The Kill Artist

High-gloss crap. Have you seen his stuff? Total crap! Complete and utter greeting card crap!"
    Shamron, playing the part of Herr Heller, said it had been some time since he had visited the galleries of the infamous Giles Pittaway.
    Isherwood leaned forward across the table, eyes wide, lips damp. "I need this Vecellio cleaned and ready for sale by the spring," he said, sotto voce. "If it's not ready, I'll lose my buyer. Buyers don't grow on trees these days, especially for a Vecellio altarpiece. I can count the number of potential buyers for a piece like this on the fingers of one hand. If my buyer gets cold feet, I may never find another. And if I can't find another, my Vecellio becomes just another piece of dead stock. Burned, as we say in the trade. You burn agents, we burn our paintings. A picture gets snatched up, or it turns to dust in some art dealer's storeroom. And once a painting's been burned it's worthless, just like your agents."
    "I understand your dilemma, Julian."
    "Do you really? There are maybe five people in the world who can restore that Vecellio properly. Gabriel Allon happens to be one of them, and the other four would never lower their standards to work for someone like me."
    "Gabriel is a talented man. Unfortunately, I require his talents too, and it's something a bit more important than a five-hundred-year-old painting."
    "Oh, no you don't! The sharks are circling, and my fickle bank is threatening to set me adrift. I'm not going to be able to find a backer quickly enough to save the ship. Giles Pittaway has backers! Lloyd's Bank! When art and high finance start to intermarry, I say it's time to head for the Highlands and build a bloody ark." A pause. "And by the way, Herr Heller, few things in this life are more important than good paintings. And I don't care how old they are."
    "I should have chosen my words more carefully, Julian."
    "If I have to liquidate I'll lose my shirt," Isherwood said. "I'd be lucky to get thirty pence on the pound for what my collection is really worth."
    Shamron was unmoved by his pleadings. "Where is he?"
    "Why should I tell you?"
    "Because I need him, Julian. We need him."
    "Oh, Christ! Don't pull that shit with me, because it won't work a second time. I've heard all your stories, and I know how they end. And by the way, Gabriel feels the same way. He's through with your lot, too."
    "So tell me where he is. What harm would it do?"
    "Because I know you too well to trust you. No one in his right mind would trust you."
    "You can tell me where he is, or we can find him ourselves. It might take a few days, but we'll find him."
    "Suppose I tell you. What are you prepared to offer in return?"
    "Maybe I could find a backer to keep you afloat until you sell your Vecellio."
    "Reliable backers are as rare as a reliable Vecellio."
    "I know someone who's been thinking about getting into the art business. I might be able to speak to him on your behalf."
    "What's his name?"
    "I'm afraid he would insist on anonymity."
    "If Gabriel suspects I told you-"
    "He won't suspect a thing."
    Isherwood licked his bloodless lips.
    EIGHT
    Port Navas, Cornwall
    The old man came while the stranger was away on his boat. Peel spotted him from his bedroom window as the man tried to guide a big Mercedes along the narrow lane overlooking the quay. He stopped at the foreman's cottage, rang the bell, and knocked on the door. Peel could hear the old man's knuckles striking the wood all the way across the creek: short, brutal blows. He pulled on a sweater and raincoat and dashed out of the cottage. A moment later he was standing behind the man, panting, face hot from exertion.
    The old man said, "Who are you?"
    An accent, Peel noted-like the stranger's, but heavier.
    "I'm Peel. Who are you?"
    But the old man ignored this question. "I'm looking for the man who lives in this cottage."
    "He's not here now."
    "I'm a friend. Do you know where he is?"
    Peel said nothing, for the notion of the stranger having a friend who would appear unannounced was ludicrous. The old man looked toward the quay, then his gaze settled once again on Peel. "He's out on his boat, isn't he."
    Peel nodded. Something about the man's eyes made the boy shiver.
    The old man looked at the sky: pewter-colored clouds pressing down on the creek, thick and heavy with coming rain. "Rather unpleasant weather for sailing."
    "He's very good."
    "Yes, he is. When will he be back?"
    "He never says. I'll tell him you stopped by."
    "Actually, I