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Julian hung his mackintosh on the coat tree and rode the tiny lift up to the gallery’s glorious exhibition room.

The twelve paintings hanging on the walls were the finest in the gallery’s inventory.

A thirteenth was propped upon the baize-covered display pedestal.

Gabriel stood before it, hand to chin, head tilted slightly to one side. Julian adopted an identical pose.

At length he asked, “What am I looking at?”

“You tell me, Julian.”

He leaned close to the panel and examined the brushwork on the woman’s face. There were no lines, only subtle transitions achieved with thin layers of paint and glaze.

“I’m inclined to make a firm attribution to Leonardo. ”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The fact that the painting is currently in my gallery.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Absolutely. It’s breathtaking.”

“But is it the painting you saw on that airplane?”

“For an instant, I thought it was.”

“Do me a favor and pick it up.”

Julian grasped the panel by the vertical edges and lifted it from the pedestal.

“How’s the weight?”

“Just right.”

“Have a look at the back, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Julian turned the painting over. “Good heavens. How on earth were you able to do that?”

“I can only take credit for the front of the painting. But you’re to blame for what’s going to happen next.”

“What have I done now?”

“Do you remember that nondisclosure agreement you signed at Peter van de Velde’s gallery in Amsterdam?”

“It wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.”

“Still, you did sign it, Julian. And yet, regrettably, it appears as though you’ve violated the terms.”

“Is that so? And just who did I tell about the painting?”

Gabriel smiled. “Everyone.”

***

They arrived at the gallery one by one, at five-minute intervals.

Jeremy Crabbe from Bonhams, Simon Mendenhall from Christie’s, Niles Dunham from the National Gallery, Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich.

Sarah gave them no reason for the summons, though she implied it was a matter of great importance.

Naturally they wondered whether it concerned the imminent demise of her partner.

No, she assured them, Julian had made a full recovery from his recent bout of emotional exhaustion.

The last to arrive was tubby Oliver Dimbleby.

He squeezed into the lift with Sarah and rode it up to the exhibition room, where Julian and the other invited guests were gazing in astonishment at the painting propped on the display easel.

It was a portrait of a young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the girl whom Leonardo da Vinci had used as his model for the archangel Gabriel in Virgin of the Rocks .

But that was not possible, Oliver told himself, because nowhere in the mountain of scholarship dedicated to Leonardo and his maddeningly small oeuvre was there any indication he had ever made such a painting.

The presence of the noted art restorer and retired spy Gabriel Allon suggested that something devious was afoot.

Oliver had played a supporting role in several of Gabriel’s capers, most recently on a case involving a forgery ring that was flooding the art market with fake Old Masters.

Having witnessed firsthand Gabriel’s uncanny ability to mimic the brushwork of the greatest painters who ever lived, Oliver was skeptical as to the authenticity of the portrait.

Nicky Lovegrove, for reasons Oliver could not possibly fathom, appeared equally dubious.

“All right,” said Nicky finally, gaveling the proceedings to order. “What’s the bloody story?”

The story, as recounted by Gabriel, involved a dead body in the Venetian Lagoon, an unreported theft from the Vatican Museums, a Swiss bank controlled by the Italian Mafia, and a Russian oligarch living grandly in the south of France.

It was Gabriel’s ambition to recover the stolen painting by simultaneously deceiving the Swiss bank and the Russian oligarch—and to transfer the proceeds of this deception to the Ukrainian government.

He required the help, it seemed, of the London art world figures assembled in the room.

He offered anyone who did not wish to participate in the scheme a chance to leave. Not surprisingly, there were no takers.

But who among them would be the first to dip his toe into the water?

It would have to be someone possessed of immense charm and charisma and yet utterly devoid of morals or scruples.

They were all in agreement that there was only one man for the job.

Smiling, Gabriel placed the portrait in a solander case and was gone.

***

He gave the same presentation four hours later in Paris, this time to Jacques Ménard, chief of the art crime unit of the French Police Nationale.

The meeting took place not in a gallery or in Ménard’s office on the Quai des Orfèvres, but in a dreary hotel room near the Gare du Nord.

