The Heist

  Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face the general. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Why are you in Venice?”

  “I’m here because of you, of course.”

  “What does a dead body in Como have to do with me?”

  “The person who found it.”

  The general was smiling again, but the prosthetic eye was staring blankly into the middle distance. It was the eye of a man who knew everything, thought Gabriel. A man who was not about to take no for an answer.

  They entered the church through the main doorway off the campo and made their way to Bellini’s famed San Zaccaria altarpiece. A tour group stood before it while a guide lectured sonorously on the subject of the painting’s most recent restoration, unaware that the man who had performed it was among his audience. Even General Ferrari seemed to find it amusing, though after a moment his monocular gaze began to wander. The Bellini was San Zaccaria’s most important piece, but the church contained several other notable paintings as well, including works by Tintoretto, Palma the Elder, and Van Dyke. It was just one example of why the Carabinieri maintained a dedicated unit of art detectives. Italy had been blessed with two things in abundance: art and professional criminals. Much of the art, like the art in the church, was poorly protected. And many of the criminals were bent on stealing every last bit of it.

  On the opposite side of the nave was a small chapel that contained the crypt of its patron and a canvas by a minor Venetian painter that no one had bothered to clean in more than a century. General Ferrari lowered himself onto one of the pews, opened his metal attaché case, and removed a file folder. Then, from the folder, he drew a single eight-by-ten photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It showed a man of late middle age hanging by his wrists from a chandelier. The cause of death was not clear from the image, though it was obvious the man had been tortured savagely. The face was a bloody, swollen mess, and several swaths of skin and flesh had been carved away from the torso.

  “Who was he?” asked Gabriel.

  “His name was James Bradshaw, better known as Jack. He was a British subject, but he spent most of his time in Como, along with several thousand of his countrymen.” The general paused thoughtfully. “The British don’t seem to like living in their own country much these days, do they?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’d have to ask them.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph and winced. “Was he married?”

  “No.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No.”

  “Significant other?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Gabriel returned the photograph to the general and asked what Jack Bradshaw had done for a living.

  “He described himself as a consultant.”

  “What sort?”

  “He worked in the Middle East for several years as a diplomat. Then he retired early and went into business for himself. Apparently, he dispensed advice to British firms wishing to do business in the Arab world. He must have been quite good at his job,” the general added, “because his villa was among the most expensive on that part of the lake. It also contained a rather impressive collection of Italian art and antiquities.”

  “Which explains the Art Squad’s interest in his death.”

  “Partly,” said the general. “After all, having a nice collection is no crime.”

  “Unless the collection is acquired in a way that skirts Italian law.”

  “You’re always one step ahead of everyone else, aren’t you, Allon?” The general looked up at the darkened painting hanging on the wall of the chapel. “Why wasn’t this cleaned in the last restoration?”

  “There wasn’t enough money.”

  “The varnish is almost entirely opaque.” The general paused, then added, “Just like Jack Bradshaw.”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “That’s not likely, not after a death like that.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to contemplate your own demise?”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve had several. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about the collecting habits of Jack Bradshaw.”

  “The late Mr. Bradshaw had a reputation for acquiring paintings that were not actually for sale.”

  “Stolen paintings?”

  “Those are your words, my friend. Not mine.”

  “You were watching him?”

  “Let us say that the Art Squad monitored his activities to the best of our ability.”

  “How?”

  “The usual ways,” answered the general evasively.

  “I assume your men are doing a complete and thorough inventory of his collection.”

  “As we speak.”

  “And?”

  “Thus far they’ve found nothing from our database of missing or stolen works.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to take back all the nasty things you said about Jack Bradshaw.”

  “Just because there’s no evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

  “Spoken like a true Italian policeman.”

  It was clear from General Ferrari’s expression that he interpreted Gabriel’s remark as a compliment. Then, after a moment, he said, “One heard other things about the late Jack Bradshaw.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “That he wasn’t just a private collector, that he was involved in the illegal export of paintings and other works of art from Italian soil.” The general lowered his voice and added, “Which explains why your friend Julian Isherwood is in a great deal of trouble.”

  “Julian Isherwood doesn’t trade in smuggled art.”

  The general didn’t bother to respond. In his eyes, all art dealers were guilty of something.

  “Where is he?” asked Gabriel.

  “In my custody.”

  “Has he been charged with anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Under Italian law, you can’t hold him for more than forty-eight hours without bringing him before a judge.”

  “He was found standing over a dead body. I’ll think of something.”

  “You know Julian had nothing to do with Bradshaw’s murder.”

  “Don’t worry,” the general replied, “I have no plans to recommend charges at this time. But if it were to become public that your friend was meeting with a known smuggler, his career would be over. You see, Allon, in the art world, perception is reality.”

