The Kill Artist

concluded. Gone for a very long time.
    He entered the back garden and walked along the edge of the cottage, trying each of the windows on the off chance that Gabriel had forgotten to lock one. Not Gabriel's style.
    He retraced his steps and stood on the quay again. Gunpowder clouds were rolling up the river from the sea. A fat ball of rain struck him in the center of the forehead and rolled down the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He removed them and the river scene blurred. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and put the glasses back on.
    When his surroundings came back into focus, he discovered a young boy standing a few feet away. He seemed to have come out of nowhere, like a cat stalking prey. Isherwood had never had children and was terrible at placing ages. He guessed that the pinched-faced lad was eleven or twelve.
    The boy said, "Why are you sneaking around that cottage?"
    "I'm not sneaking, and who the bloody hell are you?"
    "I'm Peel. Who are you?"
    "I'm a friend of the man who lives there. My name is Julian."
    Isherwood held out his hand, but the boy just stood there, body rigid and coiled.
    "He never mentioned he had a friend named Julian."
    "He doesn't mention a lot of things."
    "What do you want?"
    "To talk to him."
    "He's away."
    "I can see that. Do you know where he is?"
    "He didn't say."
    "Know when he'll be back?"
    "Didn't say."
    The rain started to come down harder. The boy remained still. Isherwood held a hand over his head and turned to look at the cottage. "Do you know what he does for a living?" Isherwood asked.
    Peel nodded.
    "Does anyone else in the village?"
    Peel shook his head.
    "He works for me," Isherwood said, as if he were confessing some misdeed. "I own the painting he's restoring."
    "The Rembrandt or the Vecellio?"
    Isherwood smiled and said, "The Vecellio, my dear fellow."
    "It's beautiful."
    "Indeed, it is."
    They stood side by side for a moment, oblivious of the rain. Isherwood saw something of himself in Gabriel's miniature sentinel. Another Gabriel refugee, another piece of wreckage adrift in Gabriel's wake. Another damaged soul in need of restoration by Gabriel's skilled hands.
    "Who took him?" Isherwood finally asked.
    "The bald man who walked like a soldier. Do you know him?"
    "Unfortunately, I do." Isherwood smiled at Peel. "Are you hungry?"
    Peel nodded.
    "Is there someplace in the village to get some tea and sweets?"
    "And a pastie," Peel said. "Do you like sausage pasties?"
    "Can't say I've ever tried one, but there's no time like the present. Should you ask your parents for permission first?"
    Peel shook his head. "He's not my dad, and my mum won't care."
    Ari Shamron arrived at Lod Airport in Tel Aviv late the following evening. Rami was waiting at the gate. He shepherded Shamron through the arrivals area into a secure room reserved for Office personnel and special guests. Shamron stripped off his European business suit and pulled on his khakis and bomber jacket.
    "The prime minister wants to see you tonight, Boss."
    Shamron thought: So much for keeping his nose out of the operation.
    They rode into the hills toward Jerusalem. Shamron passed the time by leafing through a stack of paperwork that had piled up in his brief absence.
    As usual there was a crisis in the prime minister's diverse coalition. To reach his office Shamron first had to negotiate a smoky corridor filled with feuding politicians.
    The prime minister listened raptly as Shamron brought him up-to-date. He was by nature a schemer. He had begun his career in the cutthroat atmosphere of academia, then moved to the hornets' nest at the Foreign Ministry. By the time he entered the political arena, he was well-versed in the black arts of bureaucratic treachery. His meteoric rise through the party ranks was attributed to his powerful intellect and his willingness to resort to subterfuge, misdirection, and outright blackmail to get what he wanted. In Shamron he saw a kindred spirit-a man who would stop at nothing if he believed his cause was right.
    "There's only one problem," Shamron said.
    The prime minister glanced at the ceiling impatiently. He was fond of saying, "Bring me solutions, not problems." Shamron had an innate distrust of men who lived by catchy maxims.
    "Benjamin Stone."
    "What now?"
    "His business is in terrible shape. He's robbing Peter to pay Paul, and Peter's friends are getting upset about it."
    "Will it affect us?"

"If he goes under quietly, we'll just miss his