Portrait of a Spy. Daniel SilvaЧитать онлайн книгу.
“He has an idea he wants to discuss.”
“What sort of idea?”
“A partnership,” Chiara said. “He wants us to become partners in the gallery.”
Gabriel slowed to a stop. “Let me make this as clear as possible,” he said. “I have absolutely no interest in becoming a partner in the sometimes-solvent firm of Isherwood Fine Arts.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing,” he said, walking again, “we have no idea how to run a business.”
“You’ve run several very thriving enterprises in the past.”
“It’s easy when you have the backing of an intelligence service.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, Gabriel. How hard can it be to run an art gallery?”
“Incredibly hard. And as Julian has proven time and time again, it’s easy to get into trouble. Even the most successful gallery can go under if it places a bad bet.” Gabriel gave her a sidelong look and asked, “When did you and Julian concoct this little arrangement?”
“You make it sound as if we were conspiring behind your back.”
“That’s because you were.”
With a smile, Chiara conceded the point. “It happened when we were in Washington for the unveiling of the Rembrandt. Julian pulled me aside and said he was beginning to think about the possibility he might actually retire. He wants the gallery to end up in the hands of someone he trusts.”
“Julian will never retire.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Where was I when this deal was being hatched?”
“I believe you’d slipped outside for a private conversation with a British investigative reporter.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this until now?”
“Because Julian asked me not to.”
With his edgy silence, Gabriel made it clear that Chiara had violated one of the fundamental tenets of their marriage. Secrets, even undeniably trivial ones, were forbidden.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I should have said something, but Julian was adamant. He knew your first instinct would be to say no.”
“He could sell the gallery to Oliver Dimbleby in a heartbeat and retire to an island in the Caribbean.”
“Have you considered what that might mean for us? Do you really want to clean pictures for Oliver Dimbleby? Or Giles Pittaway? Or were you thinking you could scrape up a bit of freelance work from the Tate or the National Gallery?”
“It sounds as if you and Julian have it all worked out.”
“We do.”
“Then perhaps you should become Julian’s partner.”
“Only if you clean pictures for me.”
Gabriel could see that Chiara was serious. “Running a gallery isn’t all about attending glamorous auctions and having long lunches in fancy restaurants in Jermyn Street. And it’s not something that should be considered a hobby.”
“Thank you for dismissing me as a dilettante.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“You’re not the only one who’s retired from the Office, Gabriel. I am, too. But unlike you, I don’t have damaged Old Masters to occupy my time.”
“So you want to become an art dealer? You’ll spend your days rummaging through piles of mediocre paintings, looking for another lost Titian. And chances are you’ll never find one.”
“It doesn’t sound that bad to me.” Chiara looked around the street. “And it means we could live here.”
“I thought you liked Cornwall.”
“I adore it,” she said. “Just not in winter.”
Gabriel lapsed into silence. He had been bracing himself for a conversation like this for some time. “I thought we were going to have a baby,” he said.
“So did I,” Chiara said. “But I’m beginning to think it might not be possible. Nothing I try seems to be working.”
There was a note of resignation in her voice that Gabriel had never heard before. “So we’ll keep trying,” he said.
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed. It was the miscarriage. It’s going to make it much harder for me to ever conceive again. Who knows? A change of scenery might help. Just think about it,” she said, squeezing his hand. “That’s all I’m saying, darling. We might actually enjoy living here.”
In the broad Italianate piazza of the Covent Garden Market, a street comedian was arranging a pair of unsuspecting German tourists into a pose suggestive of sexual intimacy. Chiara leaned against a pillar to watch the performance while Gabriel fell into an undignified sulk, his eyes scanning the large crowd gathered in the square and atop the balcony bar of the Punch and Judy. He was not angry with Chiara but with himself. For years, their relationship had revolved around Gabriel and his work. It had never occurred to him that Chiara might have career aspirations of her own. If they were a normal couple, he might have considered the opportunity. But they were not a normal couple. They were former operatives of one of the world’s most celebrated intelligence services. And they had a past that was far too bloody to lead so public a life.
As they headed into the soaring glass arcade of the market, any residual tension from their quarrel quickly dissipated. Even Gabriel, who detested shopping in all its forms, took pleasure in roaming the colorful shops and stalls with Chiara at his side. Intoxicated by the smell of her hair, he imagined the afternoon that lay ahead—a quiet lunch followed by a pleasant walk back to their hotel. There, in the cool shadows of their room, Gabriel would slowly undress Chiara and make love to her in the enormous bed. For a moment, it was almost possible for Gabriel to imagine his past had been erased, that his exploits were mere fables gathering dust in the file rooms of King Saul Boulevard. Only the watchfulness remained—the instinctive, gnawing vigilance that made it impossible for him to ever feel completely at peace in public. It forced him to make a mental charcoal sketch of every passing face in the crowded market. And in Wellington Street, as they were approaching the restaurant, it caused him to freeze in his tracks. Chiara tugged playfully at his arm. Then she stared directly into his eyes and realized something was wrong.
“You look as though you just saw a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. A dead man.”
“Where?”
Gabriel nodded toward a figure in a gray woolen overcoat.
“Right there.”
Chapter 5
Covent Garden, London
THERE ARE TELLTALE INDICATORS COMMON to suicide bombers. Lips can move involuntarily as final prayers are recited. Eyes can have a glassy thousand-yard stare. And the face can sometimes appear unnaturally pale, evidence that an unkempt beard has been hastily removed in preparation for a mission. The dead man exhibited none of these traits. His lips were pursed. His eyes were clear and focused. And his face was evenly colored. He had been shaving regularly for a long time.
What set him apart was the thin tributary of sweat leaking from his left sideburn. Why was he perspiring on a crisp autumn afternoon? If he was warm, why were his hands buried in the pockets of his woolen overcoat? And why was the overcoat—a size too large, in Gabriel’s opinion—still tightly buttoned? And then there was his walk. Even a physically fit man in his late twenties will have difficulty feigning a normal gait when saddled with fifty pounds of high explosives, nails, and ball bearings. As the dead man walked past Gabriel in Wellington Street, he appeared unusually erect,