The English Assassin

Years.
    Isherwood reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a check. “Your share from the sale of the Vecellio. One hundred thousand pounds.”
    Gabriel scooped up the check and pocketed it with a smooth movement of his hand. He had magician’s hands and a magician’s sense of misdirection. The check was there, the check was gone.
    “How much was your share?”
    “I’ll tell you, but you must first promise me that you won’t divulge the figure to any of these vultures,” Isherwood said, sweeping his hand across the dining room of Green’s.
    Gabriel said nothing, which Isherwood interpreted as a blood oath of everlasting silence.
    “One million.”
    “Dollars?”

    “Pounds, petal. Pounds.”
    “Who bought it?”
    “A very nice gallery in the American Midwest. Tastefully displayed, I assure you. Can you imagine? I picked it up for sixteen thousand from a dusty sale room in Hull on the hunch—the wild bloody hunch—that it was the missing altarpiece from the church of San Salvatore in Venice. And I was right! A coup like this comes along once in a career, twice if you’re lucky. Cheers.”
    They toasted each other, stemmed wineglass to bone-china teacup. Just then a tubby man with a pink shirt and pink cheeks to match presented himself breathlessly at their table.
    “Julie!” he sang.
    “Hullo, Oliver.”
    “Word on Duke Street is you picked up a cool million for your Vecellio.”
    “Where the bloody hell did you hear that?”
    “There are no secrets down here, love. Just tell me if it’s the truth or a dirty, seditious lie.” He turned to Gabriel, as if noticing him for the first time, and thrust out a fleshy paw with a gold-embossed business card wedged between the thick fingers. “Oliver Dimbleby. Dimbleby Fine Arts.”
    Gabriel took the card silently.
    “Why don’t you join us for a drink, Oliver?” said Isherwood.
    Beneath the table Gabriel put his foot on Isherwood’s toe and pressed hard.
    “Can’t now, love. That leggy creature in the booth over there has promised to whisper filth into my ear if I buy her another glass of champagne.”
    “Thank God!” blurted Isherwood through clenched teeth.

    Oliver Dimbleby waddled off. Gabriel released the pressure on Isherwood’s foot.
    “So much for your secrets.”
    “Vultures,” Isherwood repeated. “I’m up now, but the moment I stumble they’ll be hovering again, waiting for me to die so they can pick over the bones.”
    “Maybe this time you should watch your money a little more carefully.”
    “I’m afraid I’m a hopeless case. In fact—”
    “Oh, God.”
    “—I’m traveling to Amsterdam to have a look at a painting next week. It’s the centerpiece of a triptych, classified as artist unknown, but I have another one of my hunches. I think it may have come from the workshop of Rogier van der Weyden. In fact, I may be willing to bet a great deal of money on it.”
    “Van der Weydens are notoriously difficult to authenticate. There are only a handful of works firmly attributed to him, and he never signed or dated any of them.”
    “If it came from his workshop, his fingerprints will be on it. And if there’s anyone who can find them, it’s you.”
    “I’ll be happy to take a look at it for you.”
    “Are you working on anything now?”
    “I just finished a Modigliani.”
    “I have a job for you.”
    “What kind of job?”
    “I received a call from a lawyer a few days ago. Said his client has a painting that requires cleaning. Said his client wanted you to handle the job and would pay handsomely.”
    “What’s the client’s name?”
    “Didn’t say.”

    “What’s the painting?”
    “Didn’t say.”
    “So how is it supposed to work?”
    “You go to the villa, you work on the painting. The owner pays for your hotel and expenses.”
    “Where?”
    “Zurich.”
    Something flashed behind Gabriel’s green eyes, a vision, a memory. Isherwood frantically rifled through the file drawers of his own less reliable memory. Have I ever sent him to Zurich for Herr Heller?
    “Is Zurich a problem?”
    “No, Zurich is fine. How much would I be paid?”
    “Twice what I’ve just given you—if you start right away.”
    “Give me the address.”
     
    GABRIELdid not have time to return to Cornwall to pick up his things, so after lunch he went shopping. In Oxford Street he purchased two changes of clothing and a small leather bag. Then he walked over to Great Russell Street and visited the