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“What now?” asked Oliver.
“At some point late tomorrow afternoon, you will invite her to see the painting on Wednesday at six p.m. You will also ask her for the number of her mobile phone. She will no doubt refuse to give it to you.”
“And when she arrives at my gallery on Wednesday evening?”
“She won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re going to call her Wednesday afternoon and reschedule the appointment for eight p.m. on Thursday.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To let her know that she is the furthest thing from your mind.”
“If only it were true,” said Oliver. “But why so late?”
“I don’t want Cordelia Blake to be around when you show her the painting.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “It might spoil the mood.”
“Is she really interested in buying it?”
“Not at all. She just wants to have a look at it before it disappears.”
“And if she likes what she sees?”
“After examining the provenance, she will ask you to reveal the identity of the man who sold it to you. You, of course, will refuse, leaving her no choice but to extract the information by some other means.”
“Music to my ears.”
“It’s possible she might try to seduce you,” said Gabriel. “But don’t be disappointed if she threatens to destroy you instead.”
“I can assure you, she won’t be the first.”
Gabriel tapped a few keys on the laptop. “I just added a new name to your contacts. Alessandro Calvi. Mobile phone number only.”
“Who is he?”
“My front man in Florence. Call him at that number in the Spanish woman’s presence. Signore Calvi will take care of the rest.”
The front man, whose real name was Luca Rossetti, left Florence at ten o’clock the following morning and headed south on the E35 Autostrada. The car beneath him was a Maserati Quattroporte sedan. Like the Patek Philippe timepiece on his wrist, it was the property of the Arma dei Carabinieri, Rossetti’s employer.
He arrived at his destination, Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, at half past one. Another hour elapsed before Gabriel finally emerged from the door of Terminal 3. He tossed his overnight bag in the trunk and dropped into the passenger seat.
“I was starting to get worried about you,” said Rossetti as he accelerated away from the curb.
“I spent almost as much time trying to get through passport control as I did flying from London.” Gabriel looked around the interior of the luxury automobile. “Nice sled.”
“It belonged to a heroin trafficker from the Camorra.”
“A childhood friend of yours?”
“I knew his younger brother. They’re both down in Palermo now, in Pagliarelli Prison.”
Rossetti turned onto the A90, Rome’s high-speed orbital motorway, and headed north. He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the surveillance photograph that Gabriel had placed in his hand.
“What’s her name?”
“According to her passport and credit cards, it’s Magdalena Navarro. She made a move on Oliver Dimbleby last night.”
