Authors: Daniel Silva
They climbed the stairs, Gabriel at Isherwood’s shoulder, quiet as a bodyguard. His leather coat did not rustle, his jeans did not whistle, his brogues seemed to float over the carpet. Isherwood had to brush against Gabriel’s shoulder to remind himself he was still there. At the top of the stairs a security guard asked Gabriel to open his leather shoulder bag. He unzipped the flap and showed him the contents: a Binomag visor, an ultraviolet lamp, an infrascope, and a powerful halogen flashlight. The guard, satisfied, waved them forward.
They entered the salesroom. Hanging from the walls and mounted on baize-covered pedestals were a hundred paintings, each bathed in carefully focused light. Scattered amid the works were roving bands of dealers—jackals, thought Isherwood, picking over the bones for a tasty morsel. Some had their faces pressed to the paintings, others preferred the long view. Opinions were being formed. Money was on the table. Calculators
were producing estimates of potential profit. It was the unseemly side of the art world, the side Isherwood loved. Gabriel seemed oblivious. He moved like a man accustomed to the chaos of the souk. Isherwood did not have to remind Gabriel to keep a low profile. It came naturally to him.
Jeremy Crabbe, the tweedy director of Bonhams’ Old Master department, was waiting near a French school landscape, an unlit pipe wedged between his yellowed incisors. He shook Isherwood’s hand joylessly and looked at the younger man in leather at his side. “Mario Delvecchio,” Gabriel said, and as always, Isherwood was astonished by the pitch-perfect Venetian accent.
“Ahhh,” breathed Crabbe. “The mysterious Signore Delvecchio. Know you by reputation, of course, but we’ve never actually met.” Crabbe shot Isherwood a conspiratorial glance. “Something up your sleeve, Julian? Something you’re not telling me?”
“He cleans for me, Jeremy. It pays to have him look before I leap.”
“This way,” Crabbe said skeptically, and led them into a small, windowless chamber just off the main saleroom floor. The exigencies of the operation had required Isherwood to express a modicum of interest in other works—otherwise Crabbe might be tempted to let it slip to one of the others that Isherwood had his eye on a particular piece. Most of the pieces were mediocre—a lackluster Madonna and child by Andrea del Sarto, a still life by Carlo Magini, a Forge of Vulcan by Paolo Pagani—but in the far corner, propped against the wall, was a large canvas without a frame. Isherwood noticed that Gabriel’s well-trained eye was immediately drawn to it. He also noticed that
Gabriel, the consummate professional, immediately looked the other way.
He started with the others first and spent precisely two minutes on each canvas. His face was a mask, betraying neither enthusiasm nor displeasure. Crabbe gave up trying to read his intentions and passed the time chewing his pipe stem instead.
Finally he turned his attention to Lot No. 43,
Daniel in the Lions’ Den
, Erasmus Quellinus, 86 inches by 128 inches, oil on canvas, abraded and extremely dirty. So dirty, in fact, that the cats at the edge of the image seemed entirely concealed by shadow. He crouched and tilted his head in order to view the canvas with raked lighting. Then he licked three fingers and scrubbed at the figure of Daniel, which caused Crabbe to cluck and roll his bloodshot eyes. Ignoring him, Gabriel placed his face a few inches from the canvas and examined the manner in which Daniel’s hands were folded and the way one leg was crossed over the other.
“Where did this come from?”
Crabbe removed his pipe and looked into the bowl. “A drafty Georgian pile in the Cotswolds.”
“When was it last cleaned?”
“We’re not quite sure, but by the looks of it, Disraeli was prime minister.”
Gabriel looked up at Isherwood, who in turn looked at Crabbe. “Give us a moment, Jeremy.”
Crabbe slipped from the room. Gabriel opened his bag and removed the ultraviolet lamp. Isherwood doused the lights, casting the room into pitch darkness. Gabriel switched on the lamp and shone the bluish beam toward the painting.
“Well?” asked Isherwood.
“The last restoration was so long ago it doesn’t show up in ultraviolet.”
