Portrait of a Spy by Daniel Silva

distance.
    “The bid is forty-one against you,” Lovegrove murmured into the telephone.
    “The client believes there is a great deal of posturing going on.”
    “It’s an art auction at Christie’s. Posturing is de rigueur.”
    “Patience, Mr. Lovegrove.”
    Lovegrove kept his eyes on the woman in the skybox as the bidding cracked the fifty-million-dollar threshold. Jack Chambers made a final bid at sixty; Tony Berringer and his Russian gangster did the honors at seventy. Hector Candiotti responded by waving the white flag.
    “It looks like it’s down to us and the Russian,” Lovegrove said to the man in Paris.
    “My client doesn’t care for Russians.”
    “What would your client like to do about it?”
    “What is Rothko’s record at auction?”
    “Seventy-two and change.”
    “Please bid seventy-five.”
    “It’s too much. You’ll never—”
    “Place the bid, Mr. Lovegrove.”
    Lovegrove arched an eyebrow and raised five fingers. “The bid is seventy-five million,” said Hunt. “It’s not with you, sir. Nor with you. Seventy-five million, for the Rothko. Fair warning now. Last chance. All done?”
    Crack .
    A gasp rose in the room. Lovegrove looked up at the skybox, but the woman was gone.

Chapter 9
The Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall
     
     
    W ITH THE APPROVAL OF S COTLAND Y ARD , the Home Office, and the British prime minister himself, Gabriel and Chiara returned to Cornwall three days after the bombing in Covent Garden. Madonna and Child with Mary Magdalene , oil on canvas, 110 by 92 centimeters, arrived at ten the following morning. After carefully removing the painting from its protective coffin, Gabriel placed it on an antique oak easel in the living room and spent the remainder of the afternoon studying the X-rays. The ghostly images only strengthened his opinion that the painting was indeed a Titian, and a very good Titian at that.
    It had been several months since Gabriel had laid hands on a painting, and he was eager to begin work right away. Rising early the following morning, he prepared a bowl of café au lait and immediately threw himself into the delicate task of relining the canvas. The first step involved adhering tissue paper over the image to avoid further paint losses during the procedure. There were a number of over-the-counter glues suitable for the task, but Gabriel always preferred to mix his own adhesive using the recipe he had learned in Venice from the master restorer Umberto Conti—pellets of rabbit-skin glue dissolved in a mixture of water, vinegar, ox bile, and molasses.
    He simmered the noxious-smelling concoction on the kitchen stove until it was the consistency of syrup, and watched the morning news on the BBC while waiting for the mixture to cool. Farid Khan was now a household name in the United Kingdom. Given the precise timing of his attack, Scotland Yard and British intelligence were operating under the assumption it was linked to the bombings in Paris and Copenhagen. Still unclear was the terrorist affiliation of the bombers. Debate among the television experts was intense, with one camp proclaiming the attacks were orchestrated by al-Qaeda’s old-line leadership in Pakistan and another declaring that they were clearly the work of a new network that had yet to produce a blip on the radar screens of Western intelligence. Whatever the case, European authorities were bracing for more bloodshed. MI5’s Joint Terrorism Analysis Center had raised the threat level to “critical,” meaning another attack was expected imminently.
    Gabriel focused most intently on a report dealing with questions over Scotland Yard’s conduct in the minutes before the attack. In a carefully worded statement, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police acknowledged receiving a warning about a suspicious man in an oversized coat headed toward Covent Garden. Regrettably, said the commissioner, the tip did not rise to the level of specificity required for lethal action. He then confirmed