Portrait of a Spy (30 page)

“Sold, is it?” asked the rumpled figure, tugging at his earlobe.

“Just last week,” said Oliver.

“As a Palma?”

“Workshop, love. Workshop.”

“How much?”

“My good man!”

“If I were you, I’d find some way to wriggle out of it.”

“Whatever for?”

“Look at the draftsmanship. Look at the brushwork. You just let a Titian slip through your fingers. Shame on you, Oliver. Hang your head. Confess your sins.”

Oliver did neither, but within minutes he was on the phone to an old chum at the British Museum who had forgotten more about Titian than most art historians would ever know. The chum hurried over to St. James’s in a deluge and stood before the canvas looking like the only survivor of a shipwreck.

“Oliver! How could you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“At least you have one. Mine will be in the loo if this gets out.”

“You do have
one
option.”

“What’s that?”

“Call Mr. Abbas. Tell him the check bounced.”

And don’t think the idea didn’t cross Oliver’s devious little mind. In fact, he spent the better part of the next forty-eight hours trying to find some legally and morally acceptable loophole that he might use to extricate himself from the deal. Finding none—at least not one that would allow him to sleep at night—he called Mr. Abbas to inform him that Onyx Innovative Capital was actually the proud owner of a newly discovered Titian. Oliver offered to take the painting to market, hoping to at least salvage a healthy commission out of the debacle, but Abbas called back the very next day to say OIC was going in a different direction. “Tried to let me down easy,” Oliver said wistfully. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Dimbleby. Lunch next time you’re in Zurich, Mr. Dimbleby. And by the way, Mr. Dimbleby, the lads from Christie’s will be stopping by in an hour.”

They appeared with the suddenness of professional kidnappers and carried the painting over to King Street, where it was examined by a parade of Titian experts from around the globe. Each rendered the same verdict, and, miraculously, not one violated the draconian confidentiality agreement that Christie’s had made them sign for their fee. Even the normally loquacious Oliver managed to keep quiet until after Christie’s unveiled its prize. But then Oliver had reason to hold his tongue. Oliver was the goat who let a Titian slip through his hooves.

But even Oliver seemed to find a bit of pleasure in the frenzy that followed the announcement. And why ever not? It really had been a dreadful winter till that point, with the government austerity and the blizzards and the bombings. Oliver was only happy he was able to lighten the mood, even if it meant playing the fool for drinks at Green’s. Besides, he knew the role well. He had played it many times before, to great acclaim.

On the night of the auction, he gave what would be his final performance to a standing-room-only crowd. At its conclusion, he made three curtain calls, then joined the throng heading over to Christie’s for the big show. Management had been kind enough to reserve a second-row seat for him, directly in front of the auctioneer’s rostrum. Seated to his left was his friend and competitor, Roddy Hutchinson, and to Roddy’s left was Julian Isherwood. The seat to Oliver’s right was unoccupied. A moment later, it was filled by none other than Nicholas Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. Lovegrove had just flown in from New York. Private, of course. Lovegrove didn’t do commercial anymore.

“Why the long face, Ollie?”

“Thoughts of what might have been.”

“Sorry about the Titian.”

“Win some, lose some. How’s biz, Nicky?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Didn’t realize you dabbled in Old Masters.”

“Actually, they terrify me. Look at this place. It’s like being in a bloody church—all angels and saints and martyrdom and crucifixion.”

“So what brings you to town?”

“A client who wants to venture into new territory.”

“Client have a name?”

“Client wishes to remain anonymous—
very
anonymous.”

“Know the feeling. Your client planning to venture into new territory by acquiring a Titian?”

“You’ll know soon enough, Ollie.”

“Hope your client has deep pockets.”

“I only do deep pockets.”

“Word on the street is that it’s going to go big.”

“Pre-show hype.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Nicky. You’re always right.”

Lovegrove didn’t bother to dispute this. Instead, he drew a mobile phone from the breast pocket of his blazer and scrolled through the contacts. Oliver being Oliver, he snuck a quick peek at the screen after Lovegrove placed the call.
Now isn’t that interesting
, he thought.
Isn’t that interesting indeed
.

Chapter 45
St. James’s, London

T
HE PAINTING ENTERED THE ROOM
at the midway point, like a pretty girl arriving at a party fashionably late. It had been a rather dull party until that moment, and the pretty girl did much to brighten the room. Oliver Dimbleby sat up a bit straighter in his folding chair. Julian Isherwood fussed with the knot of his necktie and winked at one of the women on the telephone dais.

