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H e was bivouacked at a table in the back corner of the room, behind an empty glass and a depleted bowl of oily green olives.

Spotting Gabriel coming through the door, he thrust an arm aloft and waved, as though he were in need of rescue.

With his chalk stripe suit, lavender necktie, and plentiful gray locks, he cut a rather elegant if dubious figure, a look he described as dignified depravity.

As was often the case, he looked slightly hungover.

Gabriel approached the table through the cocktail-hour din and sat down. A white-jacketed waiter appeared at once with two Bellinis and a fresh bowl of olives.

“It seems your reputation precedes you,” said Julian.

“What reputation is that?”

“World’s finest restorer of Italian Old Master paintings. Perhaps the greatest who ever lived.”

“I take it you approve of the Titian.”

“I would genuflect, my dear boy, but I wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“We’re at Harry’s Bar, Julian. It’s always a scene.”

He cast his eyes around the crowded room and smiled wistfully. “I fell in love in this bar once. ”

“Where haven’t you fallen in love?”

“This was different.”

“You always say that.”

“But in her case, it was true.”

“A Venetian girl, was she?”

Julian nodded. “The daughter of a viscount who lived in a palazzo not far from yours. She was far too young, of course, and dangerously beautiful. I begged her to marry me within an hour of meeting her. Much to my surprise, she turned me down.”

“I thought you were opposed to the very idea of marriage.”

“As a general principle, yes. But in her case, I was prepared to make an exception.” He took a long draft of his Bellini. “It pains me to say this, but I was never the same after she broke my heart.”

“You managed quite well, as I recall.”

“All those beautiful women, you mean?” He emitted an overwrought sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for one last fling. With any luck it will end disastrously. Those are the best kind of flings, wouldn’t you agree?”

“These days, I try to keep the disasters to a minimum.”

“Not me, petal. I specialize in them.”

Julian was regarded as one of the most learned and influential Old Masters dealers in the world, with a gold-plated client list and a matchless talent for finding misattributed paintings known as “sleepers” and bringing them to market.

And yet time and time again he had flirted with financial ruin, in large part because he preferred to possess art rather than sell it, a near-fatal affliction for someone in his line of work.

His unusually close relationship with Gabriel was for many years a source of considerable speculation among the incestuous inhabitants of the London art world.

Amelia March’s story in ARTnews , while entirely accurate, had only scratched the surface.

It was Julian Isherwood, the only child of a noted German-Jewish art dealer who was murdered at the Sobibor death camp, who had helped to build and maintain Gabriel’s cover identity during his long career as an intelligence operative.

At Gabriel’s suggestion, Julian had recently agreed to take on a partner, an American art historian named Sarah Bancroft who had spent several years working as a clandestine operative for the Central Intelligence Agency.

Beautiful, brilliant, and ruthlessly efficient, she had succeeded in putting Isherwood Fine Arts on a firm financial footing.

Julian, having been relieved of nearly all responsibility, now dwelled in the nether region between retirement and emeritus status.

He rarely set foot in the gallery before noon, leaving him just enough time to make a general nuisance of himself before embarking on the three-hour period of his day he reserved for his luncheon.

Gabriel was pleased that his old friend had decided to parachute unannounced into Venice.

Julian was one of those rare souls who made life a bit less tedious.

He plucked a fat green olive from the bowl and devoured it. “I heard a terrible rumor about you recently.”

“Really? Where?”

“The bar at Wiltons. Where else?”

The celebrated Jermyn Street restaurant was an art world watering hole. Julian made a nuisance of himself there as well. “And the nature of this rumor?” asked Gabriel.

“That you were the one who discovered the body of that poor girl from the Courtauld floating in the Venetian Lagoon.”

“It wasn’t exactly a secret, Julian. It was in all the Italian papers.”

“These days I only read the Guardian .” Another olive disappeared. “I suppose you heard about poor Giorgio Montefiore.”

“Giorgio’s murder made the papers too. ”

“You didn’t find the body, did you?”

Gabriel smiled but said nothing.

“Montefiore thought quite highly of himself,” Julian continued. “Even by the lofty standards of the art world. But in my humble opinion, his reputation was entirely undeserved.”

“And why was that?”

“That would require me to speak ill of the dead, something I try to avoid at my age.”

“It will never leave this table.”

Julian lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, as though searching his memory.

“About a hundred years ago, I popped into Italy on one of my hunting expeditions. It was before the Italian government got serious about protecting the country’s cultural heritage.

We dealers used to buy paintings by the ton and cart them back to London.

Only a small percentage were autograph works by great masters.

