Sarah was momentarily taken aback by the intimacy of her words. They constituted a betrayal. A small one, thought Sarah, but a betrayal nonetheless. “A woman in your position can’t be too careful,” she said. “But I can assure you that you are among friends here.”
Boothby and Ivan disappeared around the corner of the house. Sarah placed her hand gently on Elena’s arm.
“Would you like to see my uncle’s Cassatt, Mrs. Kharkov?”
“I would love to see your uncle’s Cassatt, Miss Crawford.”
When they started toward the portico, the bodyguards remained motionless.
“You know, Mrs. Kharkov, I really think it’s best we see the painting alone. I’ve always found Cassatt to be a painter of women for women. Most men don’t understand her.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“What’s that?”
"Ivan loathes her.”
In the hayloft of the barn, the four men standing before the video monitors moved for the first time in three minutes.
"Looks like Uncle John just saved our asses,” said Graham Seymour.
"His father would be very proud.”
“Ivan’s not the world’s most patient man. I suspect you’ll have five minutes with Elena at most.”
“I’d kill for five minutes.”
“Let’s hope there’s no killing today, Gabriel. Ivan’s the one with all the guns.”
The two women climbed the central staircase together and paused on the landing to admire a Madonna and Child.
"Is that actually a Veronese?” Elena asked.
“Depends on whom you ask. My uncle’s ancestors did the Grand Tour of Italy in the nineteenth century and came home with a boat-load of paintings. Some were quite lovely. Some of them were just copies made by lesser artists. I’ve always thought this one was among the best.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“The Cassatt is still in the nursery. My uncle thought you would enjoy seeing it in its original setting.”
Sarah took Elena carefully by the arm and led her down the hall. The key was resting on the woodwork above the door. Standing on tiptoe, Sarah removed it, then raised a finger to her lips in a gesture of mock conspiracy.
“Don’t tell anyone where we keep the key.”
Elena smiled. "It will be our little secret.”
Ivan’s starting to get restless.” “I can see that, Graham.”
"She’s burned three minutes already.”
"Yes, I can see that, too.”
“She should have done it on the staircase.”
“She knows what she’s doing.”
“I hope to God you’re right.”
So do I, thought Gabriel.
Elena entered the room first. Sarah closed the door halfway, then walked over to the window and pushed open the curtains. The golden light fell upon two matching beds, two matching dressers, two matching hand-painted toy chests, and Two Children on a Beach by Gabriel Allon. Elena covered her mouth with her hands and gasped.
“It’s glorious,” she said. “I must have it.”
Sarah allowed a silence to fall between them. She lowered herself onto the end of the bed nearest the window and, with her eyes cast downward toward the floor, absently ran her hand over the Winnie the Pooh spread. Seeing her reaction, Elena said, “My God, I’m so sorry. You must think I’m terribly spoiled.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Kharkov.” Sarah made a show of looking around the nursery. “I spent every summer in this room when I was a little girl. That painting was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I saw at night before my mother switched off the lights. The house just won’t feel the same without it.”
“I can’t take it from you, then.”
“You must,” Sarah said. “My uncle has to sell it. Trust me, Mrs. Kharkov, if you don’t buy it, someone else will. I want it to go to someone who loves it as much as I do. Someone like you,” she added.
Elena turned her gaze from Sarah and looked at the painting once more. “I’d like to have a closer look at it before I make a final decision. Would you help me take it down from the wall, please?”
“Of course.”
Sarah rose to her feet and, passing before the window, glanced downward toward the meadow. Boothby and Ivan were still there, Boothby with his arm extended toward some landmark in the distance, Ivan with his patience clearly at an ebb. She walked over to the painting and, with Elena’s help, lifted it from its hooks and laid it flat upon the second bed. Elena then drew a magnifying glass and a small Maglite flashlight from her handbag. First she used the magnifying glass to examine the signature in the bottom left corner of the painting. Then she switched on the Maglite and played the beam over the surface. Her examination lasted three minutes. When it had ended, she switched off the Maglite and slipped it back into her handbag.
“This painting is an obvious forgery,” she said.
She regarded Sarah’s face carefully for a moment as if she realized Sarah was a forgery, too.
“Please tell me who you are, Miss Crawford.”
Sarah opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the door swung open and Ivan appeared in the threshold, with Boothby at his shoulder. Ivan stared at Elena for a moment, then his gaze settled on Sarah.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
It was Elena who answered. “Nothing’s wrong, Ivan. Miss Crawford was just telling me how much the painting means to her and she became understandably emotional.”
“Perhaps they’ve had a change of heart.”
“No, Mr. Kharkov,” Sarah said. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to part with it. The painting belongs to your wife now-if she wants it, of course.”
“Well, Elena?” Ivan asked impatiently. “Do you want it or not?”
Elena ran her fingers over the faces of the children, then looked at Sarah. “It’s one of the most extraordinary Cassatts I’ve ever seen.” She turned around and looked at Ivan. “I must have it, my love. Please pay them whatever they ask.”
35 LONDON
Precisely how Ivan Kharkov had managed to slip past the vaunted watchers of MI5 was never determined to anyone’s satisfaction. There were recriminations and postmortems. Regrettable letters were inserted into personnel files. Demerits were handed out. Gabriel paid little attention to the fallout, for by then he was wrestling with weightier matters. By paying two and a half million dollars for a painting she knew to be a worthless forgery, Elena had clearly shown herself to be receptive to a second approach. Which was why Adrian Carter boarded his Gulfstream jet and came to London.
“Sounds as if you had an interesting afternoon in the Cotswolds, Gabriel. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to see it. How did Sarah hold up when confronted with the monster in the flesh?”
“As one would expect. Sarah is very talented.”
They were seated together on Gabriel’s bench in St. James’s Park. Carter wore the traveling attire of the American businessman: blue blazer, blue button-down, tan chinos. His oxblood penny loafers were dull for want of polish. He needed a shave.
“How do you think Elena was able to tell the painting wasn’t real?”
“She owns several other Cassatts, which means she spends a great deal of time around them. She knows how they look, but, perhaps more important, how they feel. After enough time, one develops an instinct about these things, a certain sense of touch. Elena’s instincts must have told her that the painting was a forgery.”
“But did her instincts also tell her that Sarah Crawford was a forgery as well?”
“Without question.”
“Where’s the painting now?”
“Still at Havermore. Elena’s shippers are coming to collect it. She told Alistair Leach she intends to hang it in the children’s room at Villa Soleil.”
A group of Croatian schoolgirls approached the bench and, in halting English, asked for directions to Buckingham Palace. Carter pointed absently toward the west. When the girls were gone, he and Gabriel rose in unison and set out along the Horse Guards Road.