“Lot Twenty-seven, the Titian,” purred Simon Mendenhall, Christie’s slinky chief auctioneer. Simon was the only man in London with a suntan. It was beginning to smudge the collar of his custom-made shirt. “Shall we begin at two million?”

Terry O’Connor, the last Irish tycoon with any money, did the honors. Within thirty seconds, the bid in the room stood at six and a half million pounds. Oliver Dimbleby leaned to his right and murmured, “Still think it was hype, Nicky?”

“We’re still in the first turn,” Lovegrove whispered, “and I hear there’s a strong headwind on the backstretch.”

“I’d recheck the forecast if I were you, Nicky.”

The bidding stalled at seven. Oliver, with a scratch of his nose, nudged it to seven and a half.

“Bastard,” muttered Lovegrove.

“Anytime, Nicky.”

Oliver’s bid reignited the frenzy. Terry O’Connor steamrolled his way through several consecutive bids, but the other contenders refused to back down. The Irishman finally lowered his paddle at twelve, at which point Isherwood accidentally entered the fray when Mendenhall mistook a discreet cough for a bid of twelve and a half million pounds. It was no matter; a few seconds later a telephone bidder stunned the room by offering fifteen million. Lovegrove pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Where do we stand?” asked Mr. Hamdali.

Lovegrove gave him the lay of the land. In the time it had taken him to place the call, the telephone bid had already been eclipsed. It was back in the room with Terry O’Connor at sixteen.

“Mr. O’Connor fancies himself a pugilist, does he not?”

“Welterweight champ at university.”

“Let’s hit him with a stiff uppercut, shall we?”

“How stiff?”

“Enough to know we mean business.”

Lovegrove caught Mendenhall’s eye and raised two fingers.

“I have twenty million in the room. It’s not with you, madam. Nor with you, sir. And it’s not with Lisa on the telephone. It’s in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove, at twenty million pounds. Do I have twenty million five?”

He did. It was with Julian Isherwood. Terry O’Connor immediately took it to twenty-one. The telephone bidder countered at twenty-two. A second entered at twenty-four, followed soon after by a third at twenty-five. Mendenhall was twisting and turning like a flamenco dancer. The bidding had taken on the quality of a fight to the death, which was exactly what he wanted. Lovegrove lifted his phone to his ear and said, “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”

“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove.”

“But—”

“Please bid again.”

Lovegrove did as he was instructed.

“The bid is now twenty-six million, in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove. Will someone give me twenty-seven?”

Lisa waved her hand from the telephone desk.

“I have twenty-eight on the telephone. Now it’s twenty-nine at the back of the room. Now thirty. Now it’s at thirty-one with Mr. O’Connor in the room. Thirty-two now. Thirty-three. No, I won’t take thirty-three and half, because I’m looking for thirty-four. And it looks as though I may have it with Mr. Isherwood. Do I? Yes, I do. It’s in the room, thirty-four million, with Mr. Isherwood.”

“Bid again,” said Hamdali.

“I would advise against it.”

“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove, or my client will find an adviser who will.”

Lovegrove signaled thirty-five. In the space of a few seconds, the telephone bidders ran it past forty.

“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove.”

“I would—”

“Bid.”

Mendenhall acknowledged Lovegrove’s bid of forty-two million pounds.

“Now it’s forty-three with Lisa on the telephone. Now it’s forty-four with Samantha. And forty-five with Cynthia.”

And then came the lull Lovegrove was looking for. He glanced at Terry O’Connor and saw the fight had gone out of him. To Hamdali he said, “How badly does your client want this painting?”

“Badly enough to bid forty-six.”

Lovegrove did so.

“The bid is now forty-six, in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove,” said Mendenhall. “Will anyone give me forty-seven?”

On the telephone desk, Cynthia began waving her hand as though she were trying to signal a rescue helicopter.

“It’s with Cynthia, on the phone, at forty-seven million pounds.”

No other telephone bidders followed suit.

“Shall we end this?” asked Lovegrove.

“Let’s,” said Hamdali.

“How much?”

“My client likes round numbers.”

Lovegrove arched an eyebrow and raised five fingers.

