The Kill Artist Page 9

“Beyond crap, Oliver,” Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.

  “I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what’s his name, Julie?”

  “Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?”

  Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. “That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain. Numb. Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He’s getting divorced, Roddy. Wife’s finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear the rest,” Isherwood moaned.

  “Oh, but you do, petal.” Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. “Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John’s Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a ”hear, hear‘ every now and again for good measure.“

  Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “When he’s finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound.”

  “Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!”

  “Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can’t remember a thing.”

  Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. “Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?”

  “My point is that you’re not alone. We’re all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he’s squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re surviving, Oliver. And you’re getting fatter. You’re going to need a bigger gallery soon.”

  “Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you’re moving.”

  “Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I’ll be fine. What I need is a new girl.”

  “I can get you a girl.”

  “Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art.”

  “The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you’re not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie’s last summer?”

  “Oliver, how did you—”

  “Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here.”

  “Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please do come to it soon.”

  “My point is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we’re to survive. We’re never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace.”

  “You’re babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God’s sake. I’m not one of your girlfriends.”

  “All right, straight talk. I’m thinking about a partnership.”

  “A partnership? What kind of partnership?”

  “You want it straight?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The kind of partnership where I buy you out.”

  “Oliver!”

  “You’ve a nice gallery.”

  “Oliver!”

  “You’ve nice paintings down there in your vault.”

  “Oliver!”

  “You’ve even managed to retain something of a reputation. I would like to inspect your inventory and come to a fair price. Enough money for you to clear away your debt. Then I’d like to burn all your dead stock, get something for it, and start over. You can work for me. I’ll pay you a generous salary, plus commission. You can do quite nicely, Julie.”

  “Work for you? Are you completely insane? Oliver, how dare you?”

  “Don’t get your back up. Don’t get your pride up. It’s business, not personal. You’re drowning, Julian. I’m throwing you a lifeline. Don’t be a fool. Take the bloody thing.”

  But Isherwood was getting to his feet and digging through his pockets for money.

  “Julian, please. Keep your money. It’s my party. Don’t behave like this.”

  “Piss off!” Isherwood hurled a pair of twenty-pound notes toward Dimbleby’s pink face. “How dare you, Oliver! Really!”

  He stormed out of the restaurant and walked back to the gallery. So, the jackals of St. James’s were circling, and fat Oliver Dimbleby wanted the biggest piece of the carcass for himself. Buy me out, Oliver! Imagine the nerve! Imagine me working for that tubby little misogynist! He had half a mind to call Giles Pittaway and tell him the story about the broken window.

  As Isherwood marched across Mason’s Yard, he vowed not to surrender without a fight. But in order to fight he needed a clean Vecellio, and for that he needed Gabriel. He had to find him before he fell under Shamron’s spell and was gone forever. He walked up the stairs and let himself into the gallery. It was terribly depressing to be alone. He was used to seeing a pretty girl behind the desk when he came back to work after lunch. He sat down at his desk, found Gabriel’s number in his telephone book, dialed the number, let it ring a dozen times, slammed down the receiver. Maybe he’s just gone to the village. Or maybe he’s out on that bloody boat of his.

  Or maybe Shamron has already got to him.

  “Shit!” he said softly.

  He left the gallery, flagged down a taxi on Piccadilly, rode up to Great Russell Street. He paid off the cab a few blocks from the British Museum and stepped through the doorway of the L. Cornellissen & Son art supplies shop. He felt strangely calm as he stood on the scuffed wooden floor, surrounded by the varnished shelves filled with paints, palettes, paper, canvases, brushes, and charcoal pencils.

  A flaxen angel called Penelope smiled at him over the counter.

  “Hullo, Pen.”

  “Julian, super,” she breathed. “How are you? God, but you look all in.”

  “Lunch with Oliver Dimbleby.” No other explanation was necessary. “Listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen our friend. He’s not answering his phone, and I’m starting to think he’s wandered off the edge of a cliff down there in Cornwall.”

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t been fortunate enough to lay eyes on that lovely man in quite some time.”

  “Anyone else in the shop heard from him?”

  “Hold on. I’ll check.”

  Penelope asked Margaret, and Margaret asked Sherman, and Sherman asked Tricia, and on it went until a disembodied male voice from deep in the shop—the acrylic paint and pencil section judging by the sound of it—announced solemnly, “I spoke to him just this morning.”

  “Mind telling me what he wanted?” said Isherwood to the ceiling.

  “To cancel his monthly shipment of supplies.”

  “How many monthly shipments exactly?”

  “Every monthly until further notice.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Does he ever, darling?”

