Portrait of a Spy

thought better of it after the aforementioned Allon suggested a far nobler course of action. The art dealer then made contact with an old chum from the National Gallery—an Italian Old Master expert who had unwittingly played a role in the initial deception—thus setting in motion one of the most important donations to a public British institution in years.
    “And by the way, petal, I still haven’t received one red cent from the CIA.”
    “Neither have I, Julian.”
    “They don’t pay you for these little errands you’re always running for them?”
    “Apparently, they regard my services as pro bono publico.”
    “I suppose they are.”
    They were walking along the Coastal Path. Isherwood wore country tweeds and Wellington boots. His steps were precarious. Gabriel, as always, had to resist an urge to reach out and steady him.
    “How much bloody farther do you intend to make me walk?”
    “It’s only been five minutes, Julian.”
    “Which means we’ve already substantially exceeded the distance of my twice-daily trek from the gallery to the bar at Green’s.”
    “How’s Oliver?”
    “As ever.”
    “Is he behaving himself?”
    “Of course not,” said Isherwood. “But he hasn’t breathed a word about his role in your little caper.”
    “ Our little caper, Julian. You were involved, too.”
    “But I’ve been involved from the beginning,” Isherwood replied. “This is all new and exciting for Oliver. Lord knows he has his faults, but beneath all that blubber and bluster beats the heart of a patriot. Don’t worry about Oliver. Your secret is safe with him.”
    “And if it isn’t, he’ll be hearing from MI5.”
    “I think I’d actually pay to see that.” Isherwood’s pace was beginning to flag. “I don’t suppose there’s a pub up ahead. I feel a drink coming on.”
    “There’s time for that later. You need exercise, Julian.”
    “What’s the point?”
    “You’ll feel better.”
    “I feel fine, petal.”
    “Is that why you want me to take over the gallery?”
    Isherwood stopped and placed his hands on his hips. “Not next week,” he said after a moment. “Not next month. Not even next year. But someday.”
    “Sell it, Julian. Retire. Enjoy your life.”
    “Sell it to whom? Oliver? Roddy? Some bloody Russian oligarch who wants to dabble in culture?” Isherwood shook his head. “I’ve put too much into the place to let it fall into the hands of a stranger. I want it to stay in the family. Since I have none, that leaves you.”
    Gabriel was silent. Isherwood reluctantly started walking again.
    “I’ll never forget the day Shamron brought you into my gallery for the first time. You were so quiet, I wasn’t sure you could actually speak. Your temples were as gray as mine. Shamron called it—”
    “The stain of a boy who’d done a man’s job.”
    Isherwood smiled sadly. “When I saw you with a brush in your hand, I hated Shamron for what he’d done. He should have left you at Bezalel to finish your studies. You would have been one of your generation’s finest painters. As of this moment, everyone in New York is trying to figure out who painted that portrait of Nadia al-Bakari. I only wish they knew the truth.”
    Isherwood paused again to gaze down at the waves beating against the black rocks at the northern end of the cove. “Come to work for me,” he said. “I’ll teach you the tricks of the trade, such as how to lose your shirt in ten easy steps or less. And when it’s time for me to devote my remaining energy to gardening, I’ll leave you with more than enough resources to carry on in my absence. It’s what I want, petal. More important, it’s what your wife wants.”
    “It’s very generous, Julian, but I can’t accept.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because one day, an old enemy will make an appointment to see a Bordone or a Luini, and I’ll end up with several bullets in my head. And so will Chiara.”
    “Your wife is going to be disappointed.”
    “Better disappointed than dead.”
    “Heaven knows I’m no expert when it comes to long-term relationships,” said Isherwood, “but I have a hunch your wife might be in need of a change of scenery.”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel, smiling, “she’s made that abundantly clear.”
    “So come to London, at least for the winter. It will give Chiara the distraction she needs, and it will save me a fortune in shipping fees. I have a panel by Piero di Cosimo that’s in desperate need of your attention. I’ll