It was Gabriel, who had worked with Ménard in the past, who chose the venue.

The French art sleuth, after examining the portrait in the hotel room’s dim light, declared it worthy of the Musée du Louvre.

But he made it clear that neither he nor his underlings would take part in the scheme Gabriel had in mind.

“Absolutely not, mon ami . Never in a million years.”

“Will you allow me to restate three important facts?”

“Be my guest.”

“The painting is stolen, the seller is a Swiss bank controlled by the Camorra, and the buyer is a corrupt Russian oligarch.”

“Who happens to be a naturalized citizen of France,” added Ménard. “Therefore, I cannot possibly defraud him. ”

“Leave the fraud to me, Jacques. I just need you to avert your gaze for a few seconds.”

“And what will happen during this brief interlude?”

“ Contrapposto ,” said Gabriel.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gabriel lowered his eyes toward the painting. “Look at the way she’s posed. She’s turned to the right but looking to the left, as though she’s been taken by surprise. That’s the essence of contrapposto . Never a static pose, always opposing directions. We’re going to create the same effect.”

“And then?”

“ Sfumato ,” replied Gabriel. “Like smoke losing itself on the air.”

The French policeman, intrigued, lit a cigarette and the bargaining commenced.

After thirty minutes they had an operational plan in place, one that achieved the desired result while at the same time protecting Ménard’s political and legal flank.

Gabriel settled the bill for the room and then took a taxi to Le Bourget, where he carried the painting aboard a waiting Gulfstream G550.

The aircraft’s owner, the Swiss financier and philanthropist Martin Landesmann, was enjoying a preflight glass of Dom Pérignon.

The cabin attendant, an attractive German-speaking woman of perhaps thirty-five, poured a glass for Gabriel as well.

She expressed no interest at all in the contents of the rectangular case.

In fact, she scarcely looked at it—or at Gabriel, for that matter.

“She’s rather discreet, isn’t she?”

“Sabine? Very,” said Martin. “And she’s quite good at her job. It’s harder than it looks, you know.”

“Pouring Dom Pérignon?”

Martin smiled. “Looking after globetrotting businessmen such as myself. Some of us have rather large egos. And we’re not always on our best behavior.”

“You pay her well, I take it.”

“Sabine works for the company that manages my planes.”

“Executive Jet Services of Zurich?”

“Correct.”

“It’s the same company that manages SBL’s Dassault Falcon.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Martin. “They handle most of the Swiss banking industry’s private aircraft.”

“Do you always have the same cabin attendant?”

“Usually. I’m rather close to the man who runs the company. Whenever possible, he gives me the same cockpit and cabin crew.”

“Does he do the same for SBL?”

“I would imagine so.”

The Gulfstream eased away from the terminal.

“And what if I wanted to make a change to SBL’s cabin crew for a single flight?” asked Gabriel.

“Why would you want to do a thing like that?”

“Eyes and ears only.”

“Nothing illegal?”

“You have my word, Martin.”

“I think it can be arranged. Provided, of course, you have a presentable candidate in mind.”

“More than presentable.”

“Your friend the computer hacker?”

Gabriel nodded.

“She certainly looks the part. But she’ll have to undergo training before the flight.”

“How hard can it be to pour a glass of Dom Pérignon?”

“For a mobster banker and his heavily armed bodyguards? Harder than it looks. ”

***

The flying time from Paris to Venice was one hour and forty-five minutes.

Luca Rossetti whisked Gabriel through the arrivals process and gave him a ride home to San Polo in a Carabinieri patrol boat.

He placed the painting in his studio and went into the kitchen, where he found Ingrid and his wife singing along to Eros Ramazzotti’s “Parla con me” at the top of their lungs.

Receiving no greeting or acknowledgment of his arrival, he poured a glass of Barbaresco and helped himself to a crostini smeared with artichokes and creamy ricotta cheese.

“Is there any news?” he asked of no one in particular.

“It seems we have a new bidder for the Leonardo,” Ingrid shouted over the music.

“Really? Who?”

Ingrid smiled and sang, “ Parla con me . . . ”