Prince of Fire

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