Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  “On the evening of July 27, Vincent returned to Café Ravoux in obvious pain and struggled up the stairs to his room. Madame Ravoux followed after him and discovered he’d been shot. She sent for a doctor. The doctor, of course, was Gachet himself. He decided to leave the bullet in Vincent’s abdomen and summoned Theo to Auvers. When Theo arrived the following morning, he found Vincent sitting up in bed smoking his pipe. He died later that day.”

  They came into a patch of brilliant sunshine. Isherwood shaded his eyes with his long hand.

  “There are many unanswered questions about Vincent’s suicide. It’s not clear where he got the gun or the precise place where he shot himself. There are questions, too, about his motivation. Was his suicide the culmination of his long struggle with madness? Was he distraught over a letter he’d just received from Theo suggesting that Theo could no longer afford to support Vincent along with his own wife and child? Did Vincent take his own life as part of a plan to make his work relevant and commercially viable? I’ve never been satisfied with any of those theories. I believe it has to do with Gachet. More to the point, with Dr. Gachet’s daughter.”

  They slipped into the shadows of the yard once more. Isherwood lowered his hand.

  “The day before Vincent shot himself, he came to Gachet’s house. The two quarreled violently, and Vincent threatened Gachet with a gun. What was the reason for the argument? Gachet later claimed that it had something to do with a picture frame, of all things. I believe it was over Marguerite. I think it’s possible it had something to do with Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. It’s an exquisite work, one of Vincent’s better portraits. The pose and the setting are clearly representative of a bride on her wedding night. Its significance would not have been lost on a man like Paul Gachet. If he’d seen the painting—and there’s no reason to believe he didn’t—he would have been incensed. Perhaps Gachet told Vincent that marriage to his daughter was out of the question. Perhaps he forbade Vincent ever to paint Marguerite again. Perhaps he forbade Vincent ever to see Marguerite again. What we do know is that Marguerite Gachet wasn’t present at Vincent’s funeral, though she was spotted the next day tearfully placing sunflowers on his grave. She never married, and lived as something of a recluse in Auvers until her death in 1949.”

  They passed the entrance to Isherwood’s gallery and kept walking.

  “After Vincent’s death his paintings became the property of Theo. He arranged for a shipment of the works Vincent had produced at Auvers and stored them at Père Tanguy’s in Paris. Theo, of course, died not long after Vincent, and the paintings became the property of Johanna. None of Vincent’s other relatives wanted any of his work. Johanna’s brother thought them worthless and suggested they be burned.” Isherwood stopped walking. “Can you imagine?” He propelled himself forward again with a long stride. “Johanna catalogued the inventory and worked tirelessly to establish Vincent’s reputation. It’s because of Johanna that Vincent van Gogh is regarded as a great artist. But there’s a glaring omission in her list of Vincent’s known works.”

  “Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table.”

  “Precisely,” said Isherwood. “Was it an accident or intentional? We’ll never know, of course, but I have a theory. I believe Johanna knew that the painting may have contributed to Vincent’s death. Whatever the case, it was sold for a song from the storeroom at Père Tanguy’s within a year or so of Vincent’s death and never seen again. Which is where my father enters the story.”

  THEY COMPLETED THEIR first circuit of the yard and started a second. Isherwood’s pace slowed as he began to talk of his father.

  “He was always a Berliner at heart. He would have stayed there forever. That wasn’t possible, of course. My father saw the storm clouds coming and didn’t waste any time getting out of town. By the end of 1936, we’d left Berlin and moved to Paris.” He looked at Gabriel. “Too bad your grandfather didn’t do the same thing. He was a great painter, your grandfather. You come from a good bloodline, my boy.”

  Gabriel quickly changed the subject. “Your father’s gallery was on the rue de la Boétie, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Isherwood replied. “The rue de la Boétie was the center of the art world at that time. Paul Rosenberg had his gallery at Number Twenty-one. Picasso and Olga lived on the other side of the courtyard at Number Twenty-three. Georges Wildenstein, Paul Guillaume, Josse Hessel, Étienne Bignou—everyone was there. Isakowitz Fine Arts was next door to Paul Rosenberg’s. We lived in an apartment above the exposition rooms. Picasso was my ‘Uncle Pablo.’ He used to let me watch him paint, and Olga would give me chocolates until I was sick.”

