupted by the reappearance of the waiter. After an elaborate presentation of the wine, he poured two glasses and withdrew. She raised hers a fraction of an inch. “Cheers, Mr. Dimbleby. I hope you enjoy it.”
“You must call me Oliver.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist,” he said, and drank some of the wine.
“What do you think?”
“It’s ambrosia. I only hope that your client is picking up the check.”
“He is.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Several, in fact.”
“He’s a spy, your client?”
“He is a member of an aristocratic family. His name is rather cumbersome, to say the least.”
“Is he Spanish like you?”
“Perhaps.”
Oliver sighed heavily before returning his glass to the tabletop.
“Forgive me, Mr. Dimbleby, but my client is an extremely wealthy man who does not want the world to know the true scale of his art collection. I cannot reveal his identity.”
“In that case, perhaps we should discuss yours.”
“As I explained to your assistant, I’m a broker.”
“How is it that I’ve never heard of you?”
“I prefer to operate in the shadows.” She paused. “As do you, it seems.”
“Bury Street is hardly the shadows.”
“But you have been, how shall we say, less than forthcoming about the origin of the Veronese. Not to mention the Titian and the Tintoretto.”
“You don’t know much about the art trade, do you?”
“Actually, I know a great deal, as does my client. He is a sophisticated and shrewd collector. Until he falls in love with a painting, that is. When that happens, money is no object.”
