2 Devon
Devon
If anyone was to blame for what happened next it was Julian Isherwood, a respected dealer of Italian and Dutch Old Master
paintings and éminence grise of the London art world, a portion of which convened each afternoon at the bar of Wiltons to
celebrate their triumphs or, as was more frequently the case, drown their sorrows. During one such gathering—it might have
been early May, though the precise date was of little consequence—Julian lent his ear to Niles Dunham, a learned curator from
the National Gallery known for his infallible eye and unfailingly pleasant demeanor. On the afternoon in question, however,
Niles was uncharacteristically cross.
“My Botticelli exhibition,” he explained.
“The one you’ve spent six months planning?”
“Yes, that one, Julie. My esteemed director has decided to cancel it.”
“Sir Avery has something against Botticelli?”
“Sir Avery has no money.”
“Deplorable,” declared Julian.
“A sad state of affairs,” agreed Niles.
But such was life in Britain in the age of austerity.
Faced with soaring budget deficits and shrinking tax receipts, His Majesty’s Government had slashed funding for the arts to the bone, leaving London’s great museums to fend for themselves.
A recent renovation of the National Portrait Gallery had been carried out almost entirely with private donations.
Small museums in the shires were hanging on by their fingernails.
“Is there no chance he might reconsider?” asked Julian.
“None whatsoever. As far as Sir Avery is concerned the case is closed.”
“And what if you were to raise the funds yourself?”
Niles cast a despairing glance down the crowded bar toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable dealer from Bury
Street. “I’d rather spend an evening discussing Oliver’s latest sexual conquests than go hat in hand to wealthy donors.”
And there the affair might have ended, with a Botticelli exhibition that was not to be, had Julian not resolved to take matters
into his own hands. He broached the subject with his partner, a brilliant American named Sarah Bancroft, and Sarah encouraged
the endeavor, though she was confident it would come to nothing. Still, it might provide Julian with a project to occupy his
copious amounts of spare time. These days his contribution to the management of Isherwood Fine Arts was largely ceremonial.
He rarely set foot in the gallery before noon, and by one o’clock he was sitting down to lunch at one of London’s better tables,
usually with female company. The bar at Wiltons was typically the final stop of his busy day. Sarah’s as well.
But how to go about raising the millions of pounds required for the exhibition?
Julian supposed he could call in a few favors and twist the odd arm, but like Niles Dunham he recoiled at the very thought.
Better to throw a fundraiser, he decided.
But not some stodgy affair with lukewarm prosecco and wilted canapés.
It would have to be something splashy and perhaps a touch over the top, the art world bash of the season.
He had a venue in mind, a grand estate near the sea in Devon owned by a longtime client.
Much to Julian’s delight, the client agreed to host the event and foot the bill for the food and drink.
All that remained was a bit of eye candy, an art world celebrity who would move the needle and draw a crowd.
Sarah already had someone in mind. Julian thought it a marvelous idea, as did Niles Dunham.
“The question is, will he agree to do it?”
“Could be a tough sell,” admitted Julian.
“I hear he bought a cottage out in Cornwall.”
“Gwennap Head, to be precise.”
“Cornwall is rather close to Devon, you know. Right next door, in fact.”
“Don’t worry, Niles. I’ll be sure to include that in my pitch.”
In the end it was Sarah who made the request. As expected it was met with considerable resistance, but she nevertheless managed
to break down his defenses. As for the format, she suggested a heavily scripted interview with a friendly reporter. He reminded
her that there was no such thing.
“What about Amelia March of ARTnews?”
“I’d feel better if you handled it.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“You used to work as an undercover operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Something tells me you can impersonate a
journalist for a few minutes.”
And with that the deal was done. Sarah and Julian drew up the guest list, and the invitations went out.
They included the name of the event’s star attraction, all but eliminating the possibility of a last-minute cancellation.
He left his cottage near Gwennap Head at four in the afternoon on the third Saturday in June and, accompanied by his beautiful Italian-born wife, set off for Devon.
He was confident that one way or another he was making a dreadful mistake.
As the saying went, no good deed goes unpunished, especially where his old friend Julian Isherwood was concerned.
