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“Not bad, actually.”
“Three original Allons would fetch a great deal of money on the open market.”
“They’re for my eyes only, Julian.”
Just then the door opened, and in walked a handsome dark-haired Italian in slim-fitting trousers and a quilted Barbour jacket. He sat down at a nearby table and in the accent of a southerner ordered a Campari and soda.
Julian was contemplating the bowl of olives. “Cleaned anything lately?”
“My entire CD collection.”
“I was referring to paintings.”
“The Tiepolo Restoration Company was recently awarded a contract by the Culture Ministry to restore Giulia Lama’s four evangelists in the church of San Marziale. Chiara says that if I continue to behave myself, she’ll let me do the work.”
“And how much will the Tiepolo Restoration Company receive in compensation?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Perhaps I could tempt you with something a bit more lucrative.”
“Such as?”
“A lovely Grand Canal scene that you could knock into shape in a week or two while gazing upon the real thing from your studio window.”
“Attribution?”
“Northern Italian School.”
“How precise,” remarked Gabriel.
The “school” attribution was the murkiest designation for the origin of an Old Master painting. In the case of Julian’s canal scene, it meant that the work had been produced bysomeone workingsomewhere in the north of Italy, at some point in the distant past. The designation “by” occupied the opposite end of the spectrum. It declared that the dealer or auction house selling the painting was certain it had been produced by the artist whose name was attached to it. Between them lay a subjective and oftentimes speculative series of categories ranging from the respectable “workshop of” to the ambiguous “after,” each designed to whet the appetite of potential buyers while at the same time shielding the seller from legal action.
“Before you turn up your nose at it,” said Julian, “you should know that I’ll pay you enough to cover the cost of that new sailboat of yours. Two sailboats, in fact.”
“It’s too much for a painting like that.”
“You funneled a great deal of business my way while you were running the Office. It’s the least I can do.”
“It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“I’m an art dealer, petal. If I was interested in ethics, I’d be working for Amnesty International.”
“Have you run it past your partner?”
“Sarah and I are hardly partners,” said Julian. “My name might still be on the door, but these days I am largely underfoot.” He smiled. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, too.”
It was Gabriel who had arranged for Sarah Bancroft, a veterancovert operative and overeducated art historian, to take over day-to-day control of Isherwood Fine Arts. He had also played a facilitating role in her recent decision to wed. For reasons having to do with her husband’s complicated past, the ceremony was a clandestine affair, held at an MI6 safe house in the countryside of Surrey. Julian had been one of the few invited guests in attendance. Gabriel, who was late in arriving from Tel Aviv, had given away the bride.
“So where’s this masterpiece of yours?” he asked.
“Under armed guard in London.”
“Is there a deadline?”
“Have you another pressing commission?”
“That depends.”
