The English Assassin

hours and was quite certain Müller could find time for an appointment.

    “Just let me get my book and have a look at the schedule. Can you hold on a moment?”
    “Of course.”
    “Yes, here it is. As it turns out, I’ve had an unexpected cancellation this afternoon.”
    “How fortunate.”
    “How quickly could you be here?”
    “Actually, I’m in the neighborhood now. I could be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”
    “Splendid. And your name?”
    “Ulbricht.”
    “I look forward to seeing you, Herr Ulbricht.”
    Gabriel severed the connection. He packed quickly, tucked the Beretta into the waistband of his trousers, then took one last look around the room to make certain he’d left no trace of himself behind. Before leaving, he walked to the window and peered down at the gallery. A man was ringing the bell: medium height, dark hair, an attaché case in his right hand. Perhaps Müller’s appointment didn’t cancel after all. Gabriel quickly dug out his camera and used up the roll taking photographs of the unexpected visitor. Then he removed the film, slipped it in his pocket, and placed the camera in his bag.
    At the front counter, the desk manager expressed elaborate sorrow that Herr Kiever was leaving so soon. He asked whether the work had gone well and Gabriel said that he would know soon enough.
    Outside, rain fell softly on his face. The Renault was parked on the street around the corner from the hotel, two tickets pinned to the windshield by the wiper blade. Gabriel stuffed them into his pocket and tossed the bag into the trunk.
    He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes had passed since he and Müller had spoken on the telephone. He should be a few minutes late—the German would expect that. He walked around the block twice to see if he was being followed, then went to the gallery and rang the bell. Müller opened the door to him.
    “Good morning, Herr Ulbricht. I was beginning to worry about you.”
    “Actually, I had a bit of trouble finding the place again.”
    “You don’t live in Paris?”
    “I’m here on holiday, actually. I live in Düsseldorf.”
    “I see.” Müller clapped his hands together theatrically. “So, you’d like to have a closer look at the Hirn. I don’t blame you. It’s an absolutely gorgeous painting. A fine addition to any collection. Let me remove it from the window. I’ll just be a moment.”
    While Müller busied himself with the Hirn, Gabriel quickly looked around the room. Ordinary gallery, very ordinary paintings. At the end of the room was Müller’s desk, a hand-painted antique affair, and on the floor next to the desk was an attaché.
    Müller lifted the painting from the display stand in the window. It was a small work, about eighteen inches by twelve, and Müller had no trouble handling the frame. He placed it on a felt-covered pedestal in the center of the room and switched on some additional lights.
    As Gabriel moved into position to view the canvas, he glanced out the front window of the gallery. Something caught his eye in the café across the street. Something familiar, a flash, nothing more.
    He turned his attention to the canvas and murmured a few kind words about the quality of the brushwork and the draftsmanship. “You seem to know something about art, Herr Ulbricht,” Müller said.
    “Just enough so that I spend all my money buying paintings I really can’t afford,” said Gabriel, and the two men shared a good-natured laugh.
    Gabriel lifted his eyes from the Hirn and glanced out the window toward the café. There it was again, the sensation that he had seen something, or someone, before. He scanned the tables beneath the awning, and then he saw it. The man, folding his newspaper, standing up, walking away quickly. A man in a hurry, a man late for an important meeting. Gabriel had seen the man before.
    The man who had just left the gallery . . .
    Gabriel turned and glanced at the attaché. Then he looked out the window again, but the man had rounded a corner and was gone.
    “Is there something wrong, Herr Ulbricht?”
    Gabriel grabbed Müller’s forearm. “You have to get out of the gallery! Now!”
    The art dealer twisted his arm and broke Gabriel’s grasp. He was surprisingly powerful.
    “Get your hand off me, you madman!”
    Gabriel grabbed Müller’s arm again, but once again he pulled away.
    “Get out of here, or I’m going to call the police.”
    Gabriel could have easily subdued Müller, but he guessed there wasn’t