Page 7 of The Collector
“Have you restored anything recently?”
“I did some work on one of the Tintorettos in the church of the Madonna dell’Orto not long ago.”
“I believe I paid for that entire project.”
“Youbelieve?”
“Saving Venice is my wife’s hobby. To tell you the truth, art bores the shit out of me.”
Gabriel checked the place card to his right and was relieved to see that he had been seated next to the heiress to a British supermarket fortune who, if the London tabloids were to be believed, had recently tried to murder her philandering husband with a butcher’s knife. Curiously, the card corresponding to the seat on his left was blank.
Looking up, he spotted the heiress, a well-preserved woman in astriking red gown, approaching the table. Her chemically enhanced face displayed no trace of surprise—or any other emotion, for that matter—when he introduced himself.
“For the record,” she said, “it was only a paring knife. And the wound, such as it was, required no sutures.” Smiling, she took her seat. “Who are you, Mr. Allon? And what on earth are you doing here?”
“He’s a conservator,” interjected the American. “He restored one of the Tintorettos in Madonna dell’Orto. My wife and I paid for it.”
“And we’re all very grateful,” breathed the heiress. Then, turning to Gabriel, she said, “Who do I have to kill around here to get a Beefeater and tonic?”
Gabriel started to reply but fell silent when a swell of applause rose from the neighboring tables.
“The enchanting Madame Rolfe,” observed the heiress. “She’s mad as a hatter. At least that’s what they say.”
Gabriel allowed the remark to pass without comment.
“Her mother committed suicide, you know. And then there was that terrible scandal involving her father and those paintings that were looted by the Nazis during the war. Anna’s life went off the rails after that. How many failed marriages were there? Three? Or was it four?”
“Two, I believe.”
“And let’s not forget the accident that almost ended her career,” said the heiress, undeterred. “I’m afraid I can’t recall the details.”
“A hillside gave way in a rainstorm while she was hiking near her home on the Costa de Prata. Her left hand was crushed by a falling boulder. It took months of rehabilitation for her to regain use of it.”
“It sounds to me as though you’re an admirer, Mr. Allon.”
“You might say that.”
“Forgive me, I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.”
“Oh, no,” said Gabriel. “I’ve never had the honor of actually meeting her.”
There seemed to be some confusion over where Anna was to sit. Each of the eight seats at the head table was occupied. So, too, was every other chair in the dining room—with one exception.
No, thought Gabriel, glancing at the blank place card. She wouldn’t dare.
“Well, well,” said the heiress as the world’s most famous violinist approached the table. “It looks as though this is your lucky night.”
“Imagine that,” replied Gabriel, and rose slowly to his feet.
Anna accepted his outstretched hand as though it belonged to a stranger, then smiled mischievously when he spoke his name. “NotthatGabriel Allon,” she said, and sat down.
“How did you manage this?”
“In lieu of my usual exorbitant appearance fee, I made a single nonnegotiable demand regarding the seating arrangements for tonight’s après-concert soiree.” She offered an overbright smile to a patron at a neighboring table. “God, but I hate these things. One wonders why I agreed to this.”
“Because you couldn’t resist the opportunity to cause problems in my home.”
“My intentions were honorable, I assure you.”
