Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“I can get you a girl.”

“Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art.”

“The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you’re not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie’s last summer?”

“Oliver, how did you-”

“Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here.”

“Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please do come to it soon.”

“My point is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we’re to survive. We’re never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace.”

“You’re babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God’s sake. I’m not one of your girlfriends.”

“All right, straight talk. I’m thinking about a partnership.”

“A partnership? What kind of partnership?”

“You want it straight?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The kind of partnership where I buy you out.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve a nice gallery.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve nice paintings down there in your vault.”

“Oliver!”

“You’ve even managed to retain something of a reputation. I would like to inspect your inventory and come to a fair price. Enough money for you to clear away your debt. Then I’d like to burn all your dead stock, get something for it, and start over. You can work for me. I’ll pay you a generous salary, plus commission. You can do quite nicely, Julie.”

“Work for you? Are you completely insane? Oliver, how dare you?”

“Don’t get your back up. Don’t get your pride up. It’s business, not personal. You’re drowning, Julian. I’m throwing you a lifeline. Don’t be a fool. Take the bloody thing.”

But Isherwood was getting to his feet and digging through his pockets for money.

“Julian, please. Keep your money. It’s my party. Don’t behave like this.”

“Piss off!” Isherwood hurled a pair of twenty-pound notes toward Dimbleby’s pink face. “How dare you, Oliver! Really!”

He stormed out of the restaurant and walked back to the gallery. So, the jackals of St. James’s were circling, and fat Oliver Dimbleby wanted the biggest piece of the carcass for himself. Buy me out, Oliver! Imagine the nerve! Imagine me working for that tubby little misogynist! He had half a mind to call Giles Pittaway and tell him the story about the broken window.

As Isherwood marched across Mason’s Yard, he vowed not to surrender without a fight. But in order to fight he needed a clean Vecellio, and for that he needed Gabriel. He had to find him before he fell under Shamron’s spell and was gone forever. He walked up the stairs and let himself into the gallery. It was terribly depressing to be alone. He was used to seeing a pretty girl behind the desk when he came back to work after lunch. He sat down at his desk, found Gabriel’s number in his telephone book, dialed the number, let it ring a dozen times, slammed down the receiver. Maybe he’s just gone to the village. Or maybe he’s out on that bloody boat of his.

Or maybe Shamron has already got to him.

“Shit!” he said softly.

He left the gallery, flagged down a taxi on Piccadilly, rode up to Great Russell Street. He paid off the cab a few blocks from the British Museum and stepped through the doorway of the L. Cornellissen amp; Son art supplies shop. He felt strangely calm as he stood on the scuffed wooden floor, surrounded by the varnished shelves filled with paints, palettes, paper, canvases, brushes, and charcoal pencils.

A flaxen angel called Penelope smiled at him over the counter.

“Hullo, Pen.”

“Julian, super,” she breathed. “How are you? God, but you look all in.”

“Lunch with Oliver Dimbleby.” No other explanation was necessary. “Listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen our friend. He’s not answering his phone, and I’m starting to think he’s wandered off the edge of a cliff down there in Cornwall.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t been fortunate enough to lay eyes on that lovely man in quite some time.”

“Anyone else in the shop heard from him?”

“Hold on. I’ll check.”

Penelope asked Margaret, and Margaret asked Sherman, and Sherman asked Tricia, and on it went until a disembodied male voice from deep in the shop-the acrylic paint and pencil section judging by the sound of it-announced solemnly, “I spoke to him just this morning.”

“Mind telling me what he wanted?” said Isherwood to the ceiling.

“To cancel his monthly shipment of supplies.”

“How many monthly shipments exactly?”

“Every monthly until further notice.”

“Did he say why?”

“Does he ever, darling?”

Next morning Isherwood canceled his appointments for the rest of the week and hired a car. For five hours he sped along the motorways. Westward to Bristol. Southward along the Channel. Then the long haul down through Devon and Cornwall. Weather as volatile as Isherwood’s mood, marbles of rain one moment, weak white winter sun the next. The wind was constant, though. So much wind Isherwood had trouble keeping the little Ford Escort attached to the road. He ate lunch while he drove and stopped only three times-once for petrol, once for a piss, and a third time on the Dartmoor when his car struck a seabird. He picked up the corpse, using an empty plastic sandwich bag to protect his fingers, and said a brief Jewish prayer for the dead before ceremoniously tossing the bird into the heather.

He arrived at Gabriel’s cottage shortly before three o’clock. Gabriel’s boat was covered in a tarpaulin. He crossed the lane and rang the bell. He rang it a second time, then hammered on the door, then tried the latch. Locked.

He peered through the paned glass into a spotless kitchen. Gabriel was never one for food-throw him a scrap of bread and a few grains of rice and he could walk another fifty miles-but even by Gabriel’s standards the kitchen was exceptionally clean and free of supplies. He was gone, Isherwood concluded. Gone for a very long time.

He entered the back garden and walked along the edge of the cottage, trying each of the windows on the off chance that Gabriel had forgotten to lock one. Not Gabriel’s style.

He retraced his steps and stood on the quay again. Gunpowder clouds were rolling up the river from the sea. A fat ball of rain struck him in the center of the forehead and rolled down the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He removed them and the river scene blurred. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and put the glasses back on.

When his surroundings came back into focus, he discovered a young boy standing a few feet away. He seemed to have come out of nowhere, like a cat stalking prey. Isherwood had never had children and was terrible at placing ages. He guessed that the pinched-faced lad was eleven or twelve.

The boy said, “Why are you sneaking around that cottage?”

“I’m not sneaking, and who the bloody hell are you?”

“I’m Peel. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of the man who lives there. My name is Julian.”

Isherwood held out his hand, but the boy just stood there, body rigid and coiled.

“He never mentioned he had a friend named Julian.”

“He doesn’t mention a lot of things.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk to him.”

“He’s away.”

“I can see that. Do you know where he is?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Know when he’ll be back?”

“Didn’t say.”

The rain started to come down harder. The boy remained still. Isherwood held a hand over his head and turned to look at the cottage. “Do you know what he does for a living?” Isherwood asked.