Daniel Silva - Portrait of a Spy

“I’m sorry,” Coyle said. “I thought you were someone else.”

He turned to leave. The man spoke to his back.

“Who did you think I was?”

Coyle turned. The man with bright green eyes hadn’t moved.

“Who are you?” Coyle asked.

“I’m the one you sold to Saudi intelligence for thirty pieces of silver, along with Nadia al-Bakari. If it were up to me, I’d send you to hell for what you did. But this is your lucky night, Ellis.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to watch your face while they put the handcuffs on you.”

Coyle stepped away in fear and began frantically looking around. The man at the table gave a half smile.

“I was wondering whether you would accept your fate with the same dignity she accepted hers. I suppose I have my answer.”

Coyle dropped Lucy’s leash and started to run, but the FBI agents swarmed him in an instant. Gabriel remained in the park until Coyle was gone, then headed down the footpath to MacArthur Boulevard. By noon the following day, he was back in Cornwall.

HE WAS A CHANGED MAN when he came back from America; they could see that. The wounds had healed, the siege had been lifted, and whatever calamity he had suffered seemed finally to have passed. After encountering him one drizzly morning outside the old flint church, Vera Hobbs declared him fully restored and suitable for framing. But to whom had he entrusted the job? “Our mysterious friend from the cove isn’t the sort to place himself in the care of others,” replied Dottie Cox. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say he propped himself on an easel and did the work with his own hand. That’s why he turned out so well.”

By then, it was mid-autumn again, and the days were short, a few hours of pale gray amid a seemingly endless night. They would see him in the morning when he came into the village to do the marketing, and again in the afternoon when he walked the cliffs alone. Of meaningful work there was no evidence. Occasionally, they would glimpse him in the gazebo with a sketchbook on his lap, but his easel stood empty in his studio. Dottie feared he had fallen victim to a bout of aimlessness, but Vera suspected the explanation lay elsewhere. “He’s happy for the first time in his life,” she said. “All he needs now is a couple of little ones to go with that gorgeous wife of his.”

Oddly, it was the wife who appeared restless now. She was still unfailingly polite on the streets of the village, but it was clear she was dreading the prospect of the coming winter. She busied herself by cooking elaborate meals that filled the cove with the savor of rosemary and garlic and tomato. Sometimes, if the windows were open, and if one paused in just the right spot, it was possible to hear her singing in Italian in that sultry voice of hers. Invariably, the tunes were hauntingly sad. Duncan Reynolds diagnosed her condition as cabin fever and suggested that the women invite her out for a girls-only night up at the Godolphin Arms. They tried. She turned them down. Politely, of course.

If the restorer was aware of his wife’s predicament, he gave no outward sign of it. Fearing the couple was headed for a crisis, Dottie Cox decided to have a word with him next time he came to her shop alone. A week would elapse before she was presented with an opportunity. Appearing at his usual time, half past ten, he took a plastic basket from the stack near the door and began filling it with all the joy of a soldier foraging for supplies. Dottie watched him nervously from behind the cash register, rehearsing her speech in her head, but when the restorer began placing his items on the counter, she was able to manage nothing more than her usual, “Morning, luv.”

Something about Dottie’s tone made the restorer fix her briefly with a suspicious stare. Then he looked down at the newspapers stacked on the floor and furrowed his brow before handing over a crumpled twenty-pound note. “Wait,” he said suddenly, taking a copy of the Times . “This, too.” Dottie slipped the newspaper into the sack and watched the restorer depart. Then she leaned over the counter to have a look at the paper. The lead story concerned the imminent collapse of the regime in Syria, but just below there was a piece about a recent anonymous donation of a painting by Titian to the National Gallery in London. No one in Gunwalloe imagined there might be any connection. And they never would.

The National Gallery released a vague official statement concerning the donation, but within the corridors of British intelligence there came to exist an unofficial version of the story that unfolded roughly along the following lines. It seemed the legendary Israeli intelligence officer Gabriel Allon, with the full knowledge and approval of MI5, had cleverly manipulated a sale at the venerable Christie’s auction house in order to channel several million pounds into the terror network of Rashid al-Husseini. As a result, a newly rediscovered painting by Titian briefly entered the collection of the Saudi heiress Nadia al-Bakari. But upon her death, it was quietly returned to its rightful owner, the noted London art dealer Julian Isherwood. For understandable reasons, Isherwood initially considered keeping the painting but thought better of it after the aforementioned Allon suggested a far nobler course of action. The art dealer then made contact with an old chum from the National Gallery—an Italian Old Master expert who had unwittingly played a role in the initial deception—thus setting in motion one of the most important donations to a public British institution in years.

“And by the way, petal, I still haven’t received one red cent from the CIA.”

“Neither have I, Julian.”

“They don’t pay you for these little errands you’re always running for them?”

“Apparently, they regard my services as pro bono publico.”

“I suppose they are.”

They were walking along the Coastal Path. Isherwood wore country tweeds and Wellington boots. His steps were precarious. Gabriel, as always, had to resist an urge to reach out and steady him.

“How much bloody farther do you intend to make me walk?”

“It’s only been five minutes, Julian.”

“Which means we’ve already substantially exceeded the distance of my twice-daily trek from the gallery to the bar at Green’s.”

“How’s Oliver?”

“As ever.”

“Is he behaving himself?”

“Of course not,” said Isherwood. “But he hasn’t breathed a word about his role in your little caper.”

“ Our little caper, Julian. You were involved, too.”

“But I’ve been involved from the beginning,” Isherwood replied. “This is all new and exciting for Oliver. Lord knows he has his faults, but beneath all that blubber and bluster beats the heart of a patriot. Don’t worry about Oliver. Your secret is safe with him.”

“And if it isn’t, he’ll be hearing from MI5.”

“I think I’d actually pay to see that.” Isherwood’s pace was beginning to flag. “I don’t suppose there’s a pub up ahead. I feel a drink coming on.”

“There’s time for that later. You need exercise, Julian.”

“What’s the point?”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine, petal.”

“Is that why you want me to take over the gallery?”

Isherwood stopped and placed his hands on his hips. “Not next week,” he said after a moment. “Not next month. Not even next year. But someday.”

“Sell it, Julian. Retire. Enjoy your life.”

“Sell it to whom? Oliver? Roddy? Some bloody Russian oligarch who wants to dabble in culture?” Isherwood shook his head. “I’ve put too much into the place to let it fall into the hands of a stranger. I want it to stay in the family. Since I have none, that leaves you.”