Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“I’ll try to come up with something.”

“You will come up with something.” Stone shoved another fistful of caviar into his mouth. “Together we can move mountains, Ari. But if Looking Glass goes down, things could get quite nasty indeed.”

The following morning Shamron and Gabriel met in Hampstead Heath. They walked along a footpath bordered by two rows of dripping beech trees. Shamron waited for a pair of joggers to pass before speaking. “You have your money-five hundred thousand American. Usual account in Geneva.”

“And if I need more?”

“Then I’ll get you more. But the well is not bottomless. You were always careful about money. I hope nothing will change now that you have no reason to fear the accountants of King Saul Boulevard.”

“I’ll spend only what I need.”

Shamron changed the subject to communication. Because Lev controlled London Station, its staff and facilities were strictly off-limits to Gabriel. There were three London bodelim who were loyal to Shamron and could be counted on to do favors for Gabriel without telling the station chief. Shamron recited a series of telephone numbers. Gabriel committed them to memory. It was as if they were back at the Academy, playing silly memory games and awareness drills, like counting the steps on a flight of stairs, or recording the contents of a man’s closet, or the registration numbers of a dozen parked cars, with one brief glance.

Shamron moved on. The London Station secure cable could not be used for electronic communication because all transmissions would have to be cleared by the station chief. The London Station pouch could not be used for the same reason. In a pinch Gabriel could insert a field report into the diplomatic pouch addressed to Amos Argov. A friend in the Foreign Ministry would forward it to Shamron at King Saul Boulevard. But he should not abuse the privilege. Gabriel was also forbidden to use London safe flats, because London Station administered them and Lev kept careful track of their use.

Shamron rattled off a telephone number in Oslo that was routed through to his home in Tiberias. Gabriel was to treat the line as though it were insecure.

“If a face-to-face meeting is required, Paris will be the venue,” Shamron said. “We’ll use the sites from the Black September operation, for old times’ sake. Same sequence, same fallbacks, same body talk. Do you remember the Paris sites?”

“We’ll always have Paris.”

“Any questions?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You may leave the United Kingdom as quickly as possible,” Gabriel said.

Then he turned and walked quickly away.

St. James’s, London

“Listen, Julie,” said Oliver Dimbleby, leaning his thick head over the table and lowering his voice. “I know you’re in trouble. The whole street knows you’re in trouble. There’re no secrets down here, petal.”

Oliver Dimbleby was a pink man in a pink shirt who always seemed unduly pleased with himself. His hair was curly and sandy, with tiny horns over his ears. Isherwood and Dimbleby were as close as two competitors could be in the London art trade, which meant that Isherwood despised him only a little.

“You’ve lost your backing,” Dimbleby said. “You can’t give a painting away. You even lost this month’s girl, two weeks ahead of schedule. Oh, hell, what was this one’s name?”

“Heather.”

“Ah, yes, Heather. A shame to lose one like that, wasn’t it? I would have enjoyed getting to know Heather a bit better. She came to me before she went to Giles Pittaway. Lovely girl, but I told her I wouldn’t poach in a friend’s forest. Sent her packing. Unfortunately, she walked to New Bond Strasse and straight into the arms of the devil.”

“So I’m in trouble,” said Isherwood, trying to change the subject. “What’s your point?”

“It’s Pittaway, isn’t it? Killing all of us, what?” There was a bit of the Estuary in Dimbleby’s accent, and it had thickened with the two bottles of Burgundy they’d consumed over lunch at Wilton ’s. “Allow me to let you in on a little secret, old love. We’re all in the same boat. There are no buyers and no good pictures to sell even if there were. It’s all modern and the Impressionists, and nobody can afford to deal van Goghs and Monets except the big boys. I had a pop star come into my gallery the other day. Wanted something for his bedroom to pull together his duvet cover and Santa Fe carpet. I sent him to Selfridges. He didn’t see the humor in that, thick bastard. Father warned me to stay out of this business. Sometimes, I wish to Christ I’d listened to the old bugger. Giles Pittaway has sucked all the air out of the market. And with such crap. Jesus! But it’s crap, isn’t it, Julie?”

“Beyond crap, Oliver,” Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.

“I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what’s his name, Julie?”

“Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?”

“Ah, yes, that’s it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?”

Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. “That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain. Numb. Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He’s getting divorced, Roddy. Wife’s finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest,” Isherwood moaned.

“Oh, but you do, petal.” Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. “Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John’s Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a ”hear, hear‘ every now and again for good measure.“

Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “When he’s finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound.”

“Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!”

“Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can’t remember a thing.”

Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. “Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?”

“My point is that you’re not alone. We’re all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he’s squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ’s sake.”

“You’re surviving, Oliver. And you’re getting fatter. You’re going to need a bigger gallery soon.”

“Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you’re moving.”

“Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I’ll be fine. What I need is a new girl.”