The Messenger

afraid we’re going to have to postpone our little get-together,” he said. “Can we do it next week?” Gabriel, who was anxious to get under way, instructed Isherwood to hold fast, and the meeting was pushed back just one day, from the Thursday to the Friday, though Isherwood did agree to make it a late lunch so that Malone could catch a few hours of sleep in his own bed. Malone did in fact remain in Tokyo for an additional day, but Tokyo Station detected no further contact between him and Watanabe or any of Watanabe’s agents. He returned to London late Thursday evening, looking, according to Eli Lavon, like a cadaver in a Savile Row suit. At three-thirty the next afternoon, the cadaver crept through the doorway of Green’s restaurant in Duke Street and made his way to the quiet corner table, where Isherwood was already waiting. Isherwood poured him a very large glass of white burgundy. “All right, Julie,” said Malone. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? What have you got up your sleeve? And who the fuck put it there? Cheers.”

    C HIARA WAS WAITING at the top of the landing ninety minutes later when Isherwood, fortified by two bottles of excellent white burgundy at Gabriel’s expense, came teetering up the newly carpeted stairs. She directed him to the left, into the former premises of Archer Travel, where he was met by one of Gabriel’s neviot listeners. He removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the small digital recording device secured to his chest by an elastic cummerbund.
    “I don’t usually do this sort of thing on the first date,” he said.
    The neviot man removed the recorder and smiled. “How was the lobster?”
    “Bit chewy but otherwise fine.”
    “You did well, Mr. Isherwood. Very well.”
    “It’s my last deal, I suspect. Now let’s hope I don’t go out with a bang.”

    T HE RECORDING could have been sent by secure transmission, but Gabriel, like Adrian Carter, was still old-fashioned about some things, and he insisted that it be downloaded onto a disk and hand-carried to the Surrey safe house. As a result it was after eight by the time it finally arrived. He loaded the disk into a computer in the drawing room and clicked the Play icon. Dina was sprawled on the couch. Yaakov was seated in an armchair with his chin in his hands and elbows on his knees, hunched forward as though he were awaiting word from the front. It was Rimona’s night to cook. As Andrew Malone began to speak, she shouted at Gabriel from the kitchen to turn up the volume so she could hear it, too.

    “D O YOU take me for a fool, Julian?”
    “It’s the real thing, Andrew. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
    “Do you have a photograph?”
    “I wasn’t allowed.”
    “Who’s the owner?”
    “The owner wishes to remain anonymous.”
    “Yes, of course, but who the hell is it, Julian?”
    “I cannot divulge the name of the owner. Period. End of discussion. She’s entrusted me as her representative in this matter, and that’s as far as it goes.”
    “She? So the owner is a woman?”
    “The painting has been in the same family for three generations. Currently, it is in the hands of a woman.”
    “What sort of family, Julian? Give me a tickle.”
    “A French family, Andrew. And that’s all you’re getting from me.”
    “I’m afraid that’s not going to work, Julian. You have to give me something I can hang my hat on. I can’t go to Zizi empty-handed. Zizi gets annoyed when that happens. If you want Zizi in the game, you’ll have to play by Zizi’s rules.”
    “I won’t be bullied, Andrew. I came to you as a favor. Frankly I don’t give a shit about Zizi’s rules. Frankly, I don’t need Zizi at all. If I put the word on the street that I’m sitting on an undiscovered van Gogh, every major collector and museum in the world will be beating down my door and throwing money at me. Do please try to keep that in mind.”
    “Forgive me, Julie. It’s been a long week. Let’s start over, shall we?”
    “Yes, let’s.”
    “May I pose a few harmless questions?”
    “Depends on how harmless.”
    “Let’s start with an easy one. Where’s the painting now? France or England?”
    “It’s here in London.”
    “In your gallery?”
    “Not yet.”
    “What sort of painting are we talking about? Landscape? Still life? Portrait?”
    “Portrait.”
    “Self?”
    “No.”
    “Male or female.”
    “Female.”
    “Dreamy. Early or late?”
    “Very late.”
    “Saint-Rémy?