“What’s the worst possible thing that could happen tonight?”
“The world might come to an end.”
“Short of that,” said Chiara.
Gabriel considered his answer. “I suppose one of the valets could scratch my new Range Rover.”
He had taken delivery of the vehicle the previous afternoon. His young daughter, an aspiring climate militant, was appalled
by his decision to purchase a petrol-powered behemoth rather than something small and green. He had rationalized his decision
by pointing out that for nine months each year the Allon family resided in an apartment overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice,
where they utilized public transport or moved about the city on foot. Furthermore their newly renovated Cornish summer cottage
was fitted with solar panels that provided most of their electricity. All things being equal, Gabriel was as carbon-neutral
as a man could be.
“I was referring to your appearance at this evening’s gala,” said Chiara.
“I just know I’m going to regret it.”
“You might actually enjoy yourself, you know.”
“Impossible.”
“Try, darling. Give the audience a glimpse behind the curtain.”
“At what?”
“The real Gabriel Allon.”
“Can you imagine?”
“It would definitely be a night to remember.”
The real Gabriel Allon was now regarded as the world’s finest restorer of Italian Renaissance paintings, a distinction bestowed upon him after his recent restoration of a newly discovered portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.
But he had spent most of his career living and working under an assumed identity created for him by an intelligence service headquartered in Tel Aviv.
Julian Isherwood had been complicit in his decades-long deception, and Sarah Bancroft had been one of his most effective weapons.
Sarah knew all of his dirty secrets. And for better or worse, Gabriel knew hers.
He cast a sideways glance toward Chiara, who was examining her appearance in the vanity mirror. Her hair was dark and riotous,
with shimmering highlights of auburn and chestnut. Her eyes were the color of caramel and flecked with gold. The strapless
evening gown she wore left little to the imagination.
“You should probably return your eyes to the road,” she said. “Otherwise you might have an accident.”
“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
Chiara recited the imaginary headline. “Renowned art conservator injured on the A30.”
“Slightly injured, thank goodness. But regrettably he was forced to cancel his appearance at a gala fundraiser at Wickham
House.”
“Was the conservator’s wife injured?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Leaving her capable of nursing the conservator back to health?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Physical therapy?”
“Several hours a day.”
Chiara raised the visor. “Poor you.”
“Is this the sort of thing I should talk about tonight?”
“Your boundless sexual needs? Probably not.”
“What about the time I killed that dirty bomber outside the gates of Downing Street? Or the time Sarah shot that Moscow Center
assassin in Zurich? I think the audience might find that interesting.”
“I suppose you could tell them about Zizi al-Bakari.”
“What about Ivan Kharkov?”
“I’d leave Ivan out of it,” said Chiara. “Ivan was a real downer.”
And then there was the night he had killed the second-in-command of the PLO in front of his wife and children in Tunis. Or
the night a bomb exploded beneath his car in Vienna—the night that was different from all others. But all that was in his
past now. He was no longer Israel’s angel of vengeance, he was the director of the paintings department at the Tiepolo Restoration
Company, the most prominent such enterprise in Venice. Chiara was the firm’s general manager. Which meant that, for all intents
and purposes, Gabriel worked for his wife.
He headed southward toward the sea along a series of narrow B-roads, through Bridge End and Bantham Cross and South Milton,
and slowed to a stop at an imposing stone gate at the stroke of 7:00 p.m. A line of luxury motorcars stretched along the gravel drive, at the end of which stood stately Wickham House, originally
built in 1681 by a member of the House of Commons, currently owned by Edward Knight, a billionaire real estate baron and collector
of Old Master paintings.
An attendant in a royal blue windcheater directed Gabriel toward an empty space on the green lawn. He pulled on his suit jacket
and escorted Chiara toward the entrance of the manor house. Her stiletto-heeled pumps added ten problematic centimeters to
her already statuesque frame. She gave him a downward glance.
“Well?” she asked.
“Something tells me you’re going to be the center of attention this evening.”
“No chance of that, darling. Wait until you get a look at our host’s wife.”
“And how shall I refer to her? Lady Knight?”
“Winter,” replied Chiara. “Her name is Alice Winter.”