Daniel Silva - The Heist

On the opposite side of the nave was a small chapel that contained the crypt of its patron and a canvas by a minor Venetian painter that no one had bothered to clean in more than a century. General Ferrari lowered himself onto one of the pews, opened his metal attaché case, and removed a file folder. Then, from the folder, he drew a single eight-by-ten photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It showed a man of late middle age hanging by his wrists from a chandelier. The cause of death was not clear from the image, though it was obvious the man had been tortured savagely. The face was a bloody, swollen mess, and several swaths of skin and flesh had been carved away from the torso.

“Who was he?” asked Gabriel.

“His name was James Bradshaw, better known as Jack. He was a British subject, but he spent most of his time in Como, along with several thousand of his countrymen.” The general paused thoughtfully. “The British don’t seem to like living in their own country much these days, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“You’d have to ask them.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph and winced. “Was he married?”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“Significant other?”

“Apparently not.”

Gabriel returned the photograph to the general and asked what Jack Bradshaw had done for a living.

“He described himself as a consultant.”

“What sort?”

“He worked in the Middle East for several years as a diplomat. Then he retired early and went into business for himself. Apparently, he dispensed advice to British firms wishing to do business in the Arab world. He must have been quite good at his job,” the general added, “because his villa was among the most expensive on that part of the lake. It also contained a rather impressive collection of Italian art and antiquities.”

“Which explains the Art Squad’s interest in his death.”

“Partly,” said the general. “After all, having a nice collection is no crime.”

“Unless the collection is acquired in a way that skirts Italian law.”

“You’re always one step ahead of everyone else, aren’t you, Allon?” The general looked up at the darkened painting hanging on the wall of the chapel. “Why wasn’t this cleaned in the last restoration?”

“There wasn’t enough money.”

“The varnish is almost entirely opaque.” The general paused, then added, “Just like Jack Bradshaw.”

“May he rest in peace.”

“That’s not likely, not after a death like that.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to contemplate your own demise?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve had several. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about the collecting habits of Jack Bradshaw.”

“The late Mr. Bradshaw had a reputation for acquiring paintings that were not actually for sale.”

“Stolen paintings?”

“Those are your words, my friend. Not mine.”

“You were watching him?”

“Let us say that the Art Squad monitored his activities to the best of our ability.”

“How?”

“The usual ways,” answered the general evasively.

“I assume your men are doing a complete and thorough inventory of his collection.”

“As we speak.”

“And?”

“Thus far they’ve found nothing from our database of missing or stolen works.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to take back all the nasty things you said about Jack Bradshaw.”

“Just because there’s no evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

“Spoken like a true Italian policeman.”

It was clear from General Ferrari’s expression that he interpreted Gabriel’s remark as a compliment. Then, after a moment, he said, “One heard other things about the late Jack Bradshaw.”

“What sort of things?”

“That he wasn’t just a private collector, that he was involved in the illegal export of paintings and other works of art from Italian soil.” The general lowered his voice and added, “Which explains why your friend Julian Isherwood is in a great deal of trouble.”

“Julian Isherwood doesn’t trade in smuggled art.”

The general didn’t bother to respond. In his eyes, all art dealers were guilty of something.

“Where is he?” asked Gabriel.

“In my custody.”

“Has he been charged with anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Under Italian law, you can’t hold him for more than forty-eight hours without bringing him before a judge.”

“He was found standing over a dead body. I’ll think of something.”

“You know Julian had nothing to do with Bradshaw’s murder.”

“Don’t worry,” the general replied, “I have no plans to recommend charges at this time. But if it were to become public that your friend was meeting with a known smuggler, his career would be over. You see, Allon, in the art world, perception is reality.”

“What do I have to do to keep Julian’s name out of the papers?”

The general didn’t respond immediately; he was scrutinizing the photograph of Jack Bradshaw’s body.

“Why do you suppose they tortured him before killing him?” he asked at last.

“Maybe he owed them money.”

“Maybe,” agreed the general. “Or maybe he had something the killers wanted, something more valuable.”

“You were about to tell me what I have to do to save my friend.”

“Find out who killed Jack Bradshaw. And find out what they were looking for.”

“And if I refuse?”

“The London art world will be abuzz with nasty rumors.”

“You’re a cheap blackmailer, General Ferrari.”

“Blackmail is an ugly word.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “But in the art world, perception is reality.”

GABRIEL KNEW A GOOD RESTAURANT not far from the church, in a quiet corner of Castello where tourists rarely ventured. General Ferrari ordered lavishly; Gabriel moved food around his plate and sipped at a glass of mineral water with lemon.

“You’re not hungry?” inquired the general.

“I was hoping to spend a few more hours with my Veronese this afternoon.”

“Then you should eat something. You need your strength.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“You don’t eat when you’re restoring?”

“Coffee and a bit of bread.”

“What kind of diet is that?”

“The kind that allows me to concentrate.”

“No wonder you’re so thin.”

General Ferrari went to the antipasti trolley and filled his plate a second time. There was no one else in the restaurant, no one but the owner and his daughter, a pretty dark-haired girl of twelve or thirteen. The child bore an uncanny resemblance to the daughter of Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO whom Gabriel, on a warm spring evening in 1988, had assassinated at his villa in Tunis. The killing had been carried out in Abu Jihad’s second-floor study, where he had been watching videos of the Palestinian intifada. The girl had seen everything: two immobilizing shots to the chest, two fatal shots to the head, all set to the music of Arab rebellion. Gabriel could no longer recall the death mask of Abu Jihad, but the young girl’s portrait, serene but seething with rage, hung prominently in the exhibition rooms of his memory. As the general retook his seat, Gabriel concealed her face beneath a layer of obliterating paint. Then he leaned forward across the table and asked, “Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“Shall I start with the obvious reasons?”

“If it makes you feel better.”

“I’m not an Italian policeman. In fact, I’m quite the other thing.”

“You have a long history here in Italy.”

“Not all of it pleasant.”