  “What do I have to do to keep Julian’s name out of the papers?”

  The general didn’t respond immediately; he was scrutinizing the photograph of Jack Bradshaw’s body.

  “Why do you suppose they tortured him before killing him?” he asked at last.

  “Maybe he owed them money.”

  “Maybe,” agreed the general. “Or maybe he had something the killers wanted, something more valuable.”

  “You were about to tell me what I have to do to save my friend.”

  “Find out who killed Jack Bradshaw. And find out what they were looking for.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “The London art world will be abuzz with nasty rumors.”

  “You’re a cheap blackmailer, General Ferrari.”

  “Blackmail is an ugly word.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “But in the art world, perception is reality.”

  4

  VENICE

  GABRIEL KNEW A GOOD RESTAURANT not far from the church, in a quiet corner of Castello where tourists rarely ventured. General Ferrari ordered lavishly; Gabriel moved food around his plate and sipped at a glass of mineral water with lemon.

  “You’re not hungry?” inquired the general.

  “I was hoping to spend a few more hours with my Veronese this afternoon.”

  “Then you should eat something. You need your strength.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “You don’t eat when you’re restoring?”

  “Coff
ee and a bit of bread.”

  “What kind of diet is that?”

  “The kind that allows me to concentrate.”

  “No wonder you’re so thin.”

  General Ferrari went to the antipasti trolley and filled his plate a second time. There was no one else in the restaurant, no one but the owner and his daughter, a pretty dark-haired girl of twelve or thirteen. The child bore an uncanny resemblance to the daughter of Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO whom Gabriel, on a warm spring evening in 1988, had assassinated at his villa in Tunis. The killing had been carried out in Abu Jihad’s second-floor study, where he had been watching videos of the Palestinian intifada. The girl had seen everything: two immobilizing shots to the chest, two fatal shots to the head, all set to the music of Arab rebellion. Gabriel could no longer recall the death mask of Abu Jihad, but the young girl’s portrait, serene but seething with rage, hung prominently in the exhibition rooms of his memory. As the general retook his seat, Gabriel concealed her face beneath a layer of obliterating paint. Then he leaned forward across the table and asked, “Why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “Shall I start with the obvious reasons?”

  “If it makes you feel better.”

  “I’m not an Italian policeman. In fact, I’m quite the other thing.”

  “You have a long history here in Italy.”

  “Not all of it pleasant.”

  “True,” agreed the general. “But along the way, you’ve made important contacts. You have friends in high places like the Vatican. And, perhaps more importantly, you have friends in low places, too. You know the country from end to end, you speak our language like a native, and you’re married to an Italian. You’re practically one of us.”

  “My wife isn’t Italian anymore.”

  “What language do you speak at home?”

  “Italian,” admitted Gabriel.

  “Even when you’re in Israel?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “I rest my case.” The general lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “This might surprise you,” he said finally, “but when a painting goes missing, or someone gets hurt, I usually have a pretty good idea who’s behind it. We have more than a hundred informants on our payroll, and we’ve tapped more phones and e-mail accounts than the NSA. When something happens in the criminal end of the art world, there’s always chatter. As you say in the counterterrorism business, nodes light up.”

  “And now?”

  “The silence is deafening.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It means that, in all likelihood, the men who killed Jack Bradshaw were not from Italy.”

  “Any guess as to where they’re from?”

  “No,” the general said, shaking his head slowly, “but the level of violence concerns me. I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies during my career, but this one was different. The things they did to Jack Bradshaw were . . .” His voice trailed off, then he said, “Medieval.”

  “And now you want me to get mixed up with them.”

  “You strike me as a man who knows how to take care of himself.”

  Gabriel ignored the remark. “My wife is pregnant. I can’t possibly leave her alone.”

  “We’ll keep a close eye on her.” The general lowered his voice and added, “We already are.”

  “It’s good to know the Italian government is spying on us.”

  “You didn’t really expect otherwise, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I didn’t think so. Besides, Allon, it’s for your own good. You have a lot of enemies.”

  “And now you want me to make another one.”

  The general laid down his fork and peered contemplatively out the window in the manner of Bellini’s Doge Leonardo Loredan. “It’s rather ironic,” he said after a moment.

  “What’s that?”

  “That a man such as yourself would choose to live in a ghetto.”

  “I don’t actually live in the ghetto.”

  “Close enough,” said the general.

  “It’s a nice neighborhood—the nicest in Venice, if you ask me.”

  “It’s filled with ghosts.”

  Gabriel glanced at the young girl. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  The general dabbed his napkin skeptically at the corner of his mouth.

