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“Your flight landed more than an hour ago,” he informed Gabriel in a lazy West End drawl. “Where in God’s name have you been?”

“I had a devil of a time getting through customs, if you must know.”

“They gave you a good going-over, did they?”

“It was touch and go.”

“What seemed to be the problem?”

“It might have been the newly discovered Leonardo in my carry-on luggage.”

Christopher looked at the solander museum case resting upright on Gabriel’s knees. “Would you mind terribly if we put your Leonardo in the boot?”

“I’d rather put you in the boot, Christopher.”

He slipped the Bentley into gear and eased slowly from the curb. “The damn thing is blocking my peripheral vision.”

“Try looking straight ahead,” said Gabriel. “That’s where the road is.”

***

In the northeastern corner of Kensington, a short walk from Hyde Park and the Royal Albert Hall, lies Queen’s Gate Terrace.

Only eight hundred feet in length, it is lined with several hundred million pounds’ worth of prime London real estate, much of it foreign owned.

Christopher dwelled in a luxury maisonette in the Georgian town house at Number 18.

His neighbors were under the impression that his name was Peter Marlowe and that he was a wildly successful international business consultant, thus the flashy motorcar, the constant overseas travel, and the glamorous American-born wife.

“Astonishing,” said Sarah. “It’s an absolutely perfect copy.”

She was looking down at Gabriel’s Leonardo, which was lying on the kitchen island.

In one hand was a high-resolution photograph of the real Leonardo, in the other a Belvedere martini.

Christopher, after giving the painting no more than a passing glance, was pouring Johnnie Walker Black Label into a crystal tumbler.

Gabriel, for his part, was pulling the cork from a bottle of Sancerre.

Sarah placed the photograph and her drink on the countertop and took up the painting with both hands. “Walnut?”

“What do you think?” asked Gabriel.

“I think you murdered a sixteenth-century Milanese School picture and painted this one in its place.”

“It was Northern Italian School. And it needed to be put out of its misery.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Ten thousand euros.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m accepting donations.”

“Sorry, darling. But I gave at the office.” Sarah returned the panel to the countertop. “But what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to sell it, of course.”

“To whom?”

“At present there are five collectors attempting to acquire the real Leonardo. The current offer on the table is three hundred and twenty-five million dollars. The bid was made by the French art consultant Stéphane Tremblay on behalf of his client.”

“I showed a painting to Stéphane not long ago. But who’s the client?”

“A Russian oligarch named Alexander Prokhorov.”

Sarah frowned. “He prefers to be called Proko. No first name, just Proko. ”

“Do you know him?”

“When Proko came to London, he bought a big mansion up in Highgate and filled it with paintings. I used to bump into him at auctions and gallery openings. He was quite the man about town.” She made a show of thought. “I forget how he made his money.”

It was Christopher who supplied the answer. “Proko was the largest supplier of pipes for the Russian oil-and-gas industry. At last check, he’s worth in excess of twenty-five billion dollars.”

“Most of it earned corruptly through his Kremlin connections,” Gabriel pointed out.

“Which is why His Majesty’s Government froze all of Proko’s British-based assets after the invasion of Ukraine. He left London in a snit and settled in Antibes with his twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend. Yuliana is her name, if I’m not mistaken. Apparently she was a flight attendant.”

“They usually are,” said Gabriel. “But why haven’t the French seized Proko’s assets?”

“Because for some unfathomable reason, they decided to give him a French passport.”

“And if he were to plunk down several hundred million dollars for an autograph work by Gabriel Allon?”

“His Majesty’s Government would not shed a tear. Provided, of course, there was no fallout from our occasional allies the French.”

“Let me worry about the French,” said Gabriel. “The more important question is, what do we do with the money?”

“The money that Proko is about to pay for your painting?”

“Yes, Christopher. That money.”

“I’m not actually an international business consultant. But won’t that money be paid to the Banca di Camorra?”

“I assume so.”

“Then the money would remain there, would it not?”

“Under no circumstances.”

“You’re going to steal the money and the painting?”

“I’m going to recover the painting. As for the money,” added Gabriel, “I intend to reroute it.”

“How?”

“My associate will see to that. You remember Ingrid, don’t you?”

“With considerable fondness,” said Christopher. “But can she really pull it off?”

“She seems to think so.”

“In that case, we should probably put the money to good use.”

“Widows and orphans?”

“How about something a bit more pressing?”

“Such as?”

“The Ukrainians,” suggested Sarah.

Christopher smiled. “What a fine idea. Three hundred and twenty-five million dollars would buy a lot of badly needed bullets and antitank weapons.”

“But four hundred million would buy more,” said Gabriel.

“So would five hundred million,” added Sarah.

“A half bloody billion?” asked Christopher. “How are you going to do that?”

Sarah sipped her martini. “Watch me.”