in Duke Street and made his way to the quiet corner table, where Isherwood was already waiting. Isherwood poured him a very large glass of white burgundy. “All right, Julie,” said Malone. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? What have you got up your sleeve? And who the fuck put it there? Cheers.”
CHIARA WAS WAITING at the top of the landing ninety minutes later when Isherwood, fortified by two bottles of excellent white burgundy at Gabriel’s expense, came teetering up the newly carpeted stairs. She directed him to the left, into the former premises of Archer Travel, where he was met by one of Gabriel’s neviot listeners. He removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the small digital recording device secured to his chest by an elastic cummerbund.
“I don’t usually do this sort of thing on the first date,” he said.
The neviot man removed the recorder and smiled. “How was the lobster?”
“Bit chewy but otherwise fine.”
“You did well, Mr. Isherwood. Very well.”
“It’s my last deal, I suspect. Now let’s hope I don’t go out with a bang.”
THE RECORDING could have been sent by secure transmission, but Gabriel, like Adrian Carter, was still old- fashioned about some things, and he insisted that it be downloaded onto a disk and hand-carried to the Surrey safe house. As a result it was after eight by the time it finally arrived. He loaded the disk into a computer in the drawing room and clicked the Play icon. Dina was sprawled on the couch. Yaakov was seated in an armchair with his chin in his hands and elbows on his knees, hunched forward as though he were awaiting word from the front. It was Rimona’s night to cook. As Andrew Malone began to speak, she shouted at Gabriel from the kitchen to turn up the volume so she could hear it, too.
“DO YOU take me for a fool, Julian?”
“It’s the real thing, Andrew. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“Do you have a photograph?”
“I wasn’t allowed.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“The owner wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Yes, of course, but who the hell is it, Julian?”
“I cannot divulge the name of the owner. Period. End of discussion. She’s entrusted me as her representative in this matter, and that’s as far as it goes.”
“She? So the owner is a woman?”
“The painting has been in the same family for three generations. Currently, it is in the hands of a woman.”
“What sort of family, Julian? Give me a tickle.”
“A French family, Andrew. And that’s all you’re getting from me.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to work, Julian. You have to give me something I can hang my hat on. I can’t go to Zizi empty-handed. Zizi gets annoyed when that happens. If you want Zizi in the game, you’ll have to play by Zizi’s rules.”
“I won’t be bullied, Andrew. I came to you as a favor. Frankly I don’t give a shit about Zizi’s rules. Frankly, I don’t need Zizi at all. If I put the word on the street that I’m sitting on an undiscovered van Gogh, every major collector and museum in the world will be beating down my door and throwing money at me. Do please try to keep that in mind.”
“Forgive me, Julie. It’s been a long week. Let’s start over, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.”
“May I pose a few harmless questions?”
“Depends on how harmless.”
“Let’s start with an easy one. Where’s the painting now? France or England?”
“It’s here in London.”
“In your gallery?”
“Not yet.”
“What sort of painting are we talking about? Landscape? Still life? Portrait?”
“Portrait.”
“Self?”
“No.”
“Male or female.”
“Female.”
“Dreamy. Early or late?”
“Very late.”
“Saint-Remy? Auvers?”
“The latter, Andrew. It was painted during the final days of his life in Auvers.”
“You’re not sitting on an undiscovered portrait of Marguerite Gachet, are you, Julian?”
“Maybe we should have a glance at the menu.”
“Fuck the menu, Julian. Answer the question: Are you sitting on an undiscovered portrait of Marguerite?”
“I’ve gone as far as I can in terms of the content, Andrew. And that’s final. If you want to know what it is, you’ll have to take a look at it for yourself.”
“You’re offering me a look?”
“I’m offering your man a look, not you.”
“Easier said than done. Running the world keeps my man busy.”
“I’m prepared to offer you and Zizi exclusivity for seventy-two hours. After that, I’ll have to open it up to other collectors.”
“Bad form, Julian. My man doesn’t like ultimatums.”
“It’s not an ultimatum. It’s just business. He understands that.”
“What kind of price tag are we talking about?”
“Eighty-five million.”
“Eighty-five million? Then you do indeed need Zizi. You see, money’s a bit tight at the moment, isn’t it? Can’t remember the last time someone’s laid down eighty-five million for something. Can you, Julie?”
“This painting is worth every penny.”
“If it’s what you say it is, and if it’s in perfect condition, I’ll get you your eighty-five million in very short order. You see, my man has been looking for something splashy like this for a very long time. But then you knew that, didn’t you, Julie? That’s why you brought it to me first. You knew we could get the deal done in an afternoon. No auctions. No press. No nagging questions about your quiet little French woman who wants to remain anonymous. I’m the goose that lays the golden egg as far as you’re concerned, and you’re going to have to give the goose his due.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Andrew?”
“You know precisely what I’m talking about.”
“Maybe I’m a bit slow today. Mind spelling it out?”
“I’m talking about money, Julian. I’m talking about a very small slice of a very large pie.”
“You want a cut? A piece of the action, as the Americans like to say.”
“Let’s leave the Americans out of this, shall we? My man’s not terribly fond of the Americans at the moment.”
“What sort of slice are we talking about, Andrew?”
“Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that your commission on the sale is ten percent. That means you’ll clear eight and a half million dollars for an afternoon’s work. I’m asking for ten percent of your ten percent.
