25 Victoria
Victoria
“You could have chosen someone else, you realize.”
“There is no one else,” said Gabriel. “You happen to be the only British police officer I know.”
Peel gave this unlikely proposition further reflection as he wheeled his luggage along the Victoria Embankment. The grand
buildings on the opposite bank of the Thames were awash in twilight. Cornwall seemed suddenly quaint by comparison.
“Surely,” he said, “you must know someone at the Met after all these years.”
“Not a soul, thank goodness.”
“You know the director of the Secret Intelligence Service,” Peel pointed out.
“And the director of MI5 as well,” added Gabriel. “Not to mention the prime minister.”
“What about that detective super who questioned you after the Covent Garden incident?”
“For the life of me, I can’t recall his name. And it wasn’t a terribly pleasant conversation.”
“It sounds to me,” said Peel, “as though you and DCI Chapel got on rather well.”
“That’s because the detective chief inspector wanted something from me.”
“Investigate one of the richest men in the United Kingdom on suspicion of murder?”
“Not just murder,” said Gabriel. “Money laundering and tax evasion as well.”
“There are easier ways to evade taxes than killing one’s wife and staging a kidnapping.”
“It was two birds with one stone. At least that’s the working theory at New Scotland Yard.”
“Knight gets rid of his wife and his tax problem at the same time?”
“Exactly.”
“But why would he want to kill a woman like Alice Winter?”
“Why does any husband kill his wife?”
“In Cornwall it usually involves alcohol.”
“But in Belgravia and Knightsbridge, money is more often the motive.”
Peel sidestepped a tourist snapping a photograph of the London Eye. “Do you believe it?”
“I’m not quite there yet. But it would explain why Edward Knight was so eager to meet the initial billion-dollar ransom demand—and
why he wanted to personally authorize the wire transfer to that bank in Cyprus. It would also explain why his wife is still
missing.”
“But if he was involved in a conspiracy, why would he ask for help from someone like you?”
“A good question.”
“And the answer?”
“I conferred a sense of legitimacy on the entire undertaking. And remember, on the evening that Knight supposedly learned that Alice was missing, he was surrounded by several hundred people. I happened to be one of them.”
“The fundraiser at his estate in Devon?”
Gabriel nodded.
“It’s a perfect alibi,” said Peel.
“For a perfect murder.”
“There’s no such thing, you know. Every killer makes a mistake.”
“DCI Chapel seems to think Edward Knight made a rather expensive one. By the way, we’re having drinks with her later.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I rang her, Timothy.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Didn’t they teach you anything at detective school?”
Oxfam, founded by a group of Quakers, social activists, and academics during the darkest days of World War II, had received
the first contribution. It was one hundred thousand pounds, enough to move the needle but not quite noteworthy. Nor was it
considered unusual that the donor wished to remain anonymous. There were many philanthropists, especially those of unimaginable
wealth, who did their giving while protected by a veil of secrecy.
But just three days later the British arm of Médecins Sans Frontières received an identical contribution—one hundred thousand
pounds, anonymous donor. Next it was the British Red Cross and Action Against Hunger, though each received a quarter million
pounds, a not insignificant sum. Human Rights Watch received the same figure, as did Amnesty International and the Refugee
Council. The venerable Save the Children, which had been in the business of caring for the young and destitute since 1919,
received a half million.
It was at this point that a group email began to circulate inside the close-knit community of relief professionals and fundraisers, the topic of which concerned the origin of the donations.
All were in agreement that the money had likely come from the same source, perhaps an individual, perhaps a charitable trust. As luck would have it, one of the emails landed in the in-box of a reporter from The Times, who decided to make some inquiries of her own.
The first person she rang was a friend who worked for Global Relief UK, the
newest, smallest, and neediest of the British-based international aid organizations. The friend, whose name was Phoebe Chadwick,
was the coordinator of Global Relief’s Africa program. It took a bit of cajoling, but eventually Phoebe admitted that GRUK,
the group’s unfortunate acronym, had received a large unsolicited donation as well.
“How much?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.”
“How about a hint?”
“It might have been in the neighborhood of a million quid. But you mustn’t quote me.”
“Global Relief sources?”
“Why not?”
“What else can you tell me?”
“The donor stipulated that the money was to be used exclusively for famine relief in Sudan.”
“So it’s all yours, then?”
“It might be, yes.”
When the story appeared, Phoebe was besieged with phone calls and texts from friends and colleagues. The attention, she had
to admit, had proved a welcome distraction. It was the first time in more than a month that Alice had not been at the forefront
of her thoughts.
But forty-eight hours after the story’s publication, Alice once again intruded.
Not Alice herself, mind you—by all accounts she was lying in a shallow grave somewhere—but a man who claimed to be investigating her disappearance on behalf of the Metropolitan Police.
Phoebe, for any number of reasons, was suspicious.
In the first place, the man did not sound like the typical Met officer, or even a British subject.
He spoke English with the faintest trace of a Continental accent that Phoebe couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It might have been Italian, she reckoned, but there was a dollop of German and a dash of French.
All in all, he struck her as an altogether shady character.
“You work at Scotland Yard?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It would probably be better if we spoke in person.”
“At least tell me your name.”
“It’s Gabriel.”
“Do you have a surname, Gabriel? Or do you just go by one name, like Madonna and Sting?”
“It’s Allon.”
Phoebe entered the name into her search engine and several thousand results spilled onto the screen. The most recent item
was a story in ARTnews magazine concerning his appearance at a fundraiser hosted by Edward Knight. He was that Gabriel Allon.
“I thought I recognized your name,” she said.
“Does that mean you’ll agree to see me.”
She had to admit, she was intrigued. “How about half past seven?”
“Perfect.”
“Bloomsbury Tavern,” she said, and rang off.
The offices of Global Relief UK were located in Great Russell Street, not far from the British Museum.
Phoebe remained at her desk, reading about the exploits of the man she would soon be meeting, until twenty minutes past seven, when she bade her coworkers a pleasant evening and headed downstairs.
The historic Bloomsbury Tavern was on the ground floor of a pie-shaped building at the intersection of Shaftesbury Avenue and West Central Street.
Seated at a table in the back of the pub, lit by the dishwater-gray light streaming through a leaded window, was the legendary art restorer and erstwhile spy Gabriel Allon.
Next to him was an attractive man of perhaps thirty-five.
The evening, thought Phoebe, was looking better by the minute.
She walked over to the table and stared into the greenest eyes she had ever seen. “Are you him?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
She turned to his companion. “And what about you?”
“Detective Inspector Timothy Peel.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“Devon and Cornwall Police.”
“You’re a long way from home, DI Peel.”
“So I’ve been told,” he said.