Page 6 of The Collector
“At least she didn’t wear her armband,” said a male voice at Gabriel’s shoulder. It belonged to Francesco Tiepolo, owner of the prominent restoration company that bore his family’s famous name. “I only wish she’d had the decency not to show her photogenic face at an event like this.”
“Evidently, she’s a great admirer of Anna Rolfe.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Me,” said Chiara.
Francesco smiled. An enormous, bearlike man, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Luciano Pavarotti. Even now, more than a decade after the tenor’s death, autograph-seeking tourists flocked to Francesco on the streets of Venice. If he was feeling mischievous, which was usually the case, he indulged them.
“Did you see the minister’s interview on RAI last night?” he asked. “She vowed to purge Italian culture of wokeism. For the life of me, I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.”
“Neither did she,” said Gabriel. “It was just something she overheard during her most recent visit to America.”
“We should probably take the opportunity to pay our respects.”
“Why on earth would we do that?”
“Because for the foreseeable future, Lorena Rinaldi will have the final say over all major restoration projects here in Venice, regardless of who’s footing the bill.”
Just then the lights in the foyer dimmed and a chime sounded. “Saved by the bell,” said Gabriel, and escorted Chiara into the theater. She managed to conceal her displeasure when settling into her VIP seat in the first row.
“How lovely,” she said. “I’m only sorry we’re not closer to the stage.”
Gabriel sat down next to her and made a small adjustment to the position of the Beretta. At length he said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”
“The night is young,” replied Chiara, and dug a thumbnail into the back of his hand.
4
Cipriani
The Schumann was wondrous, the Brahms searchingly beautiful. But it was Anna’s incendiary performance of Tartini’sDevil’s Trillthat brought the audience to its feet. Three dramatic curtain calls later, she bade them a final farewell. Most of the patrons filed into the Corte San Gaetano, but a select few were discreetly escorted to the theater’s dock, where a flotilla of gleamingmotoscafiwaited to ferry them to the Cipriani hotel. Gabriel and Chiara made the journey with a delegation of agreeable New Yorkers. None appeared to recognize the famous retired spy in their midst. The same was true of the attractive, clipboard-wielding hostess at Oro, the Cipriani’s celebrated restaurant.
“Ah, yes. Here you are, Signore Allon. Table number five. Signora Zolli is at table one. The head table,” the hostess added with a smile.
“That’s because Signora Zolli is much more important than I am.”
The hostess gestured toward the entrance of the restaurant’s private dining room, and Gabriel followed Chiara inside. “Please tell me they didn’t seat me next to her,” she said.
“The minister? I believe she had to rush off to a book burning.”
“I was referring to Anna.”
“Play nicely,” said Gabriel, and set off in search of his table. He arrived to find four of the New Yorkers from the water taxi. They were outliers, the Americans. The rest of the crowd was decidedly British.
Gabriel located his assigned seat and, resisting the urge to drop the place card into the nearest shredder, sat down.
“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” said one of the Americans, a ginger-haired specimen of perhaps sixty-five who looked as though he ate too much red meat.
“It’s Gabriel Allon.”
“Sounds familiar. What do you do?”
“I’m a conservator.”
“Really? I was afraid I would be the only one here.”
“Conservator,” repeated Gabriel, stressing the final syllable. “An art restorer.”
