“Ari Shamron has wanted me dead for years. Why is this so important now?”
“Because he’s going to give the job to an old friend of yours.”
“Who?”
Kemel smiled and leaned forward.
7
ST. JAMES’S, LONDON
The sometimes-solvent firm of Isherwood Fine Arts resided in a crumbling Victorian warehouse in a quiet backwater of St. James’s called Mason’s Yard. It was wedged between the offices of a minor shipping company and a pub that always seemed to be filled with pretty office girls who rode motor scooters. The formal sign in the first-floor window stated that the gallery specialized in the works of the old masters, that the owner, Julian Isherwood, was a member in good standing of the Society of London Art Dealers, and that his collection could be seen by appointment only. Galleries in Venice and New York were also promised, though they had closed a long time ago—Isherwood simply hadn’t the heart, or the spare cash, to update the sign to reflect the shrinking fortunes of his empire.
Shamron arrived at twelve-thirty. His bomber jacket and khaki trousers had given way to a double-breasted suit, a silk shirt and tie of matching dark blue, and a gray cashmere overcoat. The steel-rimmed goggles had been replaced by fashionable tortoiseshell spectacles. On his wrist was a gold Rolex watch, on the last finger of his right hand a signet ring. The absence of a wedding band bespoke sexual availability. He moved with an easy, cosmopolitan saunter instead of his usual death charge.
Shamron pressed the cracked buzzer next to the ground-floor entrance. A moment later the sultry voice of Heather, Isherwood’s latest in a series of young and unhelpful personal assistants, came over the intercom.
“My name is Rudolf Heller,” Shamron said in German-accented English. “I’m here to see Mr. Isherwood.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, but Julian and I are very old friends.”
“One moment, please.”
A moment turned to two, then three. Finally the automatic door lock snapped back. Shamron went inside and mounted a short flight of groaning stairs. There was a large brown stain in the carpet on the landing. Heather was seated in the anteroom behind an empty desk and a silent telephone. Isherwood’s girls all followed a familiar pattern: pretty art school graduates seduced into his service with promises of apprenticeship and adventure. Most quit after a month or two when they became hopelessly bored or when Isherwood couldn’t seem to scrape together the cash to pay them.
Heather was flipping through a copy of Loot. She smiled and pointed into Isherwood’s office with the end of a chewed pink pencil. Isherwood flashed past the open door, all pinstripe and silk, speaking rapid Italian into a cordless telephone.
“Go inside if you dare,” said Heather in a lazy Mayfair drawl that secretly set Shamron’s teeth on edge. “He’ll be off in a minute. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Shamron shook his head and went inside. He sat down and surveyed the room. Bookshelves filled with monographs on artists, cloth-bound ledgers, old catalogs, a pedestal covered in black velvet for showing paintings to prospective buyers. Isherwood was pacing before a window overlooking Mason’s Yard. He paused once to glare at Shamron, then again to coax a groaning fax machine into action. Isherwood was in trouble—Shamron could sense it. But then he was always in trouble.
Julian Isherwood was very selective about the paintings he bought and even more selective about whom he sold them to. He slipped into a state of melancholia each time he watched one of his paintings walk out the door. As a result he was an art dealer who did not sell a great deal of art—fifteen pictures in a normal year, twenty in a good one. He had made a fortune in the eighties, when anyone with a few feet of gallery space and half a brain had made money, but now that fortune was gone.
He tossed the telephone onto his chaotic desk. “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”
“How are you, Julian?”
“Go to hell! Why are you here?”
“Get rid of the girl for a few minutes.”
“The answer will still be no, whether the girl’s here or not.”
“I need Gabriel,” Shamron said quietly.
“Well, I need him more, and therefore you can’t have him.”
“Just tell me where he is. I need to talk to him.”
“Sod off!” Isherwood snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here like this and giving me orders? Now, if you’re interested in purchasing a painting, perhaps I can be of some assistance. If it’s not art that brings you here, then Helen will show you the door.”
“Her name is Heather.”
“Oh, Christ.” Isherwood sat down heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Helen was last month’s girl. I can’t keep them straight anymore.”
“Things aren’t going well, Julian?”
“Things haven’t been going well, but all that’s about to change, which is why I need you to crawl back under your rock and leave me, and Gabriel, in peace.”
“How about lunch?” Shamron suggested. “You can tell me your problems, and perhaps we can come to some mutually beneficial solution.”
“You never struck me as someone who was terribly interested in compromise.”
“Get your coat.”
Shamron had taken the precaution of booking a quiet corner table at Green’s restaurant in Duke Street. Isherwood ordered the cold boiled Canadian lobster and the most expensive bottle of Sancerre on the wine list. Shamron’s jaw clenched briefly. He was notoriously tightfisted when it came to Office funds, but he needed Isherwood’s help. If that required a pricey lunch at Green’s, Shamron would tickle his expense account.
