The living room was empty except for one molting armchair and a television set. Its cord wound across the linoleum like a dead garden snake. Through a half-open door she could see a bedroom with a mattress on the floor. Through another doorway a small kitchen, a bag of groceries resting on the counter. Despite the absence of furnishings, the flat was impeccably clean and smelled of lemon air deodorizer.

She opened the window; cold air poured in. Below the window ran a fence, and beyond the fence lay a football pitch. A half-dozen young men, dressed in colorful warm-up suits and woolen caps, kicked a ball about in the headlights of a car parked along the sideline. Their long shadows played over brick walls below Jacqueline’s window. In the distance she could hear the soggy grumble of the motorway. An empty train rattled past on an elevated track. A jetliner screamed overhead.

“I like what your friend’s done with the place, Yusef, but it’s not really my style. Why don’t we check into one of the hotels at the airport? Someplace with room service and a decent bar.”

Yusef was in the kitchen, unpacking the bag of groceries. “If you’re hungry I can make you something. There’s some bread, cheese, eggs, a bottle of wine, and coffee and milk for the morning.”

Jacqueline walked into the kitchen. There was barely enough room for the two of them in the cramped space. “Don’t be so literal. But this is a shithole. Why is it empty?”

“My friend just got the place. He hasn’t had a chance to move his things. He’s been living with his parents.”

“He must be very happy, but I still don’t know why we have to stay here tonight.”

“I told you, Dominique. We came here for reasons of security.”

“Security from who? Security from what?”

“Perhaps you’ve heard of the British security service, better known as MI5. They make it their business to infiltrate exile and dissident communities. They watch people like us.”

“Like us?”

“Like me. And then there are the guys from Tel Aviv.”

“You lost me there, Yusef. Who are the guys from Tel Aviv?”

Yusef looked up and stared at her incredulously. “Who are the guys from Tel Aviv? The most ruthless, murderous intelligence service in the world. A gang of hired killers might be a more appropriate description.”

“And why would the Israelis be a threat here in Britain?”

“The Israelis are everywhere that we are. National boundaries are of no concern to them.”

Yusef emptied the bag and used it to line the wastebasket. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“No, just extremely tired. It’s late.”

“Go to bed. I have some business to take care of.”

“You’re not leaving me here alone, are you?”

He held up a mobile phone. “I just have to make a couple of calls.”

Jacqueline put her arms around his waist. Yusef drew her forehead to his lips and kissed her softly.

“I wish you wouldn’t make me do this.”

“It’ll just be for a few days. And when you come back, we can be together.”

“I wish I could believe you, but I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

He kissed her again, then placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Go to bed. Try to get some sleep.”

She entered the bedroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the light; it would feel less depressing if she had only a vague sense of her surroundings. She reached down, grabbed a handful of the bedding, and sniffed. Newly laundered. Still, she decided to sleep in her clothing. She lay down and carefully placed her head on the pillow so that it touched no portion of her face or neck. She left on her shoes. She smoked a last cigarette to cover up the overpowering smell of the disinfectant. She thought of Gabriel, her dance school in Valbonne. She listened to the jetliners and the trains and the resounding thump of a foot making solid contact with a leather ball out on the football pitch. She watched the shadows of high-stepping athletes dancing on her wall like marionettes.

Then she heard Yusef, speaking in a low murmur over his mobile phone. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. She didn’t care. Indeed, her last thought before drifting into a feverish sleep was that Yusef, her Palestinian lover, probably did not have long to live.

Isherwood opened the door of his home in Onslow Gardens a few inches and eyed Gabriel malevolently through the security chain. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He unchained the door. “Come inside before we both get pneumonia.”

Isherwood wore pajamas, leather slippers, a silk dressing gown. He led Gabriel into the drawing room, then disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a pot of coffee and a couple of mugs. “I hope you take your coffee black, because I’m afraid the milk in the fridge was purchased during the Thatcher government.”

“Black is fine.”

“So, Gabriel, my love. What brings you here at”-he paused to look at his watch and grimaced-“Christ, at two forty-five in the morning.”

“You’re going to lose Dominique.”

“I guessed that when Ari Shamron rolled into my gallery like a poisonous cloud. Where’s she off to? Lebanon? Libya? Iran? What was her real name, by the way?”

Gabriel just sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“Hate to see her go, actually. An angel, that one. And not a bad secretary once she got the hang of things.”

“She won’t be coming back.”

“They never do. I have a way of driving away women. Always have.”

“I hear you’re in final negotiations with Oliver Dimbleby to sell the gallery.”

“One doesn’t really negotiate when one is tied to the railroad tracks, Gabriel. One grovels. One begs.”

“Don’t do it.”

“How dare you sit there and tell me how to run my affairs? I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you and your friend Herr Heller.”

“The operation may be over sooner than we expected.”

“And?”

“And I can get back to work on the Vecellio.”

“There’s no way you can finish it in time to save my neck. I am now officially insolvent, which is why I’m negotiating with Oliver Dimbleby.”

“Dimbleby’s a hack. He’ll ruin the gallery.”

“Frankly, Gabriel, I’m too tired to give a shit at this point. I need something stronger than coffee. You?”

Gabriel shook his head. Isherwood shuffled over to the sideboard and dumped an inch of gin into a tumbler. “What’s in the bag?”

“An insurance policy.”

“Insurance on what?”

“Against the possibility that I’m unable to complete work on the Vecellio in time.” Gabriel handed the bag to Isherwood. “Open it.”

Isherwood set down his drink and unzipped the bag. “My God, Gabriel. How much is it?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“I can’t take your money.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Shamron’s, via Benjamin Stone.”

“The Benjamin Stone?”

“In all his glory.”

“What the hell are you doing with a hundred thousand pounds of Benjamin Stone’s money?”

“Just take it and don’t ask any more questions.”

“If it’s really Benjamin Stone’s, I think I will.” Isherwood raised his glass of gin. “Cheers, Gabriel. I’m sorry for all the miserable things I’ve thought about you during the past few weeks.”

“I deserved it. I should have never run out on you.”

“All is forgiven.” Isherwood stared into his drink for a long moment. “So where is she? Gone for good?”

“The operation has moved into its final stages.”

“You’ve not put that poor girl in any danger, have you?”

“I hope not.”

“So do I, for her sake and yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, I’ve been in this lousy racket for almost forty years, and in all that time, no one’s ever managed to sell me a forgery. Dimbleby’s had his fingers burned. Even the great Giles Pittaway has managed to buy a fake or two in his time. But not me. I have the gift, you see. I may be a lousy businessman, but I can always tell a fraud from the real thing.”