  Isherwood permitted himself a brief smile, which faded quickly as he resumed the story of his father in Paris.

  “The Germans came in May 1940 and started looting the place. My father rented a chateau in Bordeaux on the Vichy side of the line and moved most of his important pieces there. We followed him soon after. The Germans crossed over into the Unoccupied Zone in 1942, and the roundups and deportations began. We were trapped. My father paid a pair of Basque shepherds to take me over the mountains to Spain. He gave me some documents to carry with me, a professional inventory and a couple of diaries. It was the last time I ever saw him.”

  A horn sounded loudly in Duke Street; a squadron of pigeons burst into flight over the shadowed yard.

  “It was years before I got around to reading the diaries. In one of them I found an entry about a painting my father had seen in Paris one night at the home of man named Isaac Weinberg.”

  “Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table.”

  “Weinberg told my father he’d bought the painting from Johanna not long after Vincent’s death and had given it to his wife as a birthday gift. Apparently Mrs. Weinberg bore a resemblance to Marguerite. My father asked Isaac whether he would be willing to sell, and Isaac said he wasn’t. He asked my father not to mention the painting to anyone, and my father was all too happy to oblige him.”

  Isherwood’s mobile phone chirped. He ignored it.

  “In the early seventies, right before I met you, I was in Paris on business. I had a few hours to kill between appointments and decided to look up Isaac Weinberg. I went to the address in the Marais that was listed in my father’s notebooks, but Weinberg wasn’t there. He hadn’t survived the war. But I met his son, Marc, and told him about the entry in my father’s notes. He denied the story at first, but finally relented and allowed me to see the painting after swearing me to eternal secrecy. It was hanging in his daughter’s bedroom. I asked whether he might be interested in parting with it. He refused, of course.”

  “You’re certain it’s Vincent?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “And you haven’t been back since?”

  “Monsieur Weinberg made it quite clear the painting would never be for sale. I didn’t see the point.” Isherwood stopped walking and turned to face Gabriel. “All right, petal. I’ve told you the story. Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  “I need that van Gogh, Julian.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Gabriel took Isherwood’s sleeve and led him toward the door of the gallery.

  THERE WAS an intercom panel next to the glass door, with four buttons and four corresponding nameplates. One read: ISHER OO FINE AR S: BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. Isherwood opened the door with a key and led Gabriel up a flight of stairs covered in a threadbare brown carpet. On the landing were two more doors. To the left was a melancholy little travel agency. The owner, a spinster named Miss Archer, was seated at her desk beneath a poster of a happy couple splashing in azure water. Isherwood’s door was on the right. His latest secretary, an apologetic-looking creature named Tanya, glanced up furtively as Isherwood and Gabriel came inside. “This is Mr. Klein,” said Isherwood. “He’d like to have a look at something upstairs. No interruptions, please. That’s a good girl, Tanya darling.”

  They entered a lift the size of a phone booth and rode it upward, stand
ing so close to one another that Gabriel could smell last night’s claret on Isherwood’s breath. A few seconds later the lift shuddered to a stop and the door opened with a groan. Isherwood’s exposition room was in semidarkness, illuminated only by the mid-morning sun filtering through the skylight. Isherwood settled himself on the velvet-covered divan in the center of the room while Gabriel led himself on a slow tour. The paintings were nearly invisible in the deep shadows, but he knew them well: a Venus by Luini, a nativity by Perino del Vaga, a baptism of Christ by Bordone, a luminous landscape by Claude.

  Isherwood opened his mouth to speak, but Gabriel raised a finger to his lips and from his coat pocket removed what appeared to be an ordinary Nokia cellular telephone. It was indeed a Nokia, but it contained several additional features not available to ordinary customers, such as a GPS beacon and a device that could detect the presence of hidden transmitters. Gabriel toured the room again, this time with his eyes on the display panel of the phone. Then he sat down next to Isherwood and, in a low voice, told him why he needed the van Gogh.