In the lexicon of the Office, men like Julian Isherwood were known as the sayanim: the helpers. They were the bankers who tipped Shamron whenever certain Arabs made large transactions or who could be called upon in the dead of night when a katsa was in trouble and needed money. They were the concierges who opened hotel rooms when Shamron wanted a look inside. They were the car rental clerks who provided Shamron’s field agents with clean transport. They were the sympathetic officers in unsympathetic security services. They were the journalists who allowed themselves to be used as conduits for Shamron’s lies. No other intelligence service in the world could claim such a legion of committed acolytes. To Ari Shamron they were the secret fruit of the Diaspora.
Julian Isherwood was a special member of the sayanim. Shamron had recruited him to service just one very important katsa, which was why Shamron always displayed uncharacteristic patience in the face of Isherwood’s volatile mood swings.
“Let me tell you why you can’t have Gabriel right now,” Isherwood began. “Last August a very dirty, very damaged painting appeared in a sale room in Hull—sixteenth-century Italian altarpiece, oil on wood panel, Adoration of the Shepherds, artist unknown. That’s the most important part of the story, artist unknown. Do I have your full attention, Herr Heller?”
Shamron nodded and Isherwood sailed on.
“I had a hunch about the picture, so I piled a load of books into my car and ran up to Yorkshire to have a look at it. Based on a brief visual inspection of the work, I was satisfied my hunch was correct. So when this same very dirty, very damaged painting, artist unknown, came up for sale at the venerable Christie’s auction house, I was able to pick it up for a song.”
Isherwood licked his lips and leaned conspiratorially across the table. “I took the painting to Gabriel, and he ran several tests on it for me. X ray, infrared photography, the usual lot. His more careful inspection confirmed my hunch. The very dirty, very damaged work from the sale room in Hull is actually a missing altarpiece from the Church of San Salvatore in Venice, painted by none other than Francesco Vecellio, brother of the great Titian. That’s why I need Gabriel, and that’s why I’m not going to tell you where he is.”
The sommelier appeared. Shamron picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth while Isherwood engaged in the elaborate ritual of
inspection, sniffing, sipping, and pondering. After a dramatic moment of uncertainty, he pronounced the wine suitable. He drank a glass very fast, then poured another.
When he resumed, his voice had turned wistful, his eyes damp. “Remember the old days, Ari? I used to have a gallery in New Bond Strasse, right next to Richard Green. I can’t afford New Bond Strasse these days. It’s all Gucci and Ralph Lauren, Tiffany and Miki-Bloody-Moto. And you know who’s taken over my old space? The putrid Giles Pittaway! He’s already got two galleries in Bond Street alone, and he’s planning to open two more within the year. Christ, but he’s spreading like the Ebola virus—mutating, getting stronger, killing everything decent in his wake.”
A chubby art dealer with a pink shirt and a pretty girl on his arm walked past their table. Isherwood paused long enough to say, “Hullo, Oliver,” and blow him a kiss.
“This Vecellio is a real coup. I need a coup once every couple of years. The coups are what keep me in business. The coups support all the dead stock and all the small sales that earn me next to nothing.” Isherwood paused and took a long drink of wine. “We all need coups now and again, right, Herr Heller? I suspect that even someone in your line of work needs a big success every now and again to make up for all the failures. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Shamron, tipping his glass a fraction of an inch.
“Giles Pittaway could’ve bought the Vecellio, but he passed. He passed because he and his boys didn’t bother to do their homework. They couldn’t authenticate it. I was the only one who knew what it was, because I was the only one who did my homework. Giles Pittaway wouldn’t know a Vecellio from vermicelli. He sells crap. High-gloss crap. Have you seen his stuff? Total crap! Complete and utter greeting card crap!”
Shamron, playing the part of Herr Heller, said it had been some time since he had visited the galleries of the infamous Giles Pittaway.
Isherwood leaned forward across the table, eyes wide, lips damp. “I need this Vecellio cleaned and ready for sale by the spring,” he said, sotto voce. “If it’s not ready, I’ll lose my buyer. Buyers don’t grow on trees these days, especially for a Vecellio altarpiece. I can count the number of potential buyers for a piece like this on the fingers of one hand. If my buyer gets cold feet, I may never find another. And if I can’t find another, my Vecellio becomes just another piece of dead stock. Burned, as we say in the trade. You burn agents, we burn our paintings. A picture gets snatched up, or it turns to dust in some art dealer’s storeroom. And once a painting’s been burned it’s worthless, just like your agents.”
“I understand your dilemma, Julian.”
“Do you really? There are maybe five people in the world who can restore that Vecellio properly. Gabriel Allon happens to be one of them, and the other four would never lower their standards to work for someone like me.”
“Gabriel is a talented man. Unfortunately, I require his talents too, and it’s something a bit more important than a five-hundred-year-old painting.”
“Oh, no, you don’t! The sharks are circling, and my fickle bank is threatening to set me adrift. I’m not going to be able to find a backer quickly enough to save the ship. Giles Pittaway has backers! Lloyd’s Bank! When art and high finance start to intermarry, I say it’s time to head for the Highlands and build a bloody ark.” A pause. “And by the way, Herr Heller, few things in this life are more important than good paintings. And I don’t care how old they are.”
“I should have chosen my words more carefully, Julian.”
“If I have to liquidate I’ll lose my shirt,” Isherwood said. “I’d be lucky to get thirty pence on the pound for what my collection is really worth.”
