Elena, darling, it’s Alistair Leach. Am I catching you at a perfectly dreadful time?”

"Of course not, Alistair. What can I do for you?”

"Actually, darling, it’s what I can do for you. I’m pleased to say that I have some extremely interesting news about our mutual friend, Madame Cassatt.”

“What sort of news?”

“It seems our man may have had a change of heart. He rang me this morning to say he’s interested in discussing a sale. Shall I call you later or would you like to hear the rest now?”

“Don’t be a tease, Alistair! Tell me everything.”

“He says he’s had a chance to reconsider. He’s says if the price is right, he’ll let it go.”

“How much does he want for it?”

“In the neighborhood of two and a half, but you might be able to do a bit better than that. Between us, Elena, his finances aren’t what they once were.”

“I’m not going to take advantage of him.”

“Of course you are, darling. You’re the one with the money.”

“Are you sure about the attribution and the provenance?”

“Signed, dated, and airtight.”

“When can I see it?”

“That’s completely up to you.”

“Tomorrow, Alistair. Definitely tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to check to see if he’s free, but I suspect he’ll be able to squeeze you in. His funds aren’t unlimited, but time is something he has in plentiful supply.”

“Can you reach him now?”

“I’ll try, love. Shall I call you back this afternoon or would you rather it wait till morning?”

“Call me right away! Ciao, Alistair!”

The technician clicked the PAUSE icon. Graham Seymour looked at Gabriel and smiled.

“Congratulations, Gabriel. Looks like you’ve managed to get your hooks in her.”

“How long is it going to take her to get from Knightsbridge to Havermore?”

“The way those Russians drive? No more than two hours door to door.”

“And you’re sure about Ivan’s schedule?”

“You’ve heard the intercepts yourself.”

“Humor me, Graham.”

“He’s got a delegation of City investment bankers coming to Rutland Gate for lunch at one. Then he’s got a four o’clock conference call with Zurich. He’ll be tied up all afternoon.”

A voice crackled over the monitors. It was one of the watchers at Harrods. Elena had asked for the check. The bodyguards were setting a perimeter. Departure imminent.

“Call her back,” Gabriel said. “Tell her to come at four. Tell her not to be late.”

“Shall we do it now or should we make her wait?”

“She has enough stress in her life, don’t you think?”

Seymour snatched up the phone and dialed.

Whitcombe’s mobile purred. He listened in silence for a moment, then looked at Alistair Leach.

"The reviews are in, Alistair. Looks like we’ve got a smash hit on our hands.”

“What now?”

Whitcombe answered. Leach pressed the REDIAL button and waited for Elena’s voice to come back on the line.

It was 5:30 that same evening when Mrs. Devlin entered the library at Havermore, bearing a silver tray with a glass of whiskey in the center of it. Sir John was reading the Telegraph. He always read the Telegraph at this time of day; like most idle men, he kept to a strict regime. He took a single sip of the whiskey and watched while Mrs. Devlin began straightening the books and papers on his desk. “Leave it, Lillian,” he said. “Whenever you clean my library, I spend the next week searching for my things.”

“If you’ve nothing else for me, Sir John, I’ll be going home now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”

“What are we having tonight?”

“Rack of lamb.”

“Divine,” he murmured.

Mrs. Devlin bade him a good evening and started toward the door. Boothby lowered his newspaper. “Oh, Lillian?”

“Yes, Sir John?”

“We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow afternoon.”

“More visitors, Sir John?”

“I’m afraid so. She won’t be staying long. She’s just going to have a look at the painting in the nursery.”

The painting in the nursery… The painting that spent a week in the gamekeeper’s cottage, in the possession of the man whose presence she had been told to say nothing about.

“I see,” she said. “Shall I make a batch of scones?”

“She’s not exactly a scone person, if you catch my meaning.”

“I’m not sure I do, Sir John.”

“She’s a Russian, Lillian. A very well-to-do Russian. I doubt she’ll be staying for tea. With a bit of luck, she’ll have a very quick look and be on her way.”

Mrs. Devlin remained rooted in the doorway.

“Something bothering you, Lillian?”

“May I speak bluntly, Sir John?”

“You usually do.”

“Is there something going on at Havermore that you’re not telling me?”

“Many things, I suppose. You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“The odd man in the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lovely young girl who claims to be the daughter of your American friend. The men doing the electrical work all through the house. Old George is convinced they’re up to no good in the barn!”

“Old George sees conspiracies everywhere, Lillian.”

“And now you’re thinking about selling that beautiful painting to a Russian? Your poor father, may he rest in peace, would be spinning in his grave.”

“I need the money, Lillian. We need the money.”

She tugged skeptically on the drawstring of her apron. “I’m not sure I believe you, Sir John. I think something important is going on in this house. Something to do with secrets, just like when your father was alive.”

Boothby gave her a conspiratorial look over his whiskey. “The Russians will be arriving at four o’clock sharp, Lillian.” He paused. “If you would rather not be here-”

“I’ll be here, Sir John,” she said quickly.

“What about Old George?”

“Perhaps we should give him the afternoon off, sir.”

“Perhaps we should.”

34 HAVERMORE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

The limousines passed the concealed checkpoint on the Station Road at 3:45: two custom Mercedes-Benz S65s with blacked-out windows, riding low and heavy with bulletproof glass and armor. They flashed down the terraced High Street of Chipping Camden, past the quaint shops and the old limestone St. James’ Church, and roared out of town again on Dyers Lane. One shopkeeper timed the run at sixteen seconds, shortest visit to Chipping Camden in recorded history.

At the once-grand estate known as Havermore, there was no visible evidence to suggest that anyone was aware of the cars’ rapid approach. Mrs. Devlin was in the kitchen, where, in contravention of Sir John’s direct orders, she was putting the final touches on a tray of fresh scones, strawberry jam, and Cotswold clotted cream. Sir John was unaware of her rebellion, for he was sequestered in the library, pondering serious and weighty matters. As for the attractive young woman known to them as Sarah Crawford, she was coming up the footpath from the East Meadow wearing a pair of green Wellington boots, with Punch and Judy watching her back like tiny tan bodyguards.

Only in the hayloft of the tumbledown barn were there hints that something truly out of the ordinary was about to take place. Four men were there, seated before a bank of video and audio monitors. Two of the men were young, scruffy technicians. The third was a tall figure of authority who looked as though he had stepped out of a magazine advertisement. The fourth had short dark hair with ash-colored temples. His eyes were fixed on a video image of the young woman, who was in the process of removing her Wellingtons in the mudroom and changing into a pair of sensible black flats. She entered the kitchen and playfully dipped a finger into Mrs. Devlin’s fresh cream, then passed through a pair of double doors and made her way into the entrance hall. There, standing before a long mirror, she smoothed the front of her white blouse and pale yellow pedal pushers and adjusted the sweater knotted with feigned casualness round her shoulders. She wore only a hint of blush on her alabaster cheeks and cat-eyed spectacles instead of contact lenses. Your beauty must pose no challenge to Elena’s, the man with ash-colored temples had told her. Elena’s not used to finishing second at anything.