Gabriel nodded.

“And she’s willing to do it?”

“It took me a while to convince her, but she agreed.”

“Why are all my children so reluctant to come home again? Was I such an errant father?”

“Just an overly demanding one.”

Gabriel stopped in front of a café on the Champs-Élysées. Jacqueline was seated in the window, wearing large sunglasses and reading a magazine. She glanced up as they approached, then turned her gaze to her magazine once more.

Shamron said, “It’s nice to see you two working together again. Just don’t break her heart this time. She’s a good girl.”

“I know.”

“You’ll need a cover job for her in London. I know someone who’s looking for a secretary.”

“I’m one step ahead of you.”

Shamron smiled and walked away. He melted into the crowds along the Champs-Élysées and a moment later was gone.

Julian Isherwood made his way across the wet bricks of Mason’s Yard. It was three-thirty, and he was just returning to the gallery from lunch. He was drunk. He hadn’t noticed that he was drunk until he stepped out the door of Green’s and took a few deep breaths of the freezing, damp air. The oxygen had resuscitated his brain, and his brain had alerted his body that once again he had poured too much wine into it. His lunch mate had been the tubby Oliver Dimbleby, and once again the topic of conversation had been Oliver’s proposal to buy out Isherwood Fine Arts. This time Isherwood had managed to maintain his composure and discuss the situation somewhat rationally-though not without the assistance of two bottles of superb Sancerre. When one is discussing the dismemberment of one’s business-one’s very soul, he thought-one is allowed to dull the pain with good French wine.

He pulled his coat up around his ears. A blast of wet wind poured through the passageway from Duke Street. Isherwood found himself caught in a whirlpool of dead leaves and wet rubbish. He stumbled forward a few steps, hands shielding his face, until the maelstrom spun itself out. For Christ’s sake! Dreadful climate. Positively Siberian. He considered slipping into the pub for something to warm his bones but thought better of it. He’d done enough damage for one afternoon.

He used his key to unlock the door on the ground floor, slowly climbed the stairs, thinking he really should do something about the carpet. On the landing was the entrance to a small travel agency. The walls were hung with posters of fiercely tanned amazons frolicking half naked in the sun. Perhaps this is the best thing for me, he thought, staring at a topless girl lying facedown in perfect white sand. Perhaps I should get out while I still have a few decent years left in me. Flee London, go someplace warm, lick my wounds.

He shoved the key into the lock, pushed back the door, removed his coat, and hung it on the hook in the anteroom. Then he stepped into his office and flipped the light switch.

“Hello, Julian.”

Isherwood spun around and found himself face-to-face with Gabriel Allon. “You! How the bloody hell did you get in here?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I suppose not,” said Isherwood. “What in God’s name are you doing here? And where have you been?”

“I need a favor.”

“You need a favor! You need a favor-from me! You ran out on me in the middle of a job. You left my Vecellio in a Cornish cottage with no security.”

“Sometimes the best place to hide a priceless Vecellio is the last place anyone would think to look for it. If I had wanted to help myself to the contents of your vault downstairs, I could have done it quite easily.”

“That’s because you’re a freak of nature!”

“There’s no need to get personal, Julian.”

“Oh, really. How’s this for personal?” He picked up a coffee mug from his desk and threw it directly at Gabriel’s head.

Gabriel could see that Isherwood had been drinking, so he pulled him back outside to sober him. They circled the footpaths of Green Park until Isherwood grew tired and settled himself on a bench. Gabriel sat next to him and waited for a couple to pass by before he started to speak again.

“Can she type?” Isherwood said. “Does she know how to answer the telephone? How to take a message?”

“I don’t think she’s done an honest day’s work her entire life.”

“Oh, how perfect. Absolutely stupendous.”

“She’s a smart girl. I’m sure she’ll be able to help out around the office.”

“That’s comforting. Am I allowed to ask why I’m supposed to hire this woman?”

“Julian, please.”

“Julian, please. Julian, mind your own business. Julian, shut up and do as we tell you. It’s always the same with you people. And all the while my business is going straight to hell. Oliver’s made me an offer. I’m going to take him up on it.”

“Oliver doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t run out on me.”

“I didn’t run out on you.”

“What do you call it, Gabriel?”

“It’s just something I need to do. It’s just like the old days.”

“In the old days that was part of the arrangement going in. But these aren’t the old days. This is business-straight fucking business, Gabriel-and you’ve given me the right royal shaft. What am I supposed to do about the Vecellio while you’re playing games with Ari?”

“Wait for me,” Gabriel said. “This will be over soon, and I’ll work day and night on it until it’s finished.”

“I don’t want a crash job. I brought it to you because I knew you would take your time and do it right. If I wanted a crash job, I could have hired a hack to do it for a third of what I’m paying you.”

“Give me some time. Keep your buyer at bay, and whatever you do, don’t sell out to Oliver Dimbleby. You’ll never forgive yourself.”

Isherwood looked at his watch and stood up. “I have an appointment. Someone who actually wants to buy a picture.” He turned and started to walk away; then he stopped and said, “By the way, you left a brokenhearted little boy behind in Cornwall.”

“Peel,” Gabriel said distantly.

“It’s funny, Gabriel, but I never had you figured for the type that would hurt a child. Tell your girl to be at the gallery at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And tell her not to be late.”

“She’ll be there.”

“What am I to call this secretary you’re sending me?”

“You may call her Dominique.”

“Good-looking?” Isherwood said, regaining a bit of his old humor.

“Not bad.”

TWENTY-ONE

Maida Vale, London

Gabriel carried the suitcases in while Jacqueline surveyed her new home, a cramped bed-sit flat with a single window overlooking an inner courtyard. A foldout couch, a club chair of cracked leather, a small writing desk. Next to the window was a flaking radiator and next to the radiator a door leading to a kitchen scarcely larger than the galley on Gabriel’s ketch. Jacqueline went into the kitchen and began opening and closing cabinets, sadly, as if each was more repulsive than the last.

“I had the bodel do a bit of shopping for you.”

“Couldn’t you have found something a little bit nicer?”

“Dominique Bonard is a girl from Paris who came to London in search of work. I didn’t think a three-bedroom maisonette in Mayfair was appropriate.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Not exactly.”

“Stay for a few minutes. I find the thought of being alone here depressing.”

“A few.”

She filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove, and switched on the burner. Gabriel found tea bags and a box of shelf milk. She prepared two mugs of tea and carried them into the sitting room. Gabriel was on the couch. Jacqueline removed her shoes and sat across from him, knees beneath her chin. “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try the next night.”

She lit a cigarette, threw back her head, blew smoke at the ceiling. Then she looked at Gabriel and narrowed her eyes. “Do you remember that night in Tunis?”