baked conspiracy theory.
As he neared August Rock, he looked toward the west and saw something he didn’t like in the towering cloud formation. He slipped down the companionway and switched on his marine radio. A storm was approaching: heavy rain, seas six to eight. He went back to the wheel, brought the boat about, then laid on the aft sail. The ketch immediately increased speed.
By the time he reached the mouth of the Helford it was raining heavily. Gabriel pulled up the hood of his oilskin and went to work on the sails, taking down the aft sail first, followed by the jib and the mainsheet. He switched on the motor and guided the boat upriver. A squadron of gulls gathered overhead, begging for food. Gabriel tore his second sandwich to bits and tossed it onto the water.
He passed the old oyster bed, rounded the point, and headed into the quiet of the tidal creek. The trees broke, and the roof of the cottage floated into view. As he drew nearer, he could see a figure standing on the quay, hands in pockets, collar up against the rain. Gabriel ducked down the companionway and grabbed a pair of Zeiss binoculars hanging from a hook next to the galley. He raised the glasses and focused them on the man’s face, then quickly lowered them. He did not need to further authenticate the image.
ARI Shamron sat down at the small table in the kitchen while Gabriel made fresh coffee.
“You’re actually starting to look like your old self again.”
“You used to be a good liar.”
“Eventually the swelling will go down. Do you remember Baruch? The terrible beating he took from the Hezbollah before we pulled him out? After a few months, he almost looked like himself again.”
“Baruch was ugly to begin with.”
“This is true. You were beautiful once. Me, I could do with a beating. It might actually improve my looks.”
“I’m sure I could find several eager volunteers.”
Shamron’s face set into an iron grimace. For a moment, he seemed a little less like a weary old man and more like the Sabra warrior who had pulled Gabriel from the womb of the Betsal’el School of Art thirty years earlier.
“They’d look worse than you when I was finished with them.”
Gabriel sat down and poured coffee for them both.
“Did we manage to keep it all a secret?”
“There were some rumors at King Saul Boulevard -rumors about unexplained movement of personnel and strange expenses incurred in Venice and Zurich. Somehow, these rumors reached the prime minister’s office.”
“Does he know?”
“He suspects, and he’s pleased. He says that if it’s true, he doesn’t want to know.”
“And the paintings?”
“We’ve been working quietly with a few art-restitution agencies and the American Department of Justice. Of the sixteen paintings you discovered in Rolfe’s safe-deposit box, nine have been returned to the heirs of their rightful owners, including the one that belonged to Julian’s father.”
“And the rest?”
“They’ll reside in the Israel Museum, just as Rolfe wished, until their owners can be located. If they can’t be found, they’ll hang there forever.”
“How’s Anna?”
“We still have a team with her. Rami is about to lose his mind. He says he’ll do anything to get off her detail. He’s ready to volunteer for patrol duty in Gaza.”
“Any threats?”
“None yet.”
“How long should we keep her under protection?”
“As long as you want. It was your operation. I’ll leave that decision to you.”
“At least a year.”
“Agreed.”
Shamron refilled his cup and lit one of his evil Turkish cigarettes. “She’s coming to England next week, you know. The Albert Hall. It’s the last stop on her tour.”
“I know, Ari. I can read the papers too.”
“She asked me to give you this.” He slid a small envelope across the tabletop. “It’s a ticket to the performance. She asked that you come backstage after the show to say hello.”
“I’m in the middle of a restoration right now.”
“You or a painting?”
“A painting.”
“Take a break.”
“I can’t take the time to go to London right now.”
“The Prince of Wales is going to make time to attend, but
“Yes.”
“I’ll never understand why you insist on allowing beautiful, talented women to slip through your fingers.”
“Who said I was going to do that?”
“You think she’s going to wait forever?”
“No, just until the swelling goes down.”
Shamron gave a dismissive wave of his thick hand. “You’re using your face as a convenient excuse not to see her. But I know the real reason. Life is for the living, Gabriel, and this pleasant little prison you’ve made for yourself is no life. It’s time for you to stop blaming yourself for what happened in Vienna. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”
“I’m not going to London looking like this.”
“If you won’t go to London, will you permit me to make another suggestion?”
Gabriel let out a long, exasperated breath. He had lost the will to resist him any longer.
“I’m listening,” he said.
49
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, the Englishman invited Anton Orsati up to his villa for lunch. It was gusty and cold-too cold to be outside on the terrace-so they ate at the kitchen table and discussed some mildly pressing matters concerning the company. Don Orsati had just won a contract to supply oil to a chain of two dozen bistros stretching from Nice to Normandy. Now an American import-export company wanted to introduce the oil to specialty shops in the United States. Demand was beginning to outpace supply. Orsati needed more land and more trees. But would the fruit stand up to his exacting standards? Would quality suffer with expansion? That was the question they debated throughout the meal.
After lunch, they settled next to the fire in the living room and drank
