“With a blackened name.”

“The Telegraph doesn’t seem to think so. And neither will the rest of the London art world. Besides, they’re nothing but a pack of thieves. You’ll fit right in.”

“A gallery?”

“That was the promise my friend made to you that afternoon at the villa in Ramatuelle,” said Keller. “A blank canvas upon which to paint any picture you want. A life without Jean-Luc Martel.”

“Without anyone,” she said.

“Something tells me you’ll have no shortage of suitors.”

“Who would want to be with someone like me? I’m JLM’s—”

“Eat,” said Keller, cutting her off.

She tried another bite of the pie. “How long will I have to stay here?”

“Until Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service determines that it’s safe for you to leave. Even then, it might be wise for you to retain the services of a professional security firm. They’ll assign some nice ex-SAS lads to look after you, the kind Jean-Luc always hated.”

“Any chance you can serve on my detail?”

“I’m afraid I have other commitments.”

“So I’ll never see you again?”

“It’s probably better if you don’t. It will help you forget the things you saw that night in Morocco.”

“I don’t want to forget. Not yet.” She pushed away her plate and lit a cigarette. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Marlowe.” And then, almost as an afterthought, Keller added, “Peter Marlowe.”

“It sounds as though someone made it up.”

“Someone did.”

“Tell me your real name, Peter Marlowe. The name you were born with.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand atop Keller’s. Quietly, she asked, “And are you allowed to stay here so I won’t have to be all alone on this cold and dreary English night?”

Keller turned away from Olivia’s blue eyes and watched the rain lashing against the windows.

“No,” he said. “No such luck.”

72

King Street, London

She had no plans for a splashy opening, but somehow, with the help of a hidden hand, or perhaps by magic, plans materialized. Indeed, no sooner had the sun set on the second Saturday in November than the art world and all its unclaimed baggage came flowing through her door. There were dealers and collectors and curators and critics. There were actors and directors from stage and screen, novelists, playwrights, poets, politicians, pop stars, a marquis who looked as though he’d just stepped off his yacht, and more models than anyone could count. Oliver Dimbleby pressed his gold-plated business card into the hand of any poor girl who happened to linger more than a second or two within his damp reach. Jeremy Crabbe, London’s last faithful husband, seemed incapable of speech. Only Julian Isherwood managed to mind his manners. He planted his flag at the end of the courtesy bar, next to Amelia March of ARTnews. Amelia was gazing disapprovingly at Olivia Watson, who was posing for photographs in front of her Pollock, watched over by a couple of bodyguards.

“Worked out rather well for her in the end, don’t you think?”

“How’s that?” asked Isherwood.

“Gets herself involved with the biggest drug dealer in France, makes millions running a dirty gallery in Saint-Tropez, and now she’s set up shop in St. James’s, surrounded by you and Oliver and the rest of the Old Master fossils.”

“And we are ever grateful she did,” said Isherwood as he watched a gazelle-like girl float past his shoulder.

“You don’t find any of it odd?”

“Unlike you, petal, I adore happy endings.”

“I like mine with a grain of truth, and something about this doesn’t add up. I’ll have you know I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

“Have another drink instead. Or better yet,” said Isherwood, “have dinner with me.”

“Oh, Julian.” She pointed across the sea of heads, toward a tall, pale man standing a few feet from Olivia. “There’s your old client, Dmitri Antonov.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Is that his wife?”

“Sophie,” said Isherwood, nodding. “Lovely woman.”

“That’s not what I hear. And who’s the one next to her?” she asked. “The dishy one who looks like another bodyguard.”

“Name’s Peter Marlowe.”

“What’s he do?”

“Couldn’t say.”

At half past eight Olivia took up a microphone and made a few remarks. She was pleased to be a part of the great London art world, she was happy to be home again. She made no mention of Jean-Luc Martel, the unsung hero of the hunt for the ISIS terror mastermind known as Saladin, and none of the reporters present, Amelia March included, bothered to ask her about JLM, either. She was free of him at last. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead.

At the stroke of nine the lights dimmed and the music started up and another wave of guests came squeezing through the door. Many were battle-scarred survivors of the blowouts at Villa Soleil. The ones who were busy being rich together. The ones with all the time in the world for everything. The Antonovs shook a few of the better hands before slipping into the back of their Maybach limousine, never to be seen again. Keller left a few minutes later, but not before pulling Olivia aside to offer his congratulations and bid her a good night. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.