The English Assassin

hungry, petal. Would you be a love and bring me a panini from that marvelous shop in Piccadilly?”
    “I’d like nothing better, Mr. Isherwood. May I perform any other meaningless and degrading tasks for you?”

    “No need to be snotty, Irina. Cuppa tea as well. And take your time.”
     
    THEREwas something about the man in blue coveralls that reminded Isherwood of the fellow who had searched his house for termites. He wore rubber-soled shoes and worked with the quiet efficiency of a night nurse. In one hand was a device about the size of a cigar box with meters and dials; in the other was a long wand, like a flyswatter. He began in the basement storerooms, then moved to Irina’s office, then Isherwood’s, then the exposition room. Lastly, he tore apart the telephones, the computers, and the fax machine. After forty-five minutes, he returned to Isherwood’s office and laid two tiny objects on the desk.
    “You had bugs,” he said. “Now they’re dead.”
    “Who in God’s name put them in here?”
    “That’s not my job. I’m just the exterminator.” He smiled. “There’s someone downstairs who’d like a word with you.”
    Isherwood led the way through the cluttered storerooms to the loading bay. He opened the outer door, and the delivery truck pulled inside.
    “Close the door,” said the man in the blue coveralls.
    Isherwood did as he was told. The man opened the back door of the truck and a cloud of dense smoke billowed forth. Crouched in the back, a picture of misery, was Ari Shamron.
     
    THEman in the Rover sedan had moved from Jermyn Street to King Street, which was still well within the one-mile range of the transmitters he had placed in the gallery, but it had been some time since he had heard any sound at all. Indeed, the last thing he had monitored was the art dealer asking his secretary to get him lunch. It had struck him as odd, since the dealer had eaten lunch out every day since the man had been watching him. So odd, in fact, that he had made a notation of the time in his logbook. Forty-five minutes after that, a burst of raw static came over his car radio. Someone had just found his transmitters. He swore softly and quickly started the car. As he drove away, he picked up his mobile phone and dialed Zurich.
     
    THEHoek van Holland-to-Harwich ferry was delayed several hours by heavy weather in the North Sea, and so it was late afternoon by the time Gabriel and Anna Rolfe pulled into Mason’s Yard. Gabriel gave two short blasts of the horn, and the door of the loading bay slowly rose. Once inside, he shut down the engine and waited for the door to close again before getting out of the car. He removed the large safe-deposit box from the backseat and led Anna through the storeroom to the lift. Isherwood was waiting there.
    “You must be Anna Rolfe! It is an honor to meet you, truly. I had the distinct privilege of seeing you perform an evening of Mendelssohn once. It was a deeply moving experience.”
    “You’re very kind.”
    “Won’t you please come inside?”
    “Thank you.”
    “Is he here yet?” Gabriel asked.
    “Upstairs in the exposition room.”
    “Let’s go.”
    “What’s in the box?”
    “In a minute, Julian.”
    Shamron stood in the center of the room, smoking his vile Turkish cigarettes, completely oblivious to the Old Masters canvases surrounding him. Gabriel could see that the old man was wrestling with his memory. A year earlier, in this very room, they had set in motion the final stage of an operation that ended in the death of Tariq al-Hourani. When he saw Anna Rolfe enter the room, his face brightened, and he shook her hand warmly.
    Gabriel placed the safe-deposit box on the floor and lifted the lid. Then he removed the first painting, unwrapped it, and laid it on the floor.
    “My God,” Isherwood whispered. “A Monet landscape.”
    Anna smiled. “Wait, it gets better.”
    Gabriel removed the next canvas, a van Gogh self-portrait, and laid it next to the Monet.
    “Oh, good heavens,” murmured Isherwood.
    Then came the Degas, then the Bonnard, then the Cézanne and the Renoir, and on it went until the sixteen canvases stretched the length of the gallery. Isherwood sat down on the divan, pressed his palms against his temples, and wept.
    Shamron said, “Well, that’s quite an entrance. The floor is yours, Gabriel.”
     
    ANNAhad heard it all during the drive from Zurich to the German border, so she stepped away and consoled Isherwood while he gazed