Page 74 of The Other Woman

“Who owns it?” she asked.

“A friend of a friend.”

“Jewish?”

Gabriel shrugged indifferently.

“He’s obviously wealthy, this friend of yours.”

“Not as wealthy as he once was.”

“What a pity.” She said this to the ormolu clock. Turning, she scrutinized Gabriel carefully. “You’re smaller than I imagined.”

“So are you.”

“I’m old.”

“We have that in common, too.”

This time, it was Charlotte Bettencourt who smiled. It faded quickly when at last she noticed the antique box. “You had no right to break into my house and take my things. Then again, I suppose my offenses are of a far greater magnitude. And now it seems someone else is going to pay the price.”

Gabriel didn’t respond, he didn’t dare. Charlotte Bettencourt was staring at Christopher Keller, who was comparing the time on his wristwatch to the time on the clock.

“Your friend told me he was British,” she said. “Is that true?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And what is your interest in this affair?” she demanded to know. “On whose authority are you here?”

“In this matter,” said Gabriel, his tone judicial, “the British and Israeli intelligence services are working together.”

“Kim would be turning in his grave.”

Again Gabriel chose silence as his response. It was far more useful than telling Charlotte Bettencourt how he felt about Kim Philby’s opinions regarding the State of Israel. She was still watching Keller, with a mildly bemused expression on her face.

“Your friend also refused to tell me how you managed to find me. Perhaps you would.”

Gabriel decided there was no harm in it, it was so long ago. “We found your name in an old MI6 file.”

“From Beirut?”

“Yes.”

“Kim assured me no one knew about us.”

“He was wrong about that, too,” said Gabriel coolly.

“Who was it? Who found us out?”

“His name was Arthur Seymour.”

She gave a mischievous smile. “Kim loathed him.”

“The feeling was mutual.” Gabriel felt as though he were conversing with a figure in a historical diorama. “Arthur Seymour suspected Philby was a Soviet spy from the beginning. His superiors in London thought you might be a spy, too.”

“I wasn’t. I was merely an impressionable young woman with strong beliefs.” Her gaze fell upon the wooden box. “But you know that, don’t you? You know everything.”

“Not everything,” admitted Gabriel.