painted by none other than Francesco Vecellio, brother of the great Titian. That's why I need Gabriel, and that's why I'm not going to tell you where he is."
The sommelier appeared. Shamron picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth while Isherwood engaged in the elaborate ritual of inspection, sniffing, sipping, and pondering. After a dramatic moment of uncertainty, he pronounced the wine suitable. He drank a glass very fast, then poured another.
When he resumed, his voice had turned wistful, his eyes damp. "Remember the old days, Ari? I used to have a gallery in New Bond Strasse, right next to Richard Green. I can't afford New Bond Strasse these days. It's all Gucci and Ralph Lauren, Tiffany and Miki-Bloody-Moto. And you know who's taken over my old space? The putrid Giles Pittaway! He's already got two galleries in Bond Street alone, and he's planning to open two more within the year. Christ, but he's spreading like the Ebola virus-mutating, getting stronger, killing everything decent in his wake."
A chubby art dealer with a pink shirt and a pretty girl on his arm walked past their table. Isherwood paused long enough to say, "Hullo, Oliver," and blow him a kiss.
"This Vecellio is a real coup. I need a coup once every couple of years. The coups are what keep me in business. The coups support all the dead stock and all the small sales that earn me next to nothing." Isherwood paused and took a long drink of wine. "We all need coups now and again, right, Herr Heller? I suspect that even someone in your line of work needs a big success every now and again to make up for all the failures. Cheers."
"Cheers," said Shamron, tipping his glass a fraction of an inch.
"Giles Pittaway could've bought the Vecellio, but he passed. He passed because he and his boys didn't bother to do their homework. They couldn't authenticate it. I was the only one who knew what it was, because I was the only one who did my homework. Giles Pittaway wouldn't know a Vecellio from vermicelli. He sells crap. High-gloss crap. Have you seen his stuff? Total crap! Complete and utter greeting card crap!"
Shamron, playing the part of Herr Heller, said it had been some time since he had visited the galleries of the infamous Giles Pittaway.
Isherwood leaned forward across the table, eyes wide, lips damp. "I need this Vecellio cleaned and ready for sale by the spring," he said, sotto voce. "If it's not ready, I'll lose my buyer. Buyers don't grow on trees these days, especially for a Vecellio altarpiece. I can count the number of potential buyers for a piece like this on the fingers of one hand. If my buyer gets cold feet, I may never find another. And if I can't find another, my Vecellio becomes just another piece of dead stock. Burned, as we say in the trade. You burn agents, we burn our paintings. A picture gets snatched up, or it turns to dust in some art dealer's storeroom. And once a painting's been burned it's worthless, just like your agents."
"I understand your dilemma, Julian."
"Do you really? There are maybe five people in the world who can restore that Vecellio properly. Gabriel Allon happens to be one of them, and the other four would never lower their standards to work for someone like me."
"Gabriel is a talented man. Unfortunately, I require his talents too, and it's something a bit more important than a five-hundred-year-old painting."
"Oh, no you don't! The sharks are circling, and my fickle bank is threatening to set me adrift. I'm not going to be able to find a backer quickly enough to save the ship. Giles Pittaway has backers! Lloyd's Bank! When art and high finance start to intermarry, I say it's time to head for the Highlands and build a bloody ark." A pause. "And by the way, Herr Heller, few things in this life are more important than good paintings. And I don't care how old they are."
"I should have chosen my words more carefully, Julian."
"If I have to liquidate I'll lose my shirt," Isherwood said. "I'd be lucky to get thirty
The sommelier appeared. Shamron picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth while Isherwood engaged in the elaborate ritual of inspection, sniffing, sipping, and pondering. After a dramatic moment of uncertainty, he pronounced the wine suitable. He drank a glass very fast, then poured another.
When he resumed, his voice had turned wistful, his eyes damp. "Remember the old days, Ari? I used to have a gallery in New Bond Strasse, right next to Richard Green. I can't afford New Bond Strasse these days. It's all Gucci and Ralph Lauren, Tiffany and Miki-Bloody-Moto. And you know who's taken over my old space? The putrid Giles Pittaway! He's already got two galleries in Bond Street alone, and he's planning to open two more within the year. Christ, but he's spreading like the Ebola virus-mutating, getting stronger, killing everything decent in his wake."
A chubby art dealer with a pink shirt and a pretty girl on his arm walked past their table. Isherwood paused long enough to say, "Hullo, Oliver," and blow him a kiss.
"This Vecellio is a real coup. I need a coup once every couple of years. The coups are what keep me in business. The coups support all the dead stock and all the small sales that earn me next to nothing." Isherwood paused and took a long drink of wine. "We all need coups now and again, right, Herr Heller? I suspect that even someone in your line of work needs a big success every now and again to make up for all the failures. Cheers."
"Cheers," said Shamron, tipping his glass a fraction of an inch.
"Giles Pittaway could've bought the Vecellio, but he passed. He passed because he and his boys didn't bother to do their homework. They couldn't authenticate it. I was the only one who knew what it was, because I was the only one who did my homework. Giles Pittaway wouldn't know a Vecellio from vermicelli. He sells crap. High-gloss crap. Have you seen his stuff? Total crap! Complete and utter greeting card crap!"
Shamron, playing the part of Herr Heller, said it had been some time since he had visited the galleries of the infamous Giles Pittaway.
Isherwood leaned forward across the table, eyes wide, lips damp. "I need this Vecellio cleaned and ready for sale by the spring," he said, sotto voce. "If it's not ready, I'll lose my buyer. Buyers don't grow on trees these days, especially for a Vecellio altarpiece. I can count the number of potential buyers for a piece like this on the fingers of one hand. If my buyer gets cold feet, I may never find another. And if I can't find another, my Vecellio becomes just another piece of dead stock. Burned, as we say in the trade. You burn agents, we burn our paintings. A picture gets snatched up, or it turns to dust in some art dealer's storeroom. And once a painting's been burned it's worthless, just like your agents."
"I understand your dilemma, Julian."
"Do you really? There are maybe five people in the world who can restore that Vecellio properly. Gabriel Allon happens to be one of them, and the other four would never lower their standards to work for someone like me."
"Gabriel is a talented man. Unfortunately, I require his talents too, and it's something a bit more important than a five-hundred-year-old painting."
"Oh, no you don't! The sharks are circling, and my fickle bank is threatening to set me adrift. I'm not going to be able to find a backer quickly enough to save the ship. Giles Pittaway has backers! Lloyd's Bank! When art and high finance start to intermarry, I say it's time to head for the Highlands and build a bloody ark." A pause. "And by the way, Herr Heller, few things in this life are more important than good paintings. And I don't care how old they are."
"I should have chosen my words more carefully, Julian."
"If I have to liquidate I'll lose my shirt," Isherwood said. "I'd be lucky to get thirty
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