“Zizi al-Bakari?” asked Isherwood incredulously. “A bloody terrorist? Are you sure?”
“He’s not planting the bombs, Julian. He’s not even making the bombs. But he’s footing the bill, and he’s using his business empire to facilitate the movement of the men and matériel around the globe. In today’s world that’s just as bad. Worse.”
“I met him once, but not so he’d remember. Went to a party at his estate out in Gloucestershire. Huge party. Sea of people. Zizi was nowhere to be found. Came down at the end like bloody Gatsby. Surrounded by bodyguards, even inside his own home. Strange chap. Voracious collector, though, isn’t he? Art. Women. Anything money can buy. Predatory, from what I hear. Never had any dealings with him, of course. Zizi’s tastes don’t run to the Old Masters. Zizi goes for the Impressionists and a bit of other Modern stuff. All the Saudis are like that. They don’t hold with the Christian imagery of the Old Masters.”
Gabriel sat down next to Isherwood. “He doesn’t have a van Gogh, Julian. He’s dropped hints from time to time that he’s looking for one. And not just any van Gogh. He wants something special.”
“From what I hear, he buys very carefully. He spends buckets of money, but he does it wisely. He’s got a museum-quality collection, but I didn’t realize it was sans van Gogh.”
“His art adviser is an Englishman named Andrew Malone. Know him?”
“Unfortunately, Andrew and I are well acquainted. He’s burrowed his way deeply into Zizi’s pockets. Spends holidays on Zizi’s yacht. Big as the bloody Titanic, from what I hear. Andrew is as slippery as they come. Dirty, too.”
“In what way?”
“He’s taking it on both ends, petal.”
“What do you mean, Julian?”
“Andrew has an exclusive agreement with Zizi, which means he’s not supposed to take money from any other dealer or collector. It’s the way big boys like Zizi ensure that the advice they’re being given is untainted by any conflicts of interest.”
“What’s Malone up to?”
“Shakedowns, double commissions, you name it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive, petal. Everyone in town knows that in order to do business with Zizi, you have to pay a toll to Andrew Malone.”
Isherwood was suddenly off the divan and pacing the length of the exposition room.
“So what’s your plan then? Lure Zizi out of his hole with a van Gogh? Dangle it in front of him and hope he takes it hook, line, and sinker? But there’ll be something at the other end of the line, won’t there? One of your agents?”
“Something like that.”
“And where are you planning to stage this extravaganza? Here, I take it?”
Gabriel looked around the room approvingly. “Yes,” he said. “I think this will do quite nicely.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“I need a dealer,” Gabriel said. “Someone well known in the trade. Someone I can trust.”
“I’m Old Masters, not Impressionists.”
“It won’t matter for a quiet deal like this.”
Isherwood didn’t argue the point. He knew Gabriel was right. “Have you considered the consequences for moi if your little gambit proves successful? I’ll be a marked man. I can deal with the likes of Oliver Dimbleby, but al-bloody-fucking-Qaeda is another thing altogether.”
“Obviously, we’ll have to make some postoperational provisions for your security.”
“I love your euphemisms, Gabriel. You and Shamron always resort to euphemisms when the truth is too awful to say aloud. They’ll put a fatwa on my head. I’ll have to close up shop. Go into bloody hiding.”
Gabriel appeared unmoved by Isherwood’s protests. “You’re not getting any younger, Julian. You’re nearing the end of the road. You have no children. No heirs. Who’s going to take over the gallery? Besides, have you taken a moment to calculate your commission on the private sale of a previously unknown van Gogh? Add to that your earnings on a fire sale of your existing stock. Things could be a lot worse, Julian.”
“I’m picturing a nice villa in the south of France. A new name. A team of Office security boys to look after me in my dotage.”
“Make sure you have a spare room for me.”
Isherwood sat down again. “Your plan has one serious flaw, petal. It will be easier for you to snare your terrorist than it will be to land that van Gogh. Assuming it’s still in the possession of the Weinberg family, what makes you think they’re going to give it up?”
“Who said anything about giving it up?”
Isherwood smiled. “I’ll get you the address.”
14.
YOU SHOULD EAT SOMETHING,” said Uzi Navot.
Gabriel shook his head. He’d eaten lunch on the train from London.
“Have the borscht,” Navot said. “You can’t come to Jo Goldenberg and not have the borscht.”
“Yes I can,” Gabriel said. “Purple food makes me nervous.”
Navot caught the waiter’s eye and ordered an extra-large bowl of borscht and a glass of kosher red wine. Gabriel frowned and looked out the window. A steady rain was drumming against the paving stones of the rue des Rosiers, and it was nearly dark. He had wanted to meet Navot someplace other than the most famous delicatessen in the most visible Jewish district of Paris, but Navot had insisted on Jo Goldenberg, based on his long-held belief that the best place to hide a pine tree was in a forest.
“This place is making me nervous,” Gabriel murmured. “Let’s take a walk.”
“In this weather? Forget it. Besides, no one is going to recognize you in that getup. Even I nearly didn’t notice you when you came through the door.”
Gabriel looked at the ghostly face reflected in the glass. He wore a dark corduroy flat cap, contact lenses that turned his green eyes to brown, and a false goatee that accentuated his already narrow features. He had traveled to Paris on a German passport bearing the name Heinrich Kiever. After arriving at the Gare du Nord he’d spent two hours walking the Seine embankments, checking his tail for surveillance. In his shoulder bag was a worn volume of Voltaire he’d purchased from a bouquiniste on the Quai Montebello.
He turned his head and looked at Navot. He was a heavy-shouldered man, several years younger than Gabriel, with short strawberry-blond hair and pale blue eyes. In the lexicon of the Office, he was a katsa, an undercover field operative and case officer. Armed with an array of languages, a roguish charm, and a fatalistic arrogance, he had penetrated Palestinian terrorist cells and recruited agents in Arab embassies scattered across western Europe. He had sources in nearly all the European security and intelligence services and oversaw a vast network of sayanim. He could always count on getting the best table in the grill room at the Ritz in Paris because the maître d’hôtel was a paid informant, as was the chief of the maid staff. He was dressed now in a gray tweed jacket and black rollneck sweater, for his identity in Paris was one Vincent Laffont, a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who spent most of his time living out of a suitcase. In London he was known as Clyde Bridges, European marketing director of an obscure Canadian business-software firm. In Madrid he was a German of independent means who idled away the hours in cafés and bars and traveled to relieve the burdens of a restless and complex soul.
Navot reached into his briefcase and produced a manila file folder, which he placed on the table in front of Gabriel. “There’s the owner of your van Gogh,” he said. “Have a look.”