Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“I am the lord and master of all you see, Herr Heller,” Stone announced, admiring his view. “This man washes my window every day. Can’t stand a dirty window. Can you? If I ordered him to jump he’d do it and thank me for the suggestion later. Wouldn’t do it out of loyalty. Or respect. Or love. He’d do it because he’d be afraid not to. Fear is the only emotion that really matters.”

The window washer finished quickly and rappelled down the building. Stone lumbered across the room and opened the refrigerator behind the bar. He pulled out two bottles of champagne-he never opened just one-and slammed the door shut again as though he were kneeing a competitor in the balls. He tried to open one of the bottles, but his thick fingers were ill designed for the task of peeling foil and twisting bits of wire. Finally he threw back his head and roared, “Angelina!”

A terrified Portuguese maid entered the room, her eyes slightly averted.

“Take these,” Stone commanded, holding the bottles by the necks as though he were strangling them. “Remove the corks, bury them in ice. Bring food, Angelina. Mounds of food. Caviar, smoked salmon, and don’t forget strawberries. Big fucking strawberries. Big as a teenage girl’s titties.”

Stone fell into the corner of a couch and put his feet up on an ottoman. He removed his tie, twirled it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder onto the floor. He wore a striped shirt, handmade from Egyptian cotton, and maroon suspenders. The gold cuff links were nearly as big as the face on his solid gold wristwatch. Angelina came back into the room, deposited the tray of food, and fled. Stone poured champagne into flutes the size of beer glasses. He grasped a plum-sized strawberry, dipped it into the wine, and devoured it. He seemed to swallow it whole. Shamron suddenly felt like Alice. Everything was too big: the glasses, the strawberries, the slabs of smoked salmon, the giant-screen television silently playing an American financial news network, Stone and his ludicrous voice.

“May we drop the pretenses, Herr Heller?”

Shamron nodded. A technician from the Office’s London station had swept the apartment earlier that evening and found no listening devices.

“Ari, my friend!”

Stone plunged a toast point into a bowl of caviar. Shamron watched as three hundred dollars’ worth of beluga vanished down Stone’s gullet. For twenty minutes he treated Shamron to tales of his business ventures, his charitable activities, his most recent meeting with the Prince of Wales, his active and diverse sex life. He paused only once to scream for Angelina to bring another vat of caviar. Shamron sat with his legs crossed, watching the bubbles rise in his champagne. Occasionally he murmured, “How interesting,” or “That’s fascinating.”

“How are your children?” Stone blurted, unexpectedly changing course. Shamron had a son serving in the IDF in the security zone of southern Lebanon and a daughter who had moved to New Zealand, gone native, and never returned his calls.

“Fine,” said Shamron. “And you? How are the boys?”

“I had to fire Christopher last week.”

“So I heard.”

“My competitors had great fun at my expense, but I thought it showed courage. Every Looking Glass employee, no matter how far down the food chain, now knows I’m a tough bastard-but fair.”

“It was a bit harsh for coming five minutes late to a meeting.”

“The principle, Ari. The principle. You should use some of my techniques in your shop.”

“And Jonathan?”

“Gone to work for the competition. Told him to forget about his inheritance. Said he’d forgotten about it long ago.”

Shamron shook his head at the strange ways of children.

“So what brings you to my doorstep, Ari Shamron? Certainly not food. You’ve not touched the caviar. Or the champagne. Don’t just sit there. Speak, Ari.”

“I need money.”

“Can see that, can’t I? Not a complete idiot, after all. Practically have your cap in hand. What’s it for? Share, Ari. Entitled to it after everything I’ve done for you.”

“It concerns the incident in Paris,” Shamron said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can say.”

“Come on, Ari. You can do better than that. Give me something I can hang my hat on.”

“I need it to catch the terrorists who did it.”

“Now that’s more like it. How much this time?”

“Half million.”

“What flavor?”

“Dollars.”

“Down payment or payment in full?”

“Actually, I may need a line of credit, depending on how long the search for these boys lasts.”

“I think I can manage that. How would you like it delivered?”

“There’s a small shipping company based in Nassau called Carlton Limited. Its largest container vessel is in dry dock undergoing repairs. Unfortunately, the repairs are taking longer and costing much more than the owners of Carlton Limited projected. They need an infusion of cash quickly, or the ship may go down and take Carlton with it.”

“I see.”

Shamron rattled off the number of an account in the Bahamas, which Stone jotted down on a notepad with a gold pen.

“I can have a half million in the account by morning.”

“Thank you.”

“What else?”

“I need you to make another investment.”

“Another shipping company?”

“Actually, in an art dealership here in London.”

“Art! No, thank you, Ari.”

“I’m asking you as a favor.”

Stone let out a long sigh. Shamron could smell the caviar and champagne on his breath. “I’m listening.”

“I need you to make a bridge loan to a firm called Isherwood Fine Arts.”

“Isherwood!”

Shamron nodded.

“Julian Isherwood? Julie Isherwood? I have made my share of questionable investments, Ari, but lending money to Julie Isherwood is tantamount to setting it on fire. Won’t do it. Sorry, can’t help.”

“I’m asking you as a personal favor.”

“And I’m telling you that I won’t do it. Julie can sink or swim on his own.” Stone made another of his sudden course changes. “I didn’t know Julie was part of the brotherhood.”

“I didn’t say that he was.”

“Doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to give him any of my money. I’ve made my decision. End of discussion.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Don’t threaten me, Ari Shamron. How dare you, after everything I’ve done for you? The Office wouldn’t have a pot to piss in if it weren’t for me. I’ve lost track of how many millions I’ve given you.”

“You’ve been very generous, Benjamin.”

“Generous! Christ! I’ve single-handedly kept you afloat. But in case you haven’t noticed, things aren’t going well at Looking Glass these days. I have creditors peering into every orifice. I have banks demanding their money before they’ll give me any more. Looking Glass is shipping water, love. And if Looking Glass goes down, you lose your unlimited supply of money.”

“I’m aware of your current difficulties,” Shamron said. “But I also know Looking Glass will emerge from this crisis stronger than ever.”

“Do you? Do you really? Shit! And what gives you that idea?”

“My complete confidence in you.”

“Don’t fox with me, Ari. I’ve given freely for many years and asked for nothing in return. But now I need your help. I need you to lean on your friends in the City to loosen the grip on their money. I need you to convince my Israeli investors that it might be best for all concerned if they forgive a substantial portion of my debt.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And there’s one other thing. I print your black propaganda whenever you ask. Why don’t you toss me a real story every once in a while? Something with a little sizzle. Something that will sell newspapers. Show the money boys that Looking Glass is still a force to be reckoned with.”