Daniel Silva - The Messenger

LATER THAT SAME evening the lights went dark in the melancholy little travel agency in Mason’s Yard. Miss Archer, clutching a batch of old files, paused for a moment on the landing and peered through the sparkling glass entrance of Isherwood Fine Arts. Seated behind the receptionist desk was Elena, Mr. Isherwood’s scandalously pretty Italian secretary. She glanced up from her computer screen and blew Miss Archer an elaborate farewell kiss, then looked down again and resumed her work.

Miss Archer smiled sadly and headed down the stairway. There were no tears in her eyes. She’d done her crying in private, the way she did most things. Nor was there hesitation in her step. For twenty-seven years she’d been coming to this office five mornings a week. Saturdays, too, if there was housekeeping to be done. She was looking forward to retirement, even if it had come a bit earlier than expected. Maybe she’d take a long holiday. Or maybe she’d take a cottage in the countryside. She’d had her eye on a little place in the Chilterns for some time. She was certain of only one thing: She wasn’t sorry to be leaving. Mason’s Yard would never be the same again, not with the flashy Miss Bancroft in residence. It wasn’t that Miss Archer had anything against Americans personally. She just wasn’t terribly interested in living next door to one.

As she neared the bottom of the stairs a buzzer groaned, and the automatic locks on the outer door snapped open. Thank you, Elena , she thought as she stepped outside into the chill evening air. Can’t get off your shapely little backside to give a proper good-bye, and now you’re practically shoving me out the door. She was tempted to violate Mr. Isherwood’s long-standing edict about waiting for the door to lock again, but, professional to the end, she stayed ten more seconds, until the dull thump of the deadbolts sent her shuffling slowly toward the passageway.

She did not know that her departure was being monitored by a three-man neviot team waiting in a van parked on the opposite side of Duke Street. The team remained in their van for another hour, just to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything. Then, shortly before eight, they slipped through the passageway and made their way slowly across the bricks of the old yard toward the gallery. To Julian Isherwood, who watched their unhurried approach from the window of his office, they seemed like gravediggers with a long night ahead.

THE OPERATION BEGAN IN earnest late the following morning, when Julian Isherwood, London art dealer of some repute, placed a discreet telephone call to the Knightsbridge residence of Andrew Malone, exclusive art adviser to Zizi al-Bakari. It was answered by a drowsy woman who informed Isherwood that Malone was out of the country.

“A fugitive from justice?” he asked, trying to make light of an awkward situation.

“Try his mobile,” the woman said before slamming down the phone.

Fortunately, Isherwood had the number. He immediately dialed it and, as instructed, left a brief message. The better part of the day elapsed before Malone bothered to call him back.

“I’m in Rome,” he said sotto voce. “Something big. Very big.”

“Hardly surprising, Andrew. You only do big.”

Malone batted away Isherwood’s attempt at flattery. “I’m afraid I only have a moment,” he said. “What can I do for you, Julie?”

“I think I might have something for you. Something for your client, actually.”

“My client doesn’t do the Old Masters.”

“The something I have for your client isn’t Old Master. It’s Impressionist. And not just any Impressionist, if you’re getting my drift. It’s special, Andrew. It’s the sort of thing that only a handful of collectors in the world can even dream about owning, and your man happens to be one of them. I’m offering you a first look, Andrew-an exclusive first look. Any interest, or shall I take my business elsewhere?”

“Do tell more, Julie.”

“Sorry, darling, but it’s not the sort of thing one discusses over the telephone. How about lunch tomorrow? I’m buying.”

“I’m going to Tokyo tomorrow. There’s a collector there who has a Monet my man wants.”

“How about the day after tomorrow then?”

“That’s my jet-lag day. Let’s make it Thursday, shall we?”

“You won’t regret this, Andrew.”

“Regrets are what sustain us. Ciao, Julie.”

Isherwood hung up the telephone and looked at the heavy-shouldered man with strawberry-blond hair seated on the opposite side of the desk. “Nicely done,” said Uzi Navot. “But next time let Zizi buy lunch.”

IT CAME as no surprise to Gabriel that Andrew Malone was in Rome, because he had been under electronic and physical surveillance for nearly a week. He had gone to the Eternal City to acquire a certain Degas sculpture that Zizi had had his eye on for quite some time but left empty-handed on Monday night and proceeded to Tokyo. The anonymous collector whom Malone hoped to relieve of a Monet was none other than the famed industrialist Morito Watanabe. Based on the defeatist expression on Malone’s face as he was leaving Watanabe’s apartment, Gabriel concluded the negotiations had not gone well. That evening Malone phoned Isherwood to say he was staying in Tokyo a day longer than expected. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to postpone our little get-together,” he said. “Can we do it next week?” Gabriel, who was anxious to get under way, instructed Isherwood to hold fast, and the meeting was pushed back just one day, from the Thursday to the Friday, though Isherwood did agree to make it a late lunch so that Malone could catch a few hours of sleep in his own bed. Malone did in fact remain in Tokyo for an additional day, but Tokyo Station detected no further contact between him and Watanabe or any of Watanabe’s agents. He returned to London late Thursday evening, looking, according to Eli Lavon, like a cadaver in a Savile Row suit. At three-thirty the next afternoon, the cadaver crept through the doorway of Green’s restaurant in Duke Street and made his way to the quiet corner table, where Isherwood was already waiting. Isherwood poured him a very large glass of white burgundy. “All right, Julie,” said Malone. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? What have you got up your sleeve? And who the fuck put it there? Cheers.”

CHIARA WAS WAITING at the top of the landing ninety minutes later when Isherwood, fortified by two bottles of excellent white burgundy at Gabriel’s expense, came teetering up the newly carpeted stairs. She directed him to the left, into the former premises of Archer Travel, where he was met by one of Gabriel’s neviot listeners. He removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the small digital recording device secured to his chest by an elastic cummerbund.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing on the first date,” he said.

The neviot man removed the recorder and smiled. “How was the lobster?”

“Bit chewy but otherwise fine.”

“You did well, Mr. Isherwood. Very well.”

“It’s my last deal, I suspect. Now let’s hope I don’t go out with a bang.”

THE RECORDING could have been sent by secure transmission, but Gabriel, like Adrian Carter, was still old-fashioned about some things, and he insisted that it be downloaded onto a disk and hand-carried to the Surrey safe house. As a result it was after eight by the time it finally arrived. He loaded the disk into a computer in the drawing room and clicked the Play icon. Dina was sprawled on the couch. Yaakov was seated in an armchair with his chin in his hands and elbows on his knees, hunched forward as though he were awaiting word from the front. It was Rimona’s night to cook. As Andrew Malone began to speak, she shouted at Gabriel from the kitchen to turn up the volume so she could hear it, too.