“Yes, Adrian, I did notice that.”
“Her father was a Party muckety-muck. Worked for Gosplan, the central planning bureaucracy that oversaw the Rube Goldberg contraption once known as the Soviet economy. She went to Leningrad State University and was supposed to be an economist like her father. But apparently she had a change of heart and decided to study languages and art instead. It seems she was working at the Hermitage when she met Ivan. One wonders what she saw in him.”
“They had similar backgrounds. Both were children of the elite.”
“There’s a big difference between Gosplan and the KGB.”
Gabriel heard footfalls and looked up to see a floppy-haired runner bounding toward them with headphones over his ears. He envied those innocent souls who could go out in public deprived of a vital sense. When they were alone again, Carter asked, “How do you intend to play this?”
“After listening to those intercepts, I’m convinced that if a painting by Mary Cassatt were to come quietly onto the market Elena Kharkov would jump at the opportunity to have a look.”
“And you would be standing next to it when she did?”
“Or one of my associates. Someone with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for the paintings of Mary Cassatt. Someone who won’t make Elena’s bodyguards nervous.”
Carter absently patted his right pocket, as if looking for his pipe. “Should I assume this encounter would take place on British soil?”
“You should.”
“That means you’re going to have to bring the British into the picture. Ivan and his entourage are under full-time MI5 surveillance whenever they’re in London. I suspect our British cousins will be more than willing to cooperate. The British have been pressing us to do something about Ivan for years.”
Twenty yards ahead, a young woman was being pulled along the towpath by a panting Siberian husky. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary in the trade, deftly switched places with Carter and watched with a certain professional satisfaction as the dog pressed its dripping muzzle against the leg of Carter’s tracksuit.
“This agent with a pleasing demeanor and a deep passion for Mary Cassatt,” Carter said as he wiped away the spittle. “Do you have someone in mind for the job yet?”
“I’m inclined to use a woman. She would have to be able to pass as an American or a Brit. We have several suitable candidates but none with any real expertise when it comes to art. Which means I’d have to start from scratch to get them ready.”
“That’s a shame. After all, the clock is ticking.”
“Yes, Adrian, I realize that.”
“As you may recall, we have someone who might fit the bill. She has a Ph.D. in art history from Harvard and she’s done a job like this before. She’s even operated with your service on a couple of occasions, which means she understands your rather archaic Hebrew-based lexicon.”
“It might be complicated, Adrian.”
“Because she’s secretly in love with you.” Carter glanced at Gabriel to see his reaction but received only a blank stare in return. “She’s a big girl, Gabriel. And thanks to you, she’s a true professional now.”
“Where is she?”
“Still at the Counterterrorism Center at Langley, which means she’s technically under my control. If you want her, she’s yours.”
“Poor choice of words, Adrian.”
“I was speaking in a professional sense, of course.”
Gabriel walked in silence for a moment. “Obviously, she’s perfect for the job. But are you sure she’s ready to go back into the field?”
“She worked with you during the Halton affair.”
“As a liaison only. This operation would require sending her undercover again.”
“I’m given regular updates on her progress. The Agency psychiatrist we assigned to her says she’s coming along nicely. Personnel says she’s had no problems adapting to her new cover identity, and her superiors at the CTC have given her extremely high marks.”
“Not surprising, Adrian. She’s a star. God only knows why your recruiters rejected her in the first place.”
“They thought she was too independent-and maybe a bit too intelligent. We’re not like you, Gabriel. We like our case officers to think inside the box.”
“And you wonder why your most talented operatives are working for private contractors now.”
“Spare me the critique, Gabriel. Do you want to use her or not?”
“I’ll know after I talk to her.”
“She comes on duty in the CTC at noon.”
“ Langley?” Gabriel shook his head. “I want to see her somewhere the Agency isn’t listening.”
“That narrows our options considerably.” Carter made a show of careful consideration. “How about Dumbarton Oaks? The gardens, at noon.”
“Just make sure she’s alone.”
Carter smiled sadly. “Thanks to you, Gabriel, she never goes anywhere alone. And she probably never will.”
26 DUMBARTON OAKS, GEORGETON
The sun managed to burn through the veil of haze by mid-morning, and by the time Gabriel presented himself at the entrance of Dumbarton Oaks it had grown appallingly hot. He purchased an admission ticket from a man in a little booth and was handed a glossy brochure. He consulted it frequently while he strolled past the elaborate arbors, trellises, and ornamental pools. A few minutes after noon, he made his way to a distant corner of the gardens, where he found an attractive woman in her early thirties seated primly on a wooden bench, a paperback book open in her lap, lilies of the valley at her feet. She wore a simple cotton sundress and sandals. Her blond hair had grown out since he had seen her last; her alabaster skin was beginning to turn red from the intense sun. She looked up sharply as Gabriel approached, but her face remained oddly expressionless, as if it had been rendered by the hand of Mary Cassatt.
“Were you able to spot Adrian ’s watchers?” asked Sarah Bancroft.
He kissed her cheek and led her toward the shade of a nearby trellis. “A nearsighted probationer fresh out of the academy could have spotted Adrian ’s watchers.”
"Let’s hear it.”
“Woman with the sunhat, man with the plaid Bermuda shorts, the couple wearing matching ‘I Love New York ’ shirts.”
“Very good. But you missed the two boys in the dark sedan on R Street.”
“I didn’t miss them. They might as well have just waved hello to me as I came inside.”
They sat down together, but even in the shade there was little relief from the heavy wet heat. Sarah pushed her sunglasses into her hair and brushed a trickle of perspiration from her cheek. Gabriel gazed at her in profile while her eyes flickered restlessly around the gardens. The daughter of a wealthy Citibank executive, Sarah Bancroft had spent much of her childhood in Europe, where she had acquired a Continental education along with a handful of Continental languages and impeccable Continental manners. She had returned to America to attend Dartmouth, and later, after spending a year studying at the prestigious Courtauld Institute of Art in London, became the youngest woman ever to earn a Ph.D. in art history at Harvard. While finishing her dissertation, she began dating a young lawyer named Ben Callahan, who had the misfortune of boarding United Airlines Flight 175 on the morning of September 11, 2001. He managed to make one telephone call before the plane plunged into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. That call was to Sarah. Gabriel had given her the chance that Langley had denied her: to fight back against the murderers. With Carter’s blessing, and with the help of a lost Van Gogh, he had inserted her into the entourage of a Saudi billionaire named Zizi al-Bakari and ordered her to find the terrorist mastermind lurking within it. She had been lucky to survive. Her life had never been the same since.