The rest were workshop pieces or later copies.

Manner of so-and-so, circle of what’s-his-name—that sort of thing. ”

“You, however, could always tell the difference.”

“I wasn’t half bad,” said Julian with false modesty. “But less erudite dealers often sought the advice of an Italian art historian. One who was known to be rather charitable with his opinions. If the price was right, of course.”

“Montefiore?”

Julian nodded. “During the aforementioned hunting expedition, I stumbled on a lovely portrait that looked to me as though it had been painted by Perugino. I took the picture to Montefiore, who was inclined to agree, provided I hand over the requisite sum of money.”

“And your reaction?”

“I was appalled and told him so. It was the last time we ever spoke.”

“Well done, Julian.”

“Accepting money in exchange for a favorable attribution is unconscionable. You would never do such a thing. And you have one of the best pair of eyes in the business.”

“It’s a bright red line,” agreed Gabriel. “A definite no-no.”

“The late Giorgio Montefiore didn’t agree. I have it on the highest authority that he continued the practice throughout his career.”

“Anything in particular?”

“In these litigious times, I shall say no more.”

They finished their first round of Bellinis and a second appeared, compliments of the house.

“Come here often?” asked Julian.

“Only when you’re in town.”

“I wish I could stay longer. Venice is lovely this time of year.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Your friend Sarah Bancroft has graciously allowed me to see a painting in Amsterdam. An old contact of mine stumbled upon something interesting in one of the flea markets. Or so he says. He’s convinced he has a sleeper on his hands.”

“Genre?”

“Portraiture.”

“Subject?”

“A young woman.”

Gabriel felt a sudden queasiness in his stomach. “I don’t suppose he sent you a photograph.”

“I asked for one, but he refused. Said he doesn’t want one floating around in the ether yet.”

“Does your old contact have a name?”

“Peter van de Velde. He’s a bit of a slippery character, but over the years he’s unearthed some lovely pictures from old Dutch collections.”

“What time is he expecting you?”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Julian raised his Bellini to his lips. “Why do you ask?”

***

Gabriel waited until they had left Harry’s Bar before delivering his answer. It was ten minutes in duration and included an admission that, yes, he was the one who had found Giorgio Montefiore’s body at his villa in Florence.

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Julian.

“Imagine how I felt.”

They were walking in the Piazza San Marco. The enormous square was in darkness and empty of tourists and pigeons. Julian’s face was awash in the light of Gabriel’s mobile phone. Displayed on the screen was the ghostly infrared image of the missing portrait.

“I fell in love with her once too. It happened the first time I ever saw that sketch in the Biblioteca Reale. It is one of the greatest ever made.” Julian surrendered the phone. “But will you allow me to point out the obvious?”

“If you insist.”

“We don’t know whether Peter van de Velde’s flea market sleeper is your perhaps Leonardo.”

“We will the minute you walk into his gallery tomorrow morning.”

“And if it is your Leonardo? What then?”

“One step at a time, Julian.”

“I tell myself the same thing each time I descend a flight of stairs.” He paused at the foot of the campanile and lifted his gaze skyward. “But why do you suppose Peter decided to show the painting to me, of all people?”

“Your reputation precedes you as well.”

“Not-so-secret accomplice of the world’s most famous retired spy?”

“Respected London Old Masters dealer with a track record for finding misattributed works. And if you were to declare the painting a Leonardo, others will undoubtedly concur.”

“At least some one still appreciates me.” They set off toward the Grand Canal. Julian’s gait was loose-limbed and precarious. “I don’t need to remind you, petal, that two people have been murdered because of this painting. Needless to say, I’d rather not be the third.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have me looking over your shoulder. And Sarah, of course. We can’t possibly run an operation in Amsterdam without a skilled field agent like Sarah.”

“Your dear friend Sarah is still in the prime of her life. I, however, have entered the autumn of my years. And I would feel better if you accompanied me to the meeting with Van de Velde tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t invited. And if I walk into that gallery, you can be sure the painting will magically disappear.”

Julian slowed to a stop at the edge of the Riva degli Schiavoni. A flotilla of gondolas swayed on the evening tide. “Where exactly did you find her?”

Gabriel pointed to the moonlit waters between the Punta della Dogana and the church of San Giorgio Maggiore.

“The poor girl,” said Julian quietly. “The poor, poor girl.”

“She was murdered because she tried to warn the art world about the Leonardo. The least we can do is finish what she started.”

“One last fling in Amsterdam?”

“Why not?”

“It might end disastrously, you know.”

Gabriel smiled sadly. “The good ones always do.”