  Next morning Isherwood canceled his appointments for the rest of the week and hired a car. For five hours
he sped along the motorways. Westward to Bristol. Southward along the Channel. Then the long haul down through Devon and Cornwall. Weather as volatile as Isherwood’s mood, marbles of rain one moment, weak white winter sun the next. The wind was constant, though. So much wind Isherwood had trouble keeping the little Ford Escort attached to the road. He ate lunch while he drove and stopped only three times—once for petrol, once for a piss, and a third time on the Dartmoor when his car struck a seabird. He picked up the corpse, using an empty plastic sandwich bag to protect his fingers, and said a brief Jewish prayer for the dead before ceremoniously tossing the bird into the heather.

  He arrived at Gabriel’s cottage shortly before three o’clock. Gabriel’s boat was covered in a tarpaulin. He crossed the lane and rang the bell. He rang it a second time, then hammered on the door, then tried the latch. Locked.

  He peered through the paned glass into a spotless kitchen. Gabriel was never one for food—throw him a scrap of bread and a few grains of rice and he could walk another fifty miles—but even by Gabriel’s standards the kitchen was exceptionally clean and free of supplies. He was gone, Isherwood 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 money. But if he goes under in a messy way, he could make things uncomfortable for us. I’m afraid he knows too much.”

  “Benjamin Stone never does anything quietly.”

  “Point taken.”

  “What about those lovely home movies you made of him last year at the King David?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but Stone has developed a rather high threshold for public embarrassment. I’m not sure he’s going to be terribly upset if the world sees him utilizing the services of an Israeli prostitute.”

  “The politicians outside my door are my problem,” the prime minister said. “But I’m afraid that Benjamin Stone is yours. Deal with him as you see fit.”

  Part II

  Assessment

  ELEVEN

  Before the war Maurice Halévy was one of the most prominent lawyers in Marseilles. He and his wife, Rachel, had lived in a stately old house on the rue Sylvabelle in the Beaux Quartiers, where most of the city’s successful assimilated Jews had settled. They were proud to be French; they considered themselves French first and Jews second. Indeed, Maurice Halévy was so assimilated that he rarely bothered to go to synagogue. But when the Germans invaded, the Halévys’ idyllic life in Marseilles came to an abrupt end. In October 1940 the collaborationist Vichy government handed down the statut des Juifs, the anti-Jewish edicts that reduced Jews to second-class citizens in Vichy France. Maurice Halévy was stripped of the right to practice law. He was required to register with the police, and later he and his wife were forced to wear the Star of David on their clothing.

  The situation worsened in 1942, when the German army moved into Vichy France after the Allied invasion of North Africa. French Resistance forces carried out a series of deadly attacks on German forces. The German security police, with the help of Vichy French authorities, responded with brutal reprisal killings. Maurice Halévy could ignore the threat no longer. Rachel had become pregna
nt. The thought of trying to care for a newborn in the chaos of Marseilles was too much to bear. He decided to leave the city for the countryside. He used his dwindling savings to rent a cottage in the hills outside Aix-en-Provence. In January, Rachel gave birth to a son, Isaac.

  A week later the Germans and French police began rounding up the Jews. It took them a month to find Maurice and Rachel Halévy. A pair of German SS officers appeared at the cottage on a February evening, accompanied by a local gendarme. They gave the Halévys twenty minutes to pack a bag weighing no more than sixty pounds. While the Germans and the gendarme waited in the dining room, the woman from the next cottage appeared at the door.

  “My name is Anne-Marie Delacroix,” she said. “The Halévys were looking after my son while I went to the market.”

  The gendarme studied his papers. According to the documents, only two Jews lived in the cottage. He called for the Halévys and said, “This woman says the boy belongs to her. Is this the truth?”

  “Of course it is,” Maurice Halévy said, squeezing Rachel’s arm before she could utter a sound. “We were just watching the boy for the afternoon.” The gendarme looked at Maurice Halévy incredulously, then consulted the registration documents a second time. “Take the child and leave,” he snapped to the woman. “I have a good mind to take you into custody myself for entrusting a French child to the care of these dirty Jews.”

  Two months later Maurice and Rachel Halévy were murdered at Sobibor.

  After the liberation, Anne-Marie Delacroix took Isaac to a synagogue in Marseilles and told the rabbi what had happened that night in Aix-en-Provence. The rabbi offered her the choice of placing the child for adoption by a Jewish family or raising him herself. She took the boy back to Aix and raised him as a Jew alongside her own Catholic children. In 1965 Isaac Halévy married a girl from Nîmes named Deborah and settled in Marseilles in his father’s old house on the rue Sylvabelle. Three years later they had their first and only child: a girl they named Sarah.

  Paris

  Michel Duval was the hottest fashion photographer in Paris. The designers and the magazine editors adored him because his pictures radiated an eye-grabbing aura of dangerous sexuality. Jacqueline Delacroix thought he was a pig. She knew he achieved his unique look by abusing his models. She wasn’t looking forward to working with him.