Portrait of a Spy

patient on the way to the sanatorium.
    “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” said Isherwood. “First you cover my Titian in rabbit-skin glue and tissue paper. Then you deposit it in my storage room and disappear to parts unknown. Now you reappear unannounced, looking, as usual, like something the cat dragged in, and tell me that you need the aforementioned Titian for one of your little extracurricular projects. Have I left anything out?”
    “In order for this scheme to work, Julian, I’ll need you to deceive the art world and to conduct yourself in a way that some of your colleagues might consider unethical.”
    “Just another day at the office, petal,” said Isherwood with a shrug. “But what’s in it for moi ?”
    “If it works, there will be no more attacks like the one in Covent Garden.”
    “Until the next jihadi loon comes along. Then we’ll be back at square one again, won’t we? Heaven knows I’m no expert, but it seems to me the terrorism game is a bit like the art trade. It has its peaks and valleys, its good seasons and bad, but it never goes away.”
    In the upper exhibition room of Isherwood’s gallery, the overhead lamps glowed with the softness of votive candles. Rain pattered on the skylight and dripped from the hem of Isherwood’s sodden overcoat, which he had yet to remove. Isherwood frowned at the puddle on his parquet floor and then looked at the wounded painting propped upon the baize-covered pedestal.
    “Do you know how much that thing is worth?”
    “In a fair auction, ten million in the shade. But in the auction I have in mind . . .”
    “Naughty boy,” said Isherwood. “Naughty, naughty boy.”
    “Have you mentioned it to anyone, Julian?”
    “The painting?” Isherwood shook his head. “Not a peep.”
    “You’re sure about that? No moment of indiscretion at the bar at Green’s? No pillow talk with that preposterously young woman from the Tate?”
    “Her name’s Penelope,” Isherwood said.
    “Does she know about the picture, Julian?”
    “ ’Course not. That’s not the way it works when one has a coup, petal. One doesn’t brag about such things. One keeps it very quiet until the moment is just right. Then one announces it to the world with all the usual fanfare. One also expects to be compensated for one’s cleverness. But under your scenario, I’ll be expected to actually take a loss—for the good of God’s children, of course.”
    “Your loss will be temporary.”
    “How temporary?”
    “The CIA is handling all operational expenses.”
    “That’s not a line one hears every day in an art gallery.”
    “One way or another, Julian, you’ll be compensated.”
    “Of course I will,” Isherwood said with mock confidence. “This reminds me of the time my Penelope told me her husband wouldn’t be home for another hour. I’m rather too old to be leaping over garden walls.”
    “Still seeing her?”
    “Penelope? Left me,” Isherwood said, shaking his head. “They all leave me eventually. But not you, petal. And not this damn cough. I’m starting to think of it as an old friend.”
    “Have you seen a doctor?”
    “Couldn’t get an appointment. The National Health Service is so bad these days, I’m thinking about becoming a Christian Scientist.”
    “I thought you were a hypochondriac.”
    “Orthodox, actually.” Isherwood picked at the tissue paper in the upper-right portion of the canvas.
    “Every flake of paint you dislodge I have to put back.”
    “Sorry,” said Isherwood, slipping his hand into his coat pocket. “There’s precedent for it, you know. A couple of years ago, Christie’s sold a painting attributed to the School of Titian for the paltry sum of eight thousand quid. But the painting wasn’t a School of Titian. It was a Titian Titian. As you might imagine, the owners weren’t terribly pleased. They accused Christie’s of malpractice. The lawyers got involved. There were ugly stories in the press. Bad feelings all round.”
    “Perhaps we should give Christie’s a chance to redeem itself.”
    “They might actually like that. There’s just one problem.”
    “Just one?”
    “We’ve already missed the big Old Master sales.”
    “That’s true,” Gabriel acknowledged, “but you’re forgetting about the special Venetian School auction planned for the first week of February. A newly discovered Titian might be just the thing to gin up a bit of extra excitement.”
    “Naughty boy. Naughty, naughty