Shamron was unmoved by his pleadings. “Where is he?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I need him, Julian. We need him.”
“Oh, Christ! Don’t pull that shit with me, because it won’t work a second time. I’ve heard all your stories, and I know how they end. And by the way, Gabriel feels the same way. He’s through with your lot, too.”
“So tell me where he is. What harm would it do?”
“Because I know you too well to trust you. No one in his right mind would trust you.”
“You can tell me where he is, or we can find him ourselves. It might take a few days, but we’ll find him.”
“Suppose I tell you. What are you prepared to offer in return?”
“Maybe I could find a backer to keep you afloat until you sell your Vecellio.”
“Reliable backers are as rare as a reliable Vecellio.”
“I know someone who’s been thinking about getting into the art business. I might be able to speak to him on your behalf.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m afraid he would insist on anonymity.”
“If Gabriel suspects I told you—”
“He won’t suspect a thing.”
Isherwood licked his bloodless lips.
8
PORT NAVAS, CORNWALL
The old man came while the stranger was away on his boat. Peel spotted him from his bedroom window as the man tried to guide a big Mercedes along the narrow lane overlooking the quay. He stopped at the foreman’s cottage, rang the bell, and knocked on the door. Peel could hear the old man’s knuckles striking the wood all the way across the creek: short, brutal blows. He pulled on a sweater and raincoat and dashed out of the cottage. A moment later he was standing behind the man, panting, face hot from exertion.
The old man said, “Who are you?”
An accent, Peel noted—like the stranger’s, but heavier.
“I’m Peel. Who are you?”
But the old man ignored this question. “I’m looking for the man who lives in this cottage.”
“He’s not here now.”
“I’m a friend. Do you know where he is?”
Peel said nothing, for the notion of the stranger having a friend who would appear unannounced was ludicrous. The old man looked toward the quay, then his gaze settled once again on Peel. “He’s out on his boat, isn’t he?”
Peel nodded. Something about the man’s eyes made the boy shiver.
The old man looked at the sky: pewter-colored clouds pressing down on the creek, thick and heavy with coming rain. “Rather unpleasant weather for sailing.”
“He’s very good.”
“Yes, he is. When will he be back?”
“He never says. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“Actually, I think I’d like to wait for him.” He looked like a man who could wait a long time if he set his mind to it. “Is there someplace to get some coffee around here?”
Peel pointed toward the village.
But the old man didn’t go into the village for coffee. In fact he didn’t go anywhere. He just climbed into the Mercedes and settled himself behind the wheel like a statue. Peel walked to the point and made a base camp next to the oyster farm, staring down the river toward the sea, waiting for the stranger. By midafternoon there were whitecaps on the river, and a rainstorm was coming up. At four o’clock it was thoroughly dark. Peel was soaked, freezing half to death. He was about to give up his vigil when he spotted a cluster of soft blue running lights floating upriver through the mist. A moment later he heard the rhythmic rattle of an engine: the stranger’s fine wooden ketch, heading for home under power.
Peel switched on his flashlight and signaled the stranger. The ketch made a gentle turn to starboard, headed toward the point, slicing through black water. When the boat was within a few yards of the shore, the stranger shouted, “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a man waiting for you.”
“What does he want?”
“He says he’s a friend of yours.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“No.”
Peel heard his voice coming back at him from the other side of the creek.
“How did he look?”
“Unhappy.”
“Did he have an accent?”
> “A bit like yours, only heavier.”
“Go home.”
But Peel didn’t want to leave him alone. “I’ll meet you at the quay and help you tie her up.”
“Just do as I say,” said the stranger, and he vanished below the deck.
Gabriel Allon entered the galley. In the cabinet above the propane stove he found his gun, a Glock 9mm semiautomatic. Gabriel preferred the midsized model, which was slightly less accurate because of the shorter barrel but easier to conceal. He pulled the square, chunky slide, chambering the first round, dropped the gun into the front righthand pocket of his amber oilskin slicker. Then he doused the running lights and clambered back onto the deck.
He reduced speed as the ketch rounded the point and entered the quiet of the creek. He spotted the large Mercedes parked outside his cottage, heard the door opening and the tinny electronic warning chime. The interior light had been switched off. A professional. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the Glock, his finger outside the trigger guard.
The intruder crossed the quay and descended a short set of stone steps to the water level. Gabriel would have recognized him anywhere: the bullet head, the weather-beaten jaw, the distinctive march, like a fighter advancing toward the center of the ring. For an instant he considered turning around and heading back downriver into the squall, but instead he released his grip on the Glock and guided the boat toward the quay.
Shamron led himself on a restless tour of Gabriel’s studio, pausing in front of the Vecellio. “So this is Isherwood’s great coup, the lost Vecellio altarpiece. Imagine, a nice Jewish boy, working on a painting like this. I can’t understand why people waste time and money on such things.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. What did you do to poor Julian to make him betray me?”
“I bought him lunch at Green’s. Julian never was the stoic sort.”
“What are you doing here?”
But Shamron wasn’t ready to show his hand. “You’ve done very well for yourself,” he said. “This cottage must have cost you quite a bit of money.”