Gabriel removed the infrascope from his bag. It bore an uncanny resemblance to a pistol, and Isherwood felt a sudden chill as Gabriel wrapped his hand around the grip and switched on the luminescent green light. An archipelago of dark blotches appeared on the canvas, the retouching of the last restoration. The painting, though extremely dirty, had suffered only moderate losses.
He switched off the infrascope, then slipped on his magnifying visor and studied the figure of Daniel in the searing white glow of the halogen flashlight.
“What do you think?” asked Isherwood, squinting.
“Magnificent,” Gabriel replied distantly. “But Erasmus Quellinus didn’t paint it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure enough to bet two hundred thousand pounds of your money.”
“How reassuring.”
Gabriel reached out and traced his forefinger along the muscular, graceful figure. “He was here, Julian,” he said, “I can feel him.”
T
HEY WALKED TO
St. James’s for a celebratory lunch at Green’s, a gathering place for dealers and collectors in Duke Street, a few paces from Isherwood’s gallery. A bottle of chilled white burgundy awaited them in their corner booth. Isherwood filled two glasses and pushed one across the tablecloth toward Gabriel.
“Mazel tov, Julian.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I won’t be able to make a positive authentication until I get a look beneath the surface with infrared reflectography. But the composition is clearly based on Rubens, and I have no doubt the brushwork is his.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time restoring it.”
“Who said I was going to restore it?”
“You did.”
“I said I’d authenticate it, but I said nothing about restoring it. That painting needs at least six months of work. I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something.”
“There’s one person I trust with that painting,” said Isherwood, “and that’s you.”
Gabriel accepted the professional compliment with a slight cock of his head, then resumed his apathetic examination of the menu. Isherwood had meant what he said. Gabriel Allon, had he been brought into this world under a different star, might very well have been one of his generation’s finest artists. Isherwood thought of the first time they had met—a brilliant September afternoon in 1978, a bench overlooking the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Gabriel had been little more than a boy then, though his temples, Isherwood remembered, were already shot with gray. The stain of a boy who’d done a man’s job, Shamron had said.
“He left the Bezalel Academy of Art in seventy-two. In seventy-five, he went to Venice to study restoration under the great Umberto Conti.”
“Umberto’s the best there is.”
“So I’m told. It seems our Gabriel made quite an impression on Signore Conti. He says Gabriel’s hands are the most talented he’s ever seen. I would have to concur.”
Isherwood had made the mistake of asking what exactly Gabriel had been doing between 1972 and 1975. Gabriel had turned to watch a pair of lovers walking hand in hand along the edge of the lake. Shamron had absently picked a splinter from the bench.
“Think of him as a stolen painting that has been quietly returned to its rightful owner. The owner doesn’t ask questions about where the painting has been. He’s just happy to have it hanging on his wall again.”
Then Shamron had requested his first “favor.”
“There’s a certain Palestinian gentleman who’s taken up residence in Oslo. I fear this gentleman’s intentions are less than honorable. I’d like Gabriel to keep an eye on him, and I’d like you to find him some respectable work. A simple restoration, perhaps—something that might take two weeks or so. Can you do that for me, Julian?”
Isherwood was brought back to the present by the appearance of the waiter. He ordered bisque and a boiled lobster, Gabriel green salad and plain grilled sole with rice. He’d been living in Europe for the better part of the last thirty years, but he still had the simple tastes of a Sabra farm boy from the Jezreel Valley. Food and wine, fine clothing and fast cars—these things were lost on him.
“I’m surprised you were able to make it today,” Isherwood said.
“Why is that?”
“Rome.”
Gabriel kept his eyes on the menu. “That’s not my portfolio, Julian. Besides, I’m retired. You know that.”
“Please,”
said Isherwood in a confessional murmur. “So what
are
you working on these days?”
“I’m finishing the San Giovanni Crisostomo altarpiece.”
“Another Bellini? You’re going to make quite a name for yourself.”
“I already have.”
