The Kill Artist

Street. Isherwood ordered the cold boiled Canadian lobster and the most expensive bottle of Sancerre on the wine list. Shamron's jaw clenched briefly. He was notoriously tightfisted when it came to Office funds, but he needed Isherwood's help. If that required a pricey lunch at Green's, Shamron would tickle his expense account.
    In the lexicon of the Office, men like Julian Isherwood were known as the sayanim: the helpers. They were the bankers who tipped Shamron whenever certain Arabs made large transactions or who could be called upon in the dead of night when a katsa was in trouble and needed money. They were the concierges who opened hotel rooms when Shamron wanted a look inside. They were the car rental clerks who provided Shamron's field agents with clean transport. They were the sympathetic officers in unsympathetic security services. They were the journalists who allowed themselves to be used as conduits for Shamron's lies. No other intelligence service in the world could claim such a legion of committed acolytes. To Ari Shamron they were the secret fruit of the Diaspora.
    Julian Isherwood was a special member of the sayanim. Shamron had recruited him to service just one very important katsa, which was why Shamron always displayed uncharacteristic patience in the face of Isherwood's volatile mood swings.
    "Let me tell you why you can't have Gabriel right now," Isherwood began. "Last August a very dirty, very damaged painting appeared in a sale room in Hull-sixteenth-century Italian altarpiece, oil on wood panel, Adoration of the Shepherds, artist unknown. That's the most important part of the story, artist unknown. Do I have your full attention, Herr Heller?"
    Shamron nodded and Isherwood sailed on.
    "I had a hunch about the picture, so I piled a load of books into my car and ran up to Yorkshire to have a look at it. Based on a brief visual inspection of the work, I was satisfied my hunch was correct. So when this same very dirty, very damaged painting, artist unknown, came up for sale at the venerable Christie's auction house, I was able to pick it up for a song."
    Isherwood licked his lips and leaned conspiratorially across the table. "I took the painting to Gabriel, and he ran several tests on it for me. X ray, infrared photography, the usual lot. His more careful inspection confirmed my hunch. The very dirty, very damaged work from the sale room in Hull is actually a missing altarpiece from the Church of San Salvatore in Venice, painted by none other than Francesco Vecellio, brother of the great Titian. That's why I need Gabriel, and that's why I'm not going to tell you where he is."
    The sommelier appeared. Shamron picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth while Isherwood engaged in the elaborate ritual of inspection, sniffing, sipping, and pondering. After a dramatic moment of uncertainty, he pronounced the wine suitable. He drank a glass very fast, then poured another.
    When he resumed, his voice had turned wistful, his eyes damp. "Remember the old days, Ari? I used to have a gallery in New Bond Strasse, right next to Richard Green. I can't afford New Bond Strasse these days. It's all Gucci and Ralph Lauren, Tiffany and Miki-Bloody-Moto. And you know who's taken over my old space? The putrid Giles Pittaway! He's already got two galleries in Bond Street alone, and he's planning to open two more within the year. Christ, but he's spreading like the Ebola virus-mutating, getting stronger, killing everything decent in his wake."
    A chubby art dealer with a pink shirt and a pretty girl on his arm walked past their table. Isherwood paused long enough to say, "Hullo, Oliver," and blow him a kiss.
    "This Vecellio is a real coup. I need a coup once every couple of years. The coups are what keep me in business. The coups support all the dead stock and all the small sales that earn me next to nothing." Isherwood paused and took a long drink of wine. "We all need coups now and again, right, Herr Heller? I suspect that even someone in your line of work needs a big success every now and again to make up for all the failures. Cheers."
    "Cheers," said Shamron, tipping his glass a fraction of an inch.
    "Giles Pittaway could've bought the Vecellio, but he passed. He passed because he and his boys didn't bother to do their homework. They couldn't authenticate it. I was the only one who knew what it was, because I was the only one who did my homework. Giles Pittaway wouldn't know a Vecellio from vermicelli. He sells crap.