“The bid is fifty million pounds,” said Mendenhall. “It’s not with you, sir. Nor with Cynthia on the telephone. Fifty million, in the room, for the Titian. Fair warning now. Last chance. All done?”

Not quite. For there was the sharp crack of Mendenhall’s gavel, and the elated gasp of the crowd, and a final excited exchange with Mr. Hamdali that Lovegrove couldn’t quite hear because Oliver Dimbleby was shouting something into his other ear, which he couldn’t quite hear, either. And then there were the disingenuous handshakes with the losers, and the obligatory flirtation with the press over the identity of the buyer, and the long walk upstairs to Christie’s business offices, where the final paperwork was buttoned up with an air of funereal solemnity. It was approaching ten o’clock by the time Lovegrove signed his name to the last document. He emerged from Christie’s portentous doorway to find Oliver and the boys milling about in King Street. They were heading over to Nobu for a spicy tuna roll and a look-see at the latest Russian talent. “Join us, Nicky,” bellowed Oliver. “Revel in the company of your English brethren. You’ve been spending too much time in America. You’re no bloody fun any longer.”

Lovegrove was tempted but knew the outing was likely to end badly, so he saw them into a caravan of taxis and headed back to his hotel on foot. Walking along Duke Street, he saw a man emerge from Mason’s Yard and climb into a waiting car. The man was of medium height and build; the car was a sleek Jaguar sedan that reeked of British officialdom. So did the handsome silver-haired figure already seated in the back. Neither cast so much as a glance in Lovegrove’s direction as he walked past, but he had the uncomfortable impression they were sharing a private joke at his expense.

He felt the same way about the auction—the auction in which he had just played a starring role. Someone had been had tonight; Lovegrove was sure of it. And he feared it was his client. It was no skin off Lovegrove’s back. He had earned several million pounds just for raising his finger in the air a few times. Not a bad way to make a living, he thought, smiling to himself. Perhaps he should have accepted Oliver’s invitation to the post-auction bash. No, he thought, rounding the corner into Piccadilly, it was probably better he’d begged off. Things would end badly. They usually did whenever Oliver was involved.

Chapter 46
Langley, Virginia

T
HREE BUSINESS DAYS LATER, THE
venerable Christie’s auction house, King Street, St. James’s, deposited the sum of fifty million pounds—less commissions, taxes, and numerous transactional fees—into the Zurich branch of TransArabian Bank. Christie’s received confirmation of the transfer at 2:18 p.m. London time, as did the two hundred men and women gathered in the subterranean op center known as Rashidistan. There arose in the room a loud cheer that echoed throughout the chambers of the American intelligence community and even inside the White House itself. The celebration did not last long, however, for there was a great deal of work to be done. After many weeks of toil and worry, Gabriel’s operation had finally borne fruit. Now the harvest would commence. And after the harvest, God willing, would come the feast.

The money spent a restful day in Zurich before moving on to TransArabian’s headquarters in Dubai. Not all of it, though. At the direction of Samir Abbas, who had power of attorney, two million pounds were wired into a small private bank on Zurich’s Talstrasse. Additionally, Abbas authorized large donations to a number of Islamic groups and charities—including the World Islamic Fund for Justice, the Free Palestine Initiative, the Centers for Islamic Studies, the Islamic Society of Western Europe, the Islamic World League, and the Institute for Judeo-Islamic Reconciliation, Gabriel’s personal favorite. Abbas also allotted himself a generous consulting fee, which, curiously, he drew in cash. He gave a portion of the money to the imam of his mosque to do with as he pleased. The rest he concealed in the pantry of his Zurich apartment, an act that was captured by the camera of his compromised computer and projected live onto the giant screens of Rashidistan.

Owing to TransArabian’s long-suspected links to the global jihadist movement, Langley and the NSA were already well acquainted with its ledger books, as were the terror-finance specialists at Treasury and the FBI. As a result, Gabriel and the staff in Rashidistan were able to monitor the money almost in real time as it flowed through a series of fronts, shells, and dummy corporations—all of which had been hastily created in lax jurisdictions in the days following Nadia’s meeting with Sheikh Bin Tayyib in the Nejd. The speed with which the money moved from account to account demonstrated that Rashid’s network possessed a level of sophistication that belied its size and relative youth. It also revealed—much to Langley’s alarm—that the network had already expanded far beyond the Middle East and Western Europe.