Gabriel’s last restoration, Bellini’s San Zaccaria altarpiece, had ignited a sensation in the art world and set the standard against which all future Bellini restorations would be judged.
“Isn’t Tiepolo’s firm handling the Crisostomo project?”
Gabriel nodded. “I’m working exclusively for Francesco now, more or less.”
“He can’t afford you.”
“I like working in Venice, Julian. He pays me enough to make ends meet. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly living the way I did when I was doing my apprenticeship with Umberto.”
“From what I hear, you’ve been a busy boy lately. According to the rumor mill, they nearly took the San Zaccaria altarpiece away from you because you left Venice on a
personal
matter.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Julian.”
“Oh, really. I also hear that you’re shacked up in a palazzo in Cannaregio with a lovely young woman named Chiara.”
The sharp look, delivered over the rim of a wineglass, confirmed for Isherwood that the rumors of Gabriel’s romantic entanglement were true.
“Does the child have a last name?”
“Her family name is Zolli, and she’s not a child.”
“Is it true her father is the chief rabbi of Venice?”
“He’s the
only
rabbi in Venice. It’s not exactly a thriving community. The war ended that.”
“Does she know about your other line of work?”
“She’s Office, Julian.”
“Just promise me you’re not going to break this girl’s heart like all the others,” Isherwood said. “My God, the women you’ve let slip through your fingers. I still have the most marvelous fantasies about that creature Jacqueline Delacroix.”
Gabriel leaned forward across the table, his face suddenly quite serious. “I’m going to marry her, Julian.”
“And Leah?” Isherwood asked gently. “What are you planning to do about Leah?”
“I have to tell her. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning.”
“Will she understand?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure, but I owe it to her.”
“God forgive me for saying this, but you owe it to yourself. It’s time you got on with your life. I don’t need to remind you that you’re not a boy of twenty-five anymore.”
“You’re not the one who has to look her in the eye and tell her that you’re in love with another woman.”
“Forgive my impertinence. It’s the burgundy talking—
and
the Rubens. Want some company? I’ll drive you down.”
“No,” said Gabriel. “I need to go alone.”
The first course arrived. Isherwood tucked into his bisque. Gabriel speared a piece of lettuce.
“What kind of fee did you have in mind for the Rubens cleaning?”
“Off the top of my head? Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Too bad,” Gabriel said. “For two hundred, I’d consider taking it on.”
“All right, two hundred, you bastard.”
“I’ll call you next week and let you know.”
“What’s stopping you from making a commitment now? The Bellini?”
No, thought Gabriel. It wasn’t the Bellini. It was Rome.
T
HE
S
TRATFORD
C
LINIC
, one of the most prestigious and private psychiatric hospitals in Europe, was located an hour’s drive from the center of London on a rambling old Victorian estate in the hills of Surrey. The patient population included a distant member of the British royal family and the second cousin of the current prime minister, and so the staff were accustomed to unusual demands by visitors. Gabriel passed through the front security gate after identifying himself as “Mr. Browne.”
He parked his rented Opel in the visitors’ carpark in the forecourt of the old redbrick manor house. Leonard Avery, Leah’s physician, greeted him in the entrance hall, a windblown figure dressed in a Barbour coat and Wellington boots. “Once a week I lead a select group of patients on a nature walk in the surrounding countryside,” he said, explaining his appearance. “It’s extremely therapeutic.” He shook Gabriel’s hand without removing his glove and inquired about the drive from London as if he did not truly wish to know the answer. “She’s waiting for you in the solarium. She still likes the solarium the best.”
They set out down a corridor with a pale linoleum floor, Avery as though he were still pounding along a Surrey footpath. He was the only one at the hospital who knew the truth about the patient named Lee Martinson—or at least part of the truth. He knew that her true family name was Allon and that her terrible burns and near-catatonic state were not the result of a
motor accident—the explanation that appeared in Leah’s hospital records—but of a car bombing in Vienna. He also knew that the bombing had claimed the life of her young son. He believed Gabriel was an Israeli diplomat and did not like him.