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64
Pierre Hotel
Shortly before taking over day-to-day management of Isherwood Fine Arts, Sarah Bancroft had endured a brutal interrogation at the hands of a senior Russian intelligence officer, during which she was threatened with a deadly radiological toxin. Watching Evelyn Buchanan write her article was only slightly less torturous. Sarah offered guidance where she could, but mainly she kept her head down and tried to stay out of the line of fire, most of which was directed at Gabriel. No, he said time and time again, he had no desire to see his name included in the story. Ground rules were ground rules. There was no going back at the last minute.
“In that case,” said Evelyn, “I have a few more questions I’d like to ask Magdalena.”
“About what?”
“Oliver Dimbleby.”
“Who?”
“Magdalena mentioned his name when she and Phillip were discussing your Gentileschi.”
“Did she? I wasn’t listening at the time.”
“She also implied that all those newly discovered paintings were forgeries.”
“That’s because they were.”
“Who painted them?”
“Who do you think?”
“Why?”
“To lure Magdalena into the open.”
“Did anyone actuallybuythem?”
“Goodness, no. That would have been unethical.”
“Please tell me the rest of the story.”
“Finish the one in front of you, Evelyn. Your editor is expecting your first draft at nine o’clock.”
By half past six Sarah could take no more. Rising, she announced her intention to go downstairs for a proper Belvedere martini. Magdalena requested permission to join her.
“Permission denied.”
“If I was going to flee, I would have done it this afternoon while I was with Phillip. Besides, we had a deal, Mr. Allon.”
She had a point. “One drink only,” he said. “And no phone or passport.”
“Two drinks,” countered Sarah. Then she turned to Magdalena. “I’ll meet you at the elevators in five minutes.”
“Ten would be better.”
Sarah headed to her room to freshen up. Magdalena did the same, leaving Gabriel alone with Evelyn.
“I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“I’m sure you would,” replied Gabriel absently. Then he checked the feed from Phillip Somerset’s phone. The device had not moved in more than three hours. Fourteen missed calls, eight new voice mails, thirty-seven unread text messages.
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