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20
Westport
They passed through Heathrow security separately—Gabriel under his real name, with the forged Cuyp crammed into his carry-on—and reunited in the departure lounge. While waiting for the flight to be called, Sarah composed an email to Aiden Gallagher, informing him that Isherwood Fine Arts of London wished to hire Equus Analytics to conduct a technical evaluation of a painting. She did not identify the work in question, though she implied it was a matter of some urgency. She was scheduled to arrive in New York at noon and, barring a traffic disaster, could be in Westport by 3:00 p.m. at the latest. Could she deliver the painting to him then?
On board the plane, Sarah informed the flight attendant that she would require no food or drink during the eight-hour flight across the North Atlantic. Then she closed her eyes and did not open them again until the aircraft thudded onto the runway at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Armed with her American passport and Global Entry card, she glided through the rituals of the arrival process while Gabriel, his status reduced, spent an hour working his way through the maze of stanchions and retractable nylon restraints reserved for unwanted foreigners. His journey ended in a windowless room, wherehe was briefly questioned by a well-fed Customs and Border Protection officer.
“What brings you back to the United States, Director Allon?”
“Private research.”
“Does the Agency know you’re in the country?”
“They do now.”
“How’s your chest feeling?”
“Better than my hand.”
“Anything in the bag?”
“A couple of firearms and a dead body.”
The officer smiled. “Enjoy your stay.”
A blue line directed Gabriel to baggage claim, where Sarah was pondering her mobile phone. “Aiden Gallagher,” she said without looking up. “He’s wondering whether it could wait until Monday. I told him it couldn’t.”
Just then her phone pinged with an incoming email.
“Well?”
“He wants a description of the painting.”
Gabriel recited the particulars. “A River Scene with Distant Windmills.Oil on canvas. Thirty-six by fifty-eight centimeters. Currently attributed to Aelbert Cuyp.”
Sarah sent the email. Gallagher’s reply arrived two minutes later.
“He’ll meet us in Westport at three.”
Equus Analyticswas located in an old redbrick building on Riverside Avenue near the overpass of the Connecticut Turnpike. Gabriel and Sarah arrived a few minutes after two o’clock in the back of an Uber SUV. They picked up coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts up the street and settled onto a bench along the sunlit bank of the Saugatuck. Fat white clouds flew across an otherwise spotless blue sky. Pleasure craft dozed like discarded playthings in their slips at a small marina.
“It almost looks like something Aelbert Cuyp might have painted,” remarked Gabriel.
“Westport definitely has its charms. Especially on a day like this.”
“Any regrets?”
“About leaving New York?” Sarah shook her head. “I think my story ended rather well, don’t you?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re truly happy being married to Christopher.”
“Deliriously so. Though I have to admit, my work at the gallery isn’t quite as interesting as the jobs I used to do for you.” She lifted her face toward the warmth of the sun. “Do you remember our trip to Saint-Barthélemy with Zizi al-Bakari?”
“How could I forget?”
