Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (89)

“Our mutual friend performed a similar service for you, as I recall.” Olivia folded her arms. “Does your adorable American wife know what you used to do for a living?”

“My adorable American wife is none of your concern.”

“Is it true she used to work for the CIA?”

“Wherever did you hear a thing like that?”

“Neighborhood gossip. There’s also a nasty rumor going round that I’m involved in a flaming shag-fest with Simon Mendenhall.”

“I thought you were dating a pop star.”

“Colin is an actor,” said Olivia. “And he’s currently starring in the hottest play in the West End.”

“Are you two serious?”

“Quite.”

“So why are you shagging sleazy Simon on the side?”

“The rumor was started by your wife,” said Olivia evenly.

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“She also whispers the word bitch every time she sees me in Wiltons.”

Christopher smiled in spite of himself.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Olivia scrutinized his clothing. “Who’s dressing you these days?”

“Dicky.”

“Nice.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I’d rather you tell your adorable American wife to cease and desist.” Olivia shook her head slowly. “Honestly, I can’t imagine why she would stoop to something so low.”

“She’s a bit jealous, that’s all.”

“If anyone has a right to be jealous, it’s me. After all, Sarah’s the one who ended up with you.”

“Come now, Olivia. You don’t really mean that. I was just a comfortable place for you to lay your head while you found your footing here in London. Now you’re dating a pop star and your gallery is all the rage.”

“All because of our mutual friend?”

Christopher made no reply.

“I thought he retired,” said Olivia.

“It’s a private matter involving a man named Phillip Somerset.”

“The Phillip Somerset?”

“Friend of yours?”

“I sat next to Phillip and his wife at Christie’s postwar and contemporary evening sale in New York a couple of years ago. The wife did some modeling before she hit the jackpot with Phillip. Laura is her name. Or is it Linda?”

“Lindsay.”

“Yes, that’s it. She’s quite young and unspeakably stupid. Phillip struck me as a real operator. He asked whether I wanted to invest in his fund. I told him I wasn’t in his league.”

“Wise move on your part.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Phillip is a bit like your old boyfriend. Shiny on the outside, dirty underneath. What’s more, there’s a rumor going around New York that his finances are rather shaky.”

“Another rumor?”

“This one happens to be true. Our mutual friend would like you to whisper it into the ear of a prominent London art adviser whose client list includes some of the richest collectors in the world.”

“How do you want me to play it?”

“A casual aside over an otherwise pleasant and businesslike lunch.”

“When?”

“Today.”

She glanced at her watch. “But it’s nearly eleven. Surely Nicky has a lunch date already.”

“Something tells me he’ll break it.”

Olivia reached for her mobile. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

“I’ll have a word with her,” said Christopher.

“Thank you.” Olivia dialed and raised the phone to her ear. “Hello, Nicky. It’s Olivia Watson calling. I know it’s terribly short notice, but I was wondering whether you happened to be free for lunch today . . . The Wolseley at one? See you then, Nicky.”





57

The Wolseley




And so it began, with an apparently offhand remark, made over a costly lunch in one of Mayfair’s finer dining rooms. The midday clatter of cutlery was such that Nicky leaned forward over his dressed Dorset crab appetizer and asked Olivia to repeat her statement. She did so in a confessional murmur, with the addition of a don’t-quote-me-on-this disclaimer. The time was half past one o’clock. Or so claimed Julian Isherwood, who was dining well at a nearby table and noticed the ashen expression wash over Nicky’s face. Julian’s tubby tablemate didn’t see a thing, for he was making a run at young Tessa, the newest addition to the Wolseley’s waitstaff.

Nicky pressed Olivia to reveal the name of her source. And when she refused, he begged her pardon and immediately dialed Sterling Dunbar, a wealthy Manhattan real estate developer who bought paintings by the ton, always with Nicky looking over one shoulder. Sterling had been one of the first major investors in Masterpiece Art Ventures.

“Do you know my current balance?” he sniffed.

“I’m sure it’s considerably larger than mine.”

“A hundred and fifty million, a fivefold increase over my initial investment. Phillip assures me the fund is rock solid. Truth be told, I’m thinking about giving him another hundred.”