A copyist of lesser gifts might have produced two or three drafts of the painting before attempting the final version, but Gabriel felt no need to practice, nor was he possessed with an abundance of time. He placed the easels side by side, with Cassatt’s original on the left, and immediately prepared his first palette. He worked slowly for the first few days, but as he grew more accustomed to Cassatt’s style, he was able to apply the paint to the canvas with increasing confidence and swiftness. Sometimes he had the sensation she was standing at his shoulder, carefully guiding his hand. Usually, she appeared to him alone, in a floor-length dress and ladylike bonnet, but occasionally she would bring along her mentors-Degas, Renoir, and Pissarro-to instruct him on the finer points of palette and brushwork.
Though the painting consumed most of Gabriel’s attention, Ivan and Elena Kharkov were never far from his thoughts. NSA redoubled its efforts to intercept all of Ivan’s electronic communications, and Adrian Carter arranged for a man from London Station to make regular trips to Havermore to share the take. As a child of the KGB, Ivan had always been careful on the telephone and remained so now. He spent those days largely sequestered in his walled mansion in Zhukovka, the restricted secret city of the oligarchs west of Moscow. Only once did he venture outside the country: a day trip to Paris to spend a few hours with Yekatarina, his supermodel mistress. He phoned Elena three times from Yekatarina’s bed to say that his business meetings were going splendidly. One of the calls came while she was dining with two companions at the exclusive Café Pushkin, and the moment was captured by an Office watcher with a miniature camera. Gabriel couldn’t help but be struck by the melancholy expression on her face, especially when compared to the outward gaiety of her two companions. He tacked the picture to the wall of his makeshift studio and called it Three Ladies in a Moscow Café.
One salient operational fact eluded Gabriel: the precise date Ivan and Elena were planning to leave Moscow and return to Knightsbridge. As he labored alone before the canvas, he became gripped by a fear he was about to throw an elaborate party that no one would attend. It was an irrational notion; Ivan Kharkov tolerated his native country only in small doses and it was only a matter of time before he would be overcome by the urge to leave it once more. Finally, an MI5 team monitoring the Kharkov mansion in Rutland Gate witnessed the delivery of a large consignment of vodka, champagne, and French wine-strong evidence, they argued, of Ivan’s impending return. The next day, NSA intercepted a telephone call from Ivan to Arkady Medvedev, the chief of his personal security and intelligence service. Buried within a lengthy discussion about the activities of a Russian rival was the nugget of intelligence for which Gabriel had been so anxiously waiting: Ivan was coming to London in a week for what he described as a round of important business meetings. After leaving London, he would travel to the South of France to take up residence at Villa Soleil, his sumptuous summer palace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea near Saint-Tropez.
That evening, Gabriel ate dinner while standing before the canvas. Shortly after nine, he heard the sound of car tires crunching over the gravel drive and an engine note that was unfamiliar to him. He walked over to the window and peered down as a tall woman with pale blond hair emerged with a single bag slung over her shoulder. She came upstairs to the studio and stood at his shoulder while he worked.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re forging a Cassatt?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
“The owner won’t sell me the original.”
“What happens when it’s finished?”
“You’re going to sell it to Elena Kharkov.”
“Ask a silly question.” She leaned forward and scrutinized the canvas. “Watch your brushwork on the hands, Gabriel. It’s a bit too impasto.”
“My brushwork, as usual, is flawless.”
“How foolish of me to suggest otherwise.” She smothered an elaborate yawn. “I’m running on fumes.”
“You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow, you’re moving up to the main house. Uncle John is expecting you.”
“What’s he like?”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“If you need any more advice, don’t hesitate to wake me.”
“I think I can manage on my own.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Sarah kissed his cheek and slipped silently through the doorway. Gabriel pressed the PLAY button on a small portable stereo and stood motionless while the first notes of La Bohème filled the room. Then he tapped his brush against the palette and painted alone until midnight.
Sir John Boothby was introduced to his American niece, an attractive young woman now using the name Sarah Crawford, over breakfast the following morning. Gabriel swiftly sketched the missing chapters of their long and cordial relationship. Though Sarah’s mother, now deceased, had been foolish enough to marry a Wall Street banker, she had made certain her daughter maintained strong connections to England, which is why Sarah had spent summers at Havermore, and why she still made an annual pilgrimage to the estate now that she was in her thirties. As a young girl, she had stayed in the nursery and formed a deep bond with Two Children on a Beach. Therefore, it would be natural for Sarah to show Elena Kharkov the painting rather than her uncle, who had never really cared for it. The Cassatt would be viewed “in situ,” meaning that Sarah would be required to escort Elena to the upstairs to see it, thus leaving her ample time for a quiet but unmistakable approach. Uncle John’s task would be to assist in the separation of Elena from her bodyguards. Gabriel estimated they would have ten minutes. Any more than that, he reckoned, and the bodyguards would start getting jumpy. And jumpy Russian bodyguards were the last thing they needed.
With Sarah’s arrival, the pace of the preparations increased dramatically. M amp;M Audio and Video rolled into Havermore, disguised as local electricians, and installed cameras and microphones around the house and the grounds. They also created a makeshift command post in the hayloft of the barn, where the feeds could be monitored and recorded. Sarah spent her mornings “reacquainting” herself with a home she knew well and cherished deeply. She spent many pleasant hours with her uncle, familiarizing herself with the vast old manor house, and led herself on long walks around the estate with Punch and Judy, Boothby’s poorly behaved Pembroke Welsh corgis, trotting at her heels. Old George Merrywood invariably stopped her for a chat. His local Gloucestershire accent was so broad that even Sarah, who had spent much time in England, could barely understand a word he said. Mrs. Devlin pronounced her “simply the most delightful American I’ve ever met.” She knew nothing of Sarah’s alleged blood relationship to her employer-indeed, she had been told by Sir John that Sarah was the daughter of an American friend and had recently gone through a nasty divorce. Poor lamb, thought Mrs. Devlin one afternoon as she watched Sarah emerge from the dappled light of the North Wood with the dogs at her heels. What idiot would ever let a girl like that slip through his fingers?
In the evenings, Sarah would wander out to the gamekeeper’s cottage to discuss the real purpose of her stay at Havermore, which was the recruitment of Elena Kharkov. Gabriel would lecture her while he stood before his easel. At first, he spoke about the craft in general terms, but as the date of Elena’s arrival drew nearer, his briefings took on a decidedly more pointed tone. “Remember, Sarah, two people are already dead because of her. You can’t push too hard. You can’t force the issue. Just open the door and let her walk through it. If she does, get as much information as you can about Ivan’s deal and try to arrange a second meeting. Whatever you do, don’t let the first encounter last longer than ten minutes. You can be sure the bodyguards will be watching the clock. And they report everything to Ivan.”