Leach did as instructed, then looked up at Gabriel in anger.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s not important.”

“Tell me where you got this or this conversation is over.”

Gabriel capitulated. In recruitments, Shamron always said, it was sometimes necessary to accept small defeats in order to secure ultimate victory.

“It was given to us by the Americans.”

“The Americans? Why in God’s name are the Americans tapping my phones?”

“Don’t be grandiose,” Seymour interjected. “They’re not tapping your telephones. They’re tapping hers.”

“Are you trying to tell me Elena Kharkov is an arms dealer?”

“Ivan Kharkov is the arms dealer,” Gabriel said pedantically. “Elena just gets caught when she happens to place a call from one of the phones they’re monitoring. On that day, she was calling you from her home in Knightsbridge. Look at the transcript, Alistair. Refresh your memory, if you need to.”

“I don’t need to refresh anything. I remember the conversation quite clearly. The Americans have no right to record these calls and store them away in their supercomputers. It’s like opening someone else’s mail. It’s unseemly.”

“If it makes you feel any better, no one bothered to read it-until I came along. But let’s put all that aside and focus on what’s important. You were talking to her about a painting that day-a painting by Mary Cassatt, to be precise.”

“Elena has a thing for Cassatt. An obsession, really. Buys anything that comes on the market. I thought I’d managed to pry loose a painting for her from a minor collector-a picture called Two Children on a Beach that Cassatt painted in 1884 while convalescing from a case of bronchitis. The collector kept us hanging for several weeks before finally telling me that he wasn’t ready to sell. I placed a call to Elena and got her machine. She called me back and I gave her the bad news.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The painting? Yes, it’s quite lovely, actually.”

“Did you ever tell Elena the name of the owner?”

“You know better than to ask that, Signore Delvecchio.”

Gabriel looked at Graham Seymour, who had wandered over to the shelves and was pulling down books for inspection. “Who is he, Alistair? And don’t try to hide behind some claim of dealer-client privilege.”

“Can’t do it,” said Leach obstinately. “Owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

Nigel Whitcombe made a church steeple with his fingertips and pressed it thoughtfully against his lips, as if pondering the morality of Leach’s refusal to answer.

“And if the owner was aware of the stakes involved? I suspect he-or she, if that’s the case-might actually relish the chance to help us. I suspect the owner is a patriot, Alistair.” A pause. “Just like you.”

The official recording of the interrogation would contain no evidence of what transpired next, for there would be no sound for the microphones to capture. It was a hand. The hand that Whitcombe placed gently upon Leach’s shoulder, as though he were petitioning him to reclaim his lost faith.

“Boothby,” Leach said, as if the name had popped suddenly into his memory. “Sir John Boothby. Lives in a big Edwardian pile on a couple hundred acres in the Cotswolds. Never worked a day in his life, as far as I can tell. The father worked for your lot. Rumor has it he had a wonderful war.”

Seymour twisted his head around. “You’re not talking about Basil Boothby, are you?”

“That’s him. Ruthless bastard, from what I hear.”

“Basil Boothby was one of the legends of the Service. He was involved in our deception program during the Second World War. Ran captured German spies back to their masters in Berlin. And, yes, he was a ruthless bastard. But there are times when one has to be. These are such times, Alistair.”

“I’m wondering whether there’s a chance Sir John might have had a change of heart,” Gabriel said. “I’m wondering whether it might be time to have another go at him.”

“He’s not going to sell that painting-at least, not to Elena Kharkov.”

“Why not?”

“Because in a moment of professional indiscretion, I may have mentioned that the prospective buyer was the wife of a Russian oligarch. Boothby’s father spent the final years of his career battling KGB spies. The old man didn’t hold with the Russians. Neither does Sir John.”

“Sounds like a patriot to me,” said Graham Seymour.

“I might use another word to describe him,” Leach muttered. “Elena Kharkov would have paid a premium for that painting. Two million pounds, maybe a bit more. He would have been wise to take the deal. From what I hear, Sir John is not exactly flush with funds at the moment.”

“Perhaps we can convince him to see the error of his ways.”

“Good luck. But remember, if that Cassatt changes hands, I get my cut.”

“How much are you getting these days, Alistair?” asked Gabriel.

Leach smiled. “You have your secrets, Signore Delvecchio. And I have mine.”

31 GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND

Havermore, the ancestral home of the Boothby clan, lay five miles to the northwest of the picturesque Cotswold Hills market town of Chipping Camden. At its zenith, the estate had sprawled over eight hundred acres of rolling pastures and wooded hills and had employed several dozen men and women from the surrounding villages. Its fortunes had dwindled in recent years, along with those of the family that owned it. All but a hundred acres had been sold off, and the manor house, a honey-colored limestone monstrosity, had fallen into a state of rather alarming disrepair. As for the staff, it now consisted of a single farmhand called Old George Merrywood and a plump housekeeper named Mrs. Lillian Devlin.

She greeted Gabriel and Graham Seymour early the next afternoon and informed them Sir John was eagerly awaiting their arrival. They found him standing before an easel in a patch of overgrown grass called the East Meadow, flailing away at a dreadful landscape. Boothby and Graham Seymour shook hands cordially and regarded each other for a moment in silence. They were of similar size and shape, though John Boothby was several years older and several inches bigger around the middle. He wore Wellington boots and a tan smock. His thick gray hair and tangled eyebrows gave him the appearance of a bottlebrush come to life.

“This is an associate of mine,” Seymour said, his hand resting on Gabriel’s shoulder. “He’s a fellow traveler, Sir John. He works for an intelligence service in the Middle East whose interests occasionally intersect with our own.”

“So you’re an Israeli then,” said Boothby, shaking Gabriel’s hand.

“I’m afraid so,” replied Gabriel contritely.

“No apologies necessary around here, my dear fellow. I have no quarrel with Israelis-or Jews, for that matter. We Europeans dropped you into the swamp, didn’t we? And now we condemn you for daring to stand your ground.” He released Gabriel’s hand. “Do I get to know your name or are names off-limits?”

“His name is Gabriel, Sir John. Gabriel Allon.”

Boothby gave a wry smile. “I thought it was you. An honor, Mr. Allon.” He returned to the easel and looked morosely at the painting. “Bloody awful, isn’t it? I can never seem to get the trees right.”

“May I?” asked Gabriel.

“Do you paint, too?”

“When I get the chance.”

Boothby handed him the brush. Gabriel worked on the painting for thirty seconds, then stepped aside.

“Good Lord! But that’s bloody marvelous. You’re obviously a man of considerable talent.” He took Gabriel by the arm. “Let’s go up to the house, shall we? Mrs. Devlin has made a roast.”

They ate outside on the terrace beneath an umbrella that gave their faces the sepia coloring of an old photograph. Gabriel remained largely silent during the meal while Graham Seymour talked at length about Boothby’s father and his work during the Second War. Gabriel was left with the impression that Boothby the Younger did not necessarily enjoy hearing about his father-that he had spent his life living in the shadow of Basil Boothby’s wartime exploits and wished to be taken seriously in his own right. Gabriel could only imagine what it was like to be the son of a great man. His own father had been killed during the Six-Day War and Gabriel’s memories of him were now fragmentary at best: a pair of intelligent brown eyes, a pleasant voice that was never raised in anger, a strong pair of hands that never struck him. The last time he had seen his father was the night before the war started, a figure dressed in olive green rushing off to join his army unit. Gabriel often wondered whether that memory was the source of Shamron’s hold over him, the memory of a father answering the call to defend his country and his people. A father whom he never saw again.