She had no plans for a splashy opening, but somehow, with the help of a hidden hand, or perhaps by magic, plans materialized. Indeed, no sooner had the sun set on the second Saturday in November than the art world and all its unclaimed baggage came flowing through her door. There were dealers and collectors and curators and critics. There were actors and directors from stage and screen, novelists, playwrights, poets, politicians, pop stars, a marquis who looked as though he’d just stepped off his yacht, and more models than anyone could count. Oliver Dimbleby pressed his gold-plated business card into the hand of any poor girl who happened to linger more than a second or two within his damp reach. Jeremy Crabbe, London’s last faithful husband, seemed incapable of speech. Only Julian Isherwood managed to mind his manners. He planted his flag at the end of the courtesy bar, next to Amelia March of ARTnews. Amelia was gazing disapprovingly at Olivia Watson, who was posing for photographs in front of her Pollock, watched over by a couple of bodyguards.
“Worked out rather well for her in the end, don’t you think?”
“How’s that?” asked Isherwood.
“Gets herself involved with the biggest drug dealer in France, makes millions running a dirty gallery in Saint-Tropez, and now she’s set up shop in St. James’s, surrounded by you and Oliver and the rest of the Old Master fossils.”
“And we are ever grateful she did,” said Isherwood as he watched a gazelle-like girl float past his shoulder.
“You don’t find any of it odd?”
“Unlike you, petal, I adore happy endings.”
“I like mine with a grain of truth, and something about this doesn’t add up. I’ll have you know I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
“Have another drink instead. Or better yet,” said Isherwood, “have dinner with me.”
“Oh, Julian.” She pointed across the sea of heads, toward a tall, pale man standing a few feet from Olivia. “There’s your old client, Dmitri Antonov.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Is that his wife?”
“Sophie,” said Isherwood, nodding. “Lovely woman.”
“That’s not what I hear. And who’s the one next to her?” she asked. “The dishy one who looks like another bodyguard.”
“Name’s Peter Marlowe.”
“What’s he do?”
“Couldn’t say.”
At half past eight Olivia took up a microphone and made a few remarks. She was pleased to be a part of the great London art world, she was happy to be home again. She made no mention of Jean-Luc Martel, the unsung hero of the hunt for the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin, and none of the reporters present, Amelia March included, bothered to ask her about JLM, either. She was free of him at last. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.
At the stroke of nine the lights dimmed and the music started up and another wave of guests came squeezing through the door. Many were battle-scarred survivors of the blowouts at Villa Soleil. The ones who were busy being rich together. The ones with all the time in the world for everything. The Antonovs shook a few of the better hands before slipping into the back of their Maybach limousine, never to be seen again. Keller left a few minutes later, but not before pulling Olivia aside to offer his congratulations and bid her a good night. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
“Do you like it?” she asked, beaming.
“The gallery?”
“No. The picture I painted on the blank canvas your friend gave me.” She drew him close. “I want to see you,” she whispered into his ear. “Whatever happened in your previous life, I promise I can make it all better.”
Outside, it was beginning to rain. Keller snared a taxi in Pall Mall and rode it to his maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. After paying off the driver, he stood on the pavement for a long moment and scrutinized the blinds in his many windows. His instincts told him there was danger present. Turning, he crept silently down the steps to the lower entrance and drew the Walther PPK from the small of his back before unlocking the door. He entered his own home in a whirling blur, as he had entered the room in the southeast corner of the house in Zaida, and leveled his gun at the man seated calmly at the kitchen counter.
“Bastard,” he said, lowering the weapon. “That one was close.”
“You really have to stop doing this.”
“Dropping in unannounced?”
“Breaking into my house. What would Mr. Marlowe’s posh Kensington neighbors think if they heard gunfire?” Keller tossed his Crombie overcoat on the marble-topped island, where Gabriel, illuminated by the restrained recessed lighting, sat atop a stool. “You couldn’t find anything to drink in my refrigerator?”
“Tea would be nice, thank you.”
Keller frowned and filled the electric kettle with water. “What brings you to town?”
“A meeting at Vauxhall Cross.”
“Why wasn’t I on the guest list?”
“Need to know.”
“What was the topic?”
“What part of need to know didn’t you understand?”
“Do you want tea or not?”
“The meeting concerned certain suspicious activities related to the Iranian nuclear program.”
“Imagine that.”
“Hard to believe, I know.”
“And the nature of these activities?”
“The Office is of the opinion that the Iranians are conducting weaponization research in North Korea. SIS concurs. It should,” added Gabriel. “We’re sharing the same source.”
“Who is it?”
“Something tells me you’ll know soon enough.”
Keller opened one of the cabinets. “Darjeeling or Prince of Wales?”
“No Earl Grey?”
“Darjeeling it is.” Keller dropped a teabag into a mug and waited for the water to boil. “You missed quite a party tonight.”
“So I heard.”
“Couldn’t fit it into your busy schedule?”
“Didn’t think it would be wise to show my face in a part of London where it is rather well known. Besides, I went to great effort to make Olivia presentable again. I didn’t want to spoil my work.”
“You removed the dirty varnish,” said Keller. “Retouched the losses.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“The article in the Telegraph was a lovely piece of work on your part. With one glaring exception,” added Keller.
“What’s that?”
“The heroic portrayal of Jean-Luc Martel.”
“It was unavoidable.”
“Are you forgetting he put a gun to Olivia’s head?”
“I saw the whole thing.”
“From the cheap seats.”
Keller placed the mug of tea on the island. Gabriel left it untouched.
“Obviously,” he said after a moment, “your feelings for Olivia are clouding your judgment.”
“I have no feelings for her.”
“Spare me, Mr. Marlowe. I happen to know that you were a frequent visitor to Wormwood Cottage during Olivia’s stay there.”
“Did Graham tell you that?”
“Actually, it was Miss Coventry. Furthermore,” Gabriel sailed on, “it has come to my attention that you and Olivia shared an intimate moment tonight at the opening of her gallery.”
“It wasn’t intimate.”