Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

The first thing he noticed was that the stranger was using the drawing room as a bedroom.

He quickly climbed the stairs. A chill ran over him.

Most of the walls had been knocked down to create a spacious open room. In the center was a large white table. Mounted on the side was a microscope with a long retractable arm. On another table were clear flasks of chemicals, which Peel reckoned were the source of the strange odor, and two strange visors with powerful magnifying glasses built into them. Atop a tall, adjustable stand was a bank of fluorescent lights, the source of the cottage’s peculiar glow.

There were other instruments Peel could not identify, but these things were not the source of his alarm. Mounted on a pair of heavy wooden easels were two paintings. One was large, very old looking, a religious scene of some sort. Parts had flaked away. On the second easel was a painting of an old man, a young woman, and a child. Peel examined the signature in the bottom right-hand corner: Rembrandt.

He turned to leave and found himself face-to-face with the stranger.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m‘s-s-sorry,” Peel stammered. “I thought you were here.”

“No you didn’t. You knew I was away, because you were watching me from your bedroom window when I left. In fact, you’ve been watching me since the summer.”

“I thought you might be a smuggler.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The boat,” Peel lied.

The stranger smiled briefly. “Now you know the truth.”

“Not really,” said Peel.

“I’m an art restorer. Paintings are old objects. Sometimes they need a little fixing up, like a cottage, for example.”

“Or a boat,” said Peel.

“Exactly. Some paintings, like these, are very valuable.”

“More than a sailboat?”

“Much more. But now that you know what’s in here, we have a problem.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Peel pleaded. “Honest.”

The stranger ran a hand over his short, brittle hair. “I could use a helper,” he said softly. “Someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m away. Would you like a job like that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going sailing. Would you like to join me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to ask your parents?”

“He’s not my father, and my mum won’t care.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Peel. What’s yours?”

But the stranger just looked around the room to make certain Peel hadn’t disturbed any of his things.

Paris

The stranger’s restless Cornish quarantine might have gone undisturbed if Emily Parker had not met a man called René at a drunken dinner party, which was thrown by a Jordanian student named Leila Khalifa on a wet night in late October. Like the stranger, Emily Parker was living in self-imposed exile: she had moved to Paris after graduation in the hope that it would help mend a broken heart. She possessed none of his physical attributes. Her gait was loose-limbed and chaotic. Her legs were too long, her hips too wide, her breasts too heavy, so that when she moved, each part of her anatomy seemed in conflict with the rest. Her wardrobe varied little: faded jeans, fashionably ripped at the knees, a quilted jacket that made her look rather like a large throw pillow. And then there was the face-the face of a Polish peasant, her mother had always said: rounded cheeks, a thick mouth, a heavy jaw, dull brown eyes set too closely together. “I’m afraid you have your father’s face,” her mother had said. “Your father’s face and your father’s fragile heart.”

Emily met Leila in mid-October at the Musée de Montmartre. She was a student at the Sorbonne, a stunningly attractive woman with lustrous black hair and wide brown eyes. She had been raised in Amman, Rome, and London, and spoke a half-dozen languages fluently. She was everything that Emily was not: beautiful, confident, cosmopolitan. Gradually, Emily unburdened all her secrets to Leila: the way her mother had made her feel so terribly ugly; the pain she felt over being abandoned by her fiancé; her deep-rooted fear that no one would ever love her again. Leila promised to fix everything. Leila promised to introduce Emily to a man who would make her forget all about the boy she had foolishly fallen for in college.

It happened at Leila’s dinner party. She had invited twenty guests to her cramped little flat in Montparnasse. They ate wherever they could find space: on the couch, on the floor, on the bed. All very Parisian bohemian: roast chicken from the corner rotisserie, a heaping salade verte, cheese, and entirely too much inexpensive Bordeaux. There were other students from the Sorbonne, an artist, a young German essayist of note, the son of an Italian count, a pretty Englishman with flowing blond hair called Lord Reggie, and a jazz musician who played the guitar like Al DiMeola. The room sounded like the Tower of Babel. The conversation moved from French to English, then from English to Italian, then from Italian to Spanish. Emily watched Leila moving about the flat, kissing cheeks, lighting cigarettes. She marveled at the ease with which Leila made friends and brought them together.

“He’s here, you know, Emily-the man you’re going to fall in love with.”

René. René from the south somewhere, a village Emily had never heard of, somewhere in the hills above Nice. René who had a bit of family money and had never had the time, or the inclination, to work. René who traveled. René who read many books. René who disdained politics-“Politics is an exercise for the feebleminded, Emily. Politics has nothing to do with real life.” René who had a face you might pass in a crowd and never notice, but if you looked carefully was rather good looking. René whose eyes were lit by some secret source of heat that Emily could not fathom. René who took her to bed the night of Leila’s dinner party and made her feel things she had never thought possible. René who said he wanted to remain in Paris for a few weeks-“Would it be possible for me to crash at your place, Emily? Leila has no room for me. You know Leila. Too many clothes, too many things. Too many men.” René who had made her happy again. René who was eventually going to break the heart he had healed.

He was already slipping away; she could feel him growing slightly more distant every day. He was spending more time on his own, disappearing for several hours each day, reappearing with no warning. When she asked him where he had been, his answers were vague. She feared he was seeing another woman. A skinny French girl, she imagined. A girl who didn’t have to be taught how to make love.

That afternoon Emily wound her way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to the rue Norvins. She stood beneath the crimson awning of a bistro and peered through the window. René was seated at a table near the door. Funny how he always insisted on sitting near the doorway. There was a man with him: dark hair, a few years younger. When Emily entered the bistro, the man stood and quickly walked out. Emily removed her coat and sat down. René poured wine for her.

She asked, “Who was that man?”

“Just someone I used to know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jean,” he said. “Would you like-”

“Your friend left his backpack.”

“It’s mine,” René said, putting a hand on it.

“Really? I’ve never seen you carry it before.”

“Trust me, Emily. It’s mine. Are you hungry?”

And you’re changing the subject again. She said, “I’m famished, actually. I’ve been walking around in the cold all afternoon.”

“Have you really? Whatever for?”

“Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious.”