Page 124 of The Collector
“Does the Russian president know you have it?”
“At my suggestion, Lars Mortensen of the PET presented a few pages of the document to the SVRrezidentin Copenhagen. He alsogave therezidentproof that the SVR was behind the disappearance of Rikke Strøm.”
“Which is why the Russians haven’t exposed Magnus Larsen as a longtime Russian asset.”
Gabriel nodded.
“And Rikke’s sister?” asked Chiara.
“Magnus made a rather large deposit recently in Katje’s bank account. He also made a substantial donation to a Danish organization that combats violence against women and children.”
Gabriel managed to work on the Van Gogh for only two hours the following day, in part because an intelligence attaché from the Finnish Embassy in Rome insisted on coming to Venice to question him about the incident at the border crossing. Chiara continued the interrogation that evening as they finished the last of their wine on the loggia overlooking the Grand Canal.
“And exactly how far did you venture into Russia?” she asked, her head resting on his shoulder.
“A hundred meters, I’d say. Without a valid visa, of course.”
“Did you discharge your weapon?”
“I might have, yes.”
“How many times?”
“Five.”
“And how many Russian border guards did you kill?”
“Five.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t start a war between Russia and Finland.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
The Finns managed to keep his name out of the press, as did the Danes and the Americans. A part of him was disappointed; he would have enjoyed seeing the look on the Russian president’s face upon learning that it was Gabriel Allon who had put a stop to Plan Aurora. Still, it was better that his role in the affair remain hidden fromview. The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was yet another confrontation with the Russians.
Besides, as was usually the case, he was running behind schedule on a restoration. The director of the Courtauld, after taking delivery of a progress report, implored Gabriel to quicken his pace. So, too, did the general manager of the Tiepolo Restoration Company, who informed him that there would be no more lunch dates until he resumed work on the Pordenone altarpiece. His time on task immediately leapt to an appalling eight hours a day.
In the late afternoon, when he longed to gaze upon his mother’s face rather than Vincent’s, he had only to look down at the child lying at his feet, a workbook open before her, a pencil in her fist. Only once did she attempt to ascertain the reason for her father’s weekslong absence from Venice. His answer, that he was attempting to prevent a cataclysmic release of greenhouse gases, met with a reproachful glare.
“There’s no need to be patronizing,” she said.
“Wherever did you hear a word like that?”
She licked the tip of her forefinger and turned to the next page in her workbook. “Ultima Generazione is holding a protest in the Piazza San Marco this weekend. My friends and I are planning to attend.”
“Isn’t Ultima Generazione the group that blocked traffic on the Via della Libertà a few months ago?”
“They’ve assured the police that this protest will be entirely peaceful.” Irene joined him before the canvas. “Why are his brushstrokes so thick?”
“He painted straight from the tube, wet-on-wet. Or, as the Italians would say,allaprima. Sometimes he even used a palette knife rather than a brush. It gave his paintings a unique texture. It also makes them somewhat tricky to clean.” Gabriel pointed toward the buttonon Vincent’s jacket. “The surface grime and dirty varnish tend to hide in the hollows.”
“When will it be finished?”
“The director of the Courtauld Gallery is picking it up on Friday.”
Which left Gabriel just three more days to make his deadline. Miraculously, the canvas had survived its theft and two illicit sales with only minor losses. He completed the inpainting on Wednesday and on Thursday applied a new coat of varnish. He also produced an exact copy of the work—if only to demonstrate his ability, were he ever so inclined, to earn his living as an art forger. The director of the Courtauld Gallery arrived at the apartment early Friday afternoon to find both paintings on display in Gabriel’s studio.
“Which one is the real Van Gogh?” he asked.