  “Zizi al-Bakari?” asked Isherwood incredulously. “A bloody terrorist? Are you sure?”

  “He’s not planting the bombs, Julian. He’s not even making the bombs. But he’s footing the bill, and he’s using his business empire to facilitate the movement of the men and matériel around the globe. In today’s world that’s just as bad. Worse.”

  “I met him once, but not so he’d remember. Went to a party at his estate out in Gloucestershire. Huge party. Sea of people. Zizi was nowhere to be found. Came down at the end like bloody Gatsby. Surrounded by bodyguards, even inside his own home. Strange chap. Voracious collector, though, isn’t he? Art. Women. Anything money can buy. Predatory, from what I hear. Never had any dealings with him, of course. Zizi’s tastes don’t run to the Old Masters. Zizi goes for the Impressionists and a bit of other Modern stuff. All the Saudis are like that. They don’t hold with the Christian imagery of the Old Masters.”

  Gabriel sat down next to Isherwood. “He doesn’t have a van Gogh, Julian. He’s dropped hints from time to time that he’s looking for one. And not just any van Gogh. He wants something special.”

  “From what I hear, he buys very carefully. He spends buckets of money, but he does it wisely. He’s got a museum-quality collection, but I didn’t realize it was sans van Gogh.”

  “His art adviser is an Englishman named Andrew Malone. Know him?”

  “Unfortunately, Andrew and I are well acquainted. He’s burrowed his way deeply into Zizi’s pockets. Spends holidays on Zizi’s yacht. Big as the bloody Titanic, from what I hear. Andrew is as slippery as they come. Dirty, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s taking it on both ends, petal.”

  “What do you mean, Julian?”

  “Andrew has an exclusive agreement with Zizi, which means he’s not supposed to take money from any other dealer or collector. It’s the way big boys like Zizi ensure that the advice they’re being given is untainted by any conflicts of interest.”

  “What’s Malone up to?”

  “Shakedowns, double commissions, you name it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive, petal. Everyone in town knows that in order to do business with Zizi, you have to pay a toll to Andrew Malone.”

  Isherwood was suddenly off the divan and pacing the length of the exposition room.

  “So what’s your plan then? Lure Zizi out of his hole with a van Gogh? Dangle it in front of him and hope he takes it hook, line, and sinker? But there’ll be something at the other end of the line, won’t there? One of your agents?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And where are you planning to stage this extravaganza? Here, I take it?”

  Gabriel looked around the room approvingly. “Yes,” he said. “I think this will do quite nicely.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “I need a dealer,” Gabriel said. “Someone well known in the trade. Someone I can trust.”

  “I’m Old Masters, not Impressionists.”

  “It won’t matter for a quiet deal like this.”

  Isherwood didn’t argue the point. He knew Gabriel was right. “Have you considered the consequences for moi if your little gambit proves successful? I’ll be a marked man. I can deal with the likes of Oliver Dimbleby, but al-bloody-fucking-Qaeda is another thing altogether.”

  “Obviously, we’ll have to make some postoperational provisions for your security.”

  “I love your euphemisms, Gabriel. You and Shamron always resort to euphemisms when the truth is too awful to say aloud. They’ll put a fatwa on my head. I’ll have to close up shop. Go into bloody hiding.”

  Gabriel appeared unmoved by Isherwood’s protests. “You’re not getting any younger, Julian. You’re nearing the end of the road. You have no children. No heirs. Who’s going to take over the gallery? Besides, have you taken a moment to calculate your commission on the private sale of a previously unknown van Gogh? Add to that your earnings on a fire sale of your existing stock. Things could be a lot worse, Julian.”

  “I’m picturing a nice villa in the south of France. A new name. A team of Office security boys to look after me in my dotage.”

  “Make sure you have a spare room for me.”

