Page 143 of An Inside Job

She smiled. “He positively adores my scar.”

***

Shortly before 9:00 a.m. the following Thursday, there appeared on the website ofARTnewsmagazine a story that sent shock waves through the art world. Written by Amelia March, it detailed thereappearance, theft, and eventual recovery of a lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci. The original discovery, according toARTnews, had been made by Penelope Radcliff, the apprentice art conservator whose body had been found floating in the waters of the Venetian Lagoon the previous autumn. The source for the story was identified only as “a person connected to the project.”

General Cesare Ferrari, commander of the Art Squad, provided further details later that morning at a news conference held in the lobby of the Vatican Museums. Flanked by museum officials, he alleged that the disgraced Cardinal Matteo Bertoli had played a role in the painting’s theft, as had the murdered Leonardist Giorgio Montefiore and elements of the Camorra. When pressed by reporters, General Ferrari declined to say where or when the painting had been recovered. He then stepped away from the microphones while the director of the Pinacoteca—the first woman to ever lead the museum—unveiled the painting. From the four corners of the art world there arose a collective gasp.

In the days that followed, other details about the painting’s rediscovery emerged, including the name of the prominent Venice-based art conservator who had conducted the restoration on behalf of the Vatican Museums. Gabriel’s concerns about how his work would be received proved unfounded. Indeed, with the exception of a social media screed by a notorious art world gadfly, the reviews were overwhelmingly laudatory. The kindest words were written by Professor Maximillian Zeller from Leipzig, who declared that “Gabriel Allon had doubtless learned his craft in Leonardo’s busy studio in Milan, along with Boltraffio, Luini, d’Oggiono, and the rest of theLeonardeschi.”

When the Pinacoteca finally announced the date that the painting would go on public display, the demand for tickets repeatedlycrashed the museum’s website. In the first twenty-four hours alone, more than a million tickets were sold. By week’s end, those wishing to see the painting could expect a wait of six months.

But on the eve of the painting’s public exhibition, one thousand invited guests arrived at the Pinacoteca for a black-tie exclusive viewing—moguls and magnates, curators and collectors, prominent dealers and other assorted glitterati. Cameras flashed as Gabriel and Chiara headed up the red carpet toward the museum’s entrance, accompanied by Irene and Raphael. The painting hung in Room IX of the gallery, next to Leonardo’sSt. Jerome. The museum staff tried to keep the line moving, but the girl from Milan cast a spell over everyone who gazed into her mismatched pupils.

Gabriel bade her a final farewell and escorted Chiara and the children to the museum’s courtyard for the cocktail reception. There were lights in the trees and tables on the green lawn, and a chamber orchestra was playing Vivaldi. Chiara led Irene and Raphael over to the buffet, and Gabriel headed toward one of the courtesy bars in search of liquid refreshment. There were eight bars in all, but the one he chose was under British occupation. Tweedy Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams, suntanned Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, the learned Niles Dunham from the National Gallery. Sarah Bancroft, the only American present, had somehow managed to acquire a three-olive martini. She was murmuring something into the ear of her husband, who had an arm draped over the shoulders of tubby Oliver Dimbleby. Julian Isherwood, the very picture ofsprezzaturain an old evening jacket and carelessly knotted tie, had taken up his usual position at the end of the bar. Gabriel settled next to him and asked, “Well, Julian?”

“Well what, petal?”

“What do you think of it?”

“Think of what, darling?”

“The Leonardo, for heaven’s sake.”

“What bloody Leonardo?” blared Oliver Dimbleby. “We just came to Rome for the party.”

It ended shortly after ten o’clock and resumed in a much smaller form in the terrace bar at the Hotel Hassler. The children wilted at midnight, so Gabriel and Chiara said their goodnights and carried them downstairs to their suite. They were late in rising and missed the noon train back to Venice, taking the one fifteen instead. Gabriel sat next to Raphael, listening to the soft scratch of a Faber-Castell pencil against a Strathmore Series 300 sketchpad. He wondered, not for the first time, why the boy had changed his mind. Surely, he thought, it had been an inside job. They always were.