Moscow Rules

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