  Isherwood sat down again. “Your plan has one serious flaw, petal. It will be easier for you to snare your terrorist than it will be to land that van Gogh. Assuming it’s still in the possession of the Weinberg family, what makes you think they’re going to give it up?”

  “Who said anything about giving it up?”

  Isherwood smiled. “I’ll get you the address.”

  14.

  The Marais, Paris

  YOU SHOULD EAT SOMETHING,” said Uzi Navot.

  Gabriel shook his head. He’d eaten lunch on the train from London.

  “Have the borscht,” Navot said. “You can’t come to Jo Goldenberg and not have the borscht.”

  “Yes I can,” Gabriel said. “Purple food makes me nervous.”

  Navot caught the waiter’s eye and ordered an extra-large bowl of borscht and a glass of kosher red wine. Gabriel frowned and looked out the window. A steady rain was drumming against the paving stones of the rue des Rosiers, and it was nearly dark. He had wanted to meet Navot someplace other than the most famous delicatessen in the most visible Jewish district of Paris, but Navot had insisted on Jo Goldenberg, based on his long-held belief that the best place to hide a pine tree was in a forest.

  “This place is making me nervous,” Gabriel murmured. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “In this weather? Forget it. Besides, no one is going to recognize you in that getup. Even I nearly didn’t notice you when you came through the door.”

  Gabriel looked at the ghostly face reflected in the glass. He wore a dark corduroy flat cap, contact lenses that turned his green eyes to brown, and a false goatee that accentuated his already narrow features. He had traveled to Paris on a German passport bearing the name Heinrich Kiever. After arriving at the Gare du Nord he’d spent two hours walking the Seine embankments, checking his tail for surveillance. In his shoulder bag was a worn volume of Voltaire he’d purchased from a bouquiniste on the Quai Montebello.

  He turned his head and looked at Navot. He was a heavy-shouldered man, several years younger than Gabriel, with short strawberry-blond hair and pale blue eyes. In the lexicon of the Office, he was a katsa, an undercover field operative and case officer. Armed with an array of languages, a roguish charm, and a fatalistic arrogance, he had penetrated Palestinian terrorist cells and recruited agents in Arab embassies scattered across western Europe. He had sources in nearly all the European security and intelligence services and oversaw a vast network of sayanim. He could always count on getting the best table in the grill room at the Ritz in Paris because the maître d’hôtel was a paid informant, as was the chief of the maid staff. He was dressed now in a gray tweed jacket and black rollneck sweater, for his identity in
Paris was one Vincent Laffont, a freelance travel writer of Breton descent who spent most of his time living out of a suitcase. In London he was known as Clyde Bridges, European marketing director of an obscure Canadian business-software firm. In Madrid he was a German of independent means who idled away the hours in cafés and bars and traveled to relieve the burdens of a restless and complex soul.

  Navot reached into his briefcase and produced a manila file folder, which he placed on the table in front of Gabriel. “There’s the owner of your van Gogh,” he said. “Have a look.”

  Gabriel discreetly lifted the cover. The photograph inside showed an attractive middle-aged woman with dark wavy hair, olive skin, and a long aquiline nose. She was holding an umbrella above her head and descending a flight of stone steps in Montmartre.

  “Hannah Weinberg,” Navot said. “Forty-four, unmarried, childless. Jewish demographics in microcosm. An only child with no children. At this rate, we won’t need a state.” Navot looked down and picked morosely at a bowl of potted chicken and vegetables. He was prone to fits of despondency, especially when it came to the future of the Jewish people. “She owns a small boutique up in Montmartre on the rue Lepic. Boutique Lepic is the name of it. I snapped that photo of her earlier this afternoon as she was walking to lunch. One is left with the impression the boutique is more of a hobby than a vocation. I’ve seen her bank accounts. Marc Weinberg left his daughter very well off.”

  The waiter approached and placed a bowl of purple dreck in front of Gabriel. He immediately pushed it toward the center of the table. He couldn’t bear the smell of borscht. Navot dropped a lump of bread into his broth and prodded it with his spoon.