  “How would it work?” asked Gabriel.

  “Consider yourself one of my informants.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Go forth into the nether regions of the art world and find out who killed Jack Bradshaw. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “And if I come up empty?”

  “I’m confident you won’t.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Does it?”

  The general said nothing more. Gabriel exhaled heavily.

  “I’m going to need a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The usual,” replied Gabriel. “Phone records, credit cards, e-mails, Internet browsing histories, and a copy of his computer hard drive.”

  The general nodded toward his attaché case. “It’s all there,” he said, “along with every nasty rumor we’ve ever heard about him.”

  “I’ll also need to have a look around his villa and his collection.”

  “I’ll give you a copy of the inventory when it’s complete.”

  “I don’t want an inventory. I want to see the paintings.”

  “Done,” said the general. “Anything else?”

  “I suppose someone should tell Francesco Tiepolo that I’m going to be leaving Venice for a few days.”

  “And your wife, too.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel distantly.

  “Perhaps we should share the labor. I’ll tell Francesco, you tell your wife.”

  “Any chance we can do it the other way around?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The general raised his right hand, the one with the two missing fingers. “I’ve suffered enough already.”

  Which left only Julian Isherwood. As it turned out, he was being held at the Carabinieri’s regional headquarters, in a windowless chamber that was not quite a holding cell but not a waiting room, either. The handover took place on the Ponte della Paglia, within sight of the Bridge of Sighs. The general did not seem at all displeased to be rid of his prisoner. He remained on the bridge, with his ruined hand tucked into his coat pocket and his prosthetic eye watching unblinkingly, as Gabriel and Isherwood made their way along the Molo San Marco to Harry’s Bar. Isherwood drank two Bellinis very fast while Gabriel quietly saw to his travel arrangements. There was a British Airways flight leaving Venice at six that evening, arriving at Heathrow a few minutes after seven. “Thus leaving me plenty of time,” said Isherwood darkly, “to murder Oliver Dimbleby and still be in bed for the News at Ten.”

  “As your informal representative in this matter,” said Gabriel, “I would advise against that.”

  “You think I should wait until morning before killing Oliver?”

  Gabriel smiled in spite of himself. “The general has generously agreed to keep your name out of this,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything in London about your brief brush with Italian law enforcement.”

  “It wasn’t brief enough,” said Isherwood. “I’m not like you, petal. I’m not used to spending nights in jail. And I’m certainly not used to stumbling upon dead bodies. My God, but you should have seen him. He was positively filleted.”

  “All the more reason you shouldn’t say anything when you get home,” Gabriel said. “The last thing you want is for Jack Bradshaw’s killers to read your name in the papers.”

  Isherwood chewed his lip and nodded slowly in agreement. “The general seemed to think Bradshaw was trafficking in stolen paintings,” he said after a moment. “He also seemed to think I was in business with him. He gave me quite a going-over.”

  “Were you, Julian?”

  “In business with Jack Bradshaw?”


  Gabriel nodded.

  “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “I’ve done many naughty things during my career, usually at your behest. But I have never, and I mean never, sold a painting that I knew was stolen.”

  “What about a smuggled painting?”

  “Define smuggled,” said Isherwood with an impish smile.

  “What about Oliver?”

  “Are you asking whether Oliver Dimbleby is flogging stolen paintings?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  Isherwood had to think it over for a moment before answering. “There’s not much I would put past Oliver Dimbleby,” he said finally. “But no, I don’t believe he’s dealing in stolen pictures. It was all a case of bad luck and timing.”

  Isherwood signaled the waiter and ordered another Bellini. He was finally beginning to relax. “I have to admit,” he said, “that you were the absolute last person in the world I expected to see today.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Julian.”

  “I take it you and the general are acquainted.”

  “We’ve exchanged business cards.”

  “He’s one of the most disagreeable creatures I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

  “How much does he know about our relationship?”

  “He knows we’re friends and that I’ve cleaned a number of pictures for you. And if I had to guess,” Gabriel added, “he probably knows about your links to King Saul Boulevard.”

  King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Those who worked there referred to it as the Office and nothing else. So did Julian Isherwood. He was not directly employed by the Office; he was a member of the sayanim, a global network of volunteer helpers. They were the bankers who supplied Office agents with cash in emergencies; the doctors who treated them in secret when they were wounded; the hoteliers who gave them rooms under false names, and the rental car agents who supplied them with untraceable vehicles. Isherwood had been recruited in the mid-1970s, during a wave of Palestinian terrorist attacks against Israeli targets in Europe. He’d had but one assignment—to assist in building and maintaining the operational cover of a young art restorer and assassin named Gabriel Allon.