Read Online Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 by Daniel Silva - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Daniel Silva
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made money, but now that fortune was gone.
He tossed the telephone onto his chaotic desk. “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”
“How are you, Julian?”
“Go to hell! Why are you here?”
“Get rid of the girl for a few minutes.”
“The answer will still be no, whether the girl’s here or not.”
“I need Gabriel,” Shamron said quietly.
“Well, I need him more, and therefore you can’t have him.”
“Just tell me where he is. I need to talk to him.”
“Sod off!” Isherwood snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here like this and giving me orders? Now, if you’re interested in purchasing a painting, perhaps I can be of some assistance. If it’s not art that brings you here, then Helen will show you the door.”
“Her name is Heather.”
“Oh, Christ.” Isherwood sat down heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Helen was last month’s girl. I can’t keep them straight anymore.”
“Things aren’t going well, Julian?”
“Things haven’t been going well, but all that’s about to change, which is why I need you to crawl back under your rock and leave me, and Gabriel, in peace.”
“How about lunch?” Shamron suggested. “You can tell me your problems, and perhaps we can come to some mutually beneficial solution.”
“You never struck me as someone who was terribly interested in compromise.”
“Get your coat.”
Shamron had taken the precaution of booking a quiet corner table at Green’s restaurant in Duke Street. Isherwood ordered the cold boiled Canadian lobster and the most expensive bottle of Sancerre on the wine list. Shamron’s jaw clenched briefly. He was notoriously tightfisted when it came to Office funds, but he needed Isherwood’s help. If that required a pricey lunch at Green’s, Shamron would tickle his expense account.
In the lexicon of the Office, men like Julian Isherwood were known as the sayanim : the helpers. They were the bankers who tipped Shamron whenever certain Arabs made large transactions or who could be called upon in the dead of night when a katsa was in trouble and needed money. They were the concierges who opened hotel rooms when Shamron wanted a look inside. They were the car rental clerks who provided Shamron’s field agents with clean transport. They were the sympathetic officers in unsympathetic security services. They were the journalists who allowed themselves to be used as conduits for Shamron’s lies. No other intelligence service in the world could claim such a legion of committed acolytes. To Ari Shamron they were the secret fruit of the Diaspora.
Julian Isherwood was a special member of the sayanim. Shamron had recruited him to service just one very important katsa, which was why Shamron always displayed uncharacteristic patience in the face of Isherwood’s volatile mood swings.
“Let me tell you why you can’t have Gabriel right now,” Isherwood began. “Last August a very dirty, very damaged painting appeared in a sale room in Hull—sixteenth-century Italian altarpiece, oil on wood panel, Adoration of the Shepherds, artist unknown. That’s the most important part of the story, artist unknown. Do I have your full attention, Herr Heller? ”
Shamron nodded and Isherwood sailed on.
“I had a hunch about the picture, so I piled a load of books into my car and ran up to Yorkshire to have a look at it. Based on a brief visual inspection of the work, I was satisfied my hunch was correct. So when this same very dirty, very damaged painting, artist unknown, came up for sale at the venerable Christie’s auction house, I was able to pick it up for a song.”
Isherwood licked his lips and leaned conspiratorially across the table. “I took the painting to Gabriel, and he ran several tests on it for me. X ray, infrared photography, the usual lot. His more careful inspection confirmed my hunch. The very dirty, very damaged work from the sale room in Hull is actually a missing altarpiece from the
He tossed the telephone onto his chaotic desk. “Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”
“How are you, Julian?”
“Go to hell! Why are you here?”
“Get rid of the girl for a few minutes.”
“The answer will still be no, whether the girl’s here or not.”
“I need Gabriel,” Shamron said quietly.
“Well, I need him more, and therefore you can’t have him.”
“Just tell me where he is. I need to talk to him.”
“Sod off!” Isherwood snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here like this and giving me orders? Now, if you’re interested in purchasing a painting, perhaps I can be of some assistance. If it’s not art that brings you here, then Helen will show you the door.”
“Her name is Heather.”
“Oh, Christ.” Isherwood sat down heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Helen was last month’s girl. I can’t keep them straight anymore.”
“Things aren’t going well, Julian?”
“Things haven’t been going well, but all that’s about to change, which is why I need you to crawl back under your rock and leave me, and Gabriel, in peace.”
“How about lunch?” Shamron suggested. “You can tell me your problems, and perhaps we can come to some mutually beneficial solution.”
“You never struck me as someone who was terribly interested in compromise.”
“Get your coat.”
Shamron had taken the precaution of booking a quiet corner table at Green’s restaurant in Duke Street. Isherwood ordered the cold boiled Canadian lobster and the most expensive bottle of Sancerre on the wine list. Shamron’s jaw clenched briefly. He was notoriously tightfisted when it came to Office funds, but he needed Isherwood’s help. If that required a pricey lunch at Green’s, Shamron would tickle his expense account.
In the lexicon of the Office, men like Julian Isherwood were known as the sayanim : the helpers. They were the bankers who tipped Shamron whenever certain Arabs made large transactions or who could be called upon in the dead of night when a katsa was in trouble and needed money. They were the concierges who opened hotel rooms when Shamron wanted a look inside. They were the car rental clerks who provided Shamron’s field agents with clean transport. They were the sympathetic officers in unsympathetic security services. They were the journalists who allowed themselves to be used as conduits for Shamron’s lies. No other intelligence service in the world could claim such a legion of committed acolytes. To Ari Shamron they were the secret fruit of the Diaspora.
Julian Isherwood was a special member of the sayanim. Shamron had recruited him to service just one very important katsa, which was why Shamron always displayed uncharacteristic patience in the face of Isherwood’s volatile mood swings.
“Let me tell you why you can’t have Gabriel right now,” Isherwood began. “Last August a very dirty, very damaged painting appeared in a sale room in Hull—sixteenth-century Italian altarpiece, oil on wood panel, Adoration of the Shepherds, artist unknown. That’s the most important part of the story, artist unknown. Do I have your full attention, Herr Heller? ”
Shamron nodded and Isherwood sailed on.
“I had a hunch about the picture, so I piled a load of books into my car and ran up to Yorkshire to have a look at it. Based on a brief visual inspection of the work, I was satisfied my hunch was correct. So when this same very dirty, very damaged painting, artist unknown, came up for sale at the venerable Christie’s auction house, I was able to pick it up for a song.”
Isherwood licked his lips and leaned conspiratorially across the table. “I took the painting to Gabriel, and he ran several tests on it for me. X ray, infrared photography, the usual lot. His more careful inspection confirmed my hunch. The very dirty, very damaged work from the sale room in Hull is actually a missing altarpiece from the
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