Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (6)
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You look as though you’ve been . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What, Julian?”
“Restored,” he answered after a moment. “You’ve removed the dirty varnish and repaired the damage. It’s almost as if none of it ever happened.”
“It didn’t.”
“That’s funny, because you bear a vague resemblance to a morose-looking boy who wandered into my gallery about a hundred years ago. Or was it two hundred?”
“That never happened, either. At least not officially,” added Gabriel. “I buried your voluminous file in the deepest reaches of Registry on my way out the door of King Saul Boulevard. Your ties to the Office are now formally severed.”
“But not to you, I hope.”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” A waiter delivered two more Bellinis to their table. Gabriel raised his glass in salutation. “So what brings you to Venice?”
“These olives.” Julian plucked one from the bowl at the center of the table and with a flourish popped it into his mouth. “They’re dangerously good.”
He was dressed in one of his Savile Row suits and a blue dress shirt with French cuffs. His gray hair was in need of a trimming, but then it usually was. All things considered, he looked rather well, except for the plaster adhered to his right cheek, perhaps two or three centimeters beneath his eye.
Cautiously Gabriel asked how it got there.
“I had an argument with my razor this morning, and I’m afraid the razor got the better of me.” Julian fished another olive from the bowl. “So what do you do with yourself when you’re not lunching with your beautiful wife?”
“I spend as much time as possible with my children.”
“Are they bored with you yet?”
“They don’t appear to be.”
“Don’t worry, they will be soon.”
“Spoken like a lifelong bachelor.”
“It has its advantages, you know.”
“Name one.”
“Give me a minute, I’ll think of something.” Julian finished his first Bellini and started in on the second. “And what about your work?” he asked.
“I painted three nudes of my wife.”
“Poor you. Any good?”
“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 by someone working somewhere 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 veteran covert 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.