The Heist. Daniel Silva
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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.”
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?”
“Coffee 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