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

by Daniel Silva

  “Forgive me, Mr. al-Bakari,” Isherwood said. “My manners are atrocious today. This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here this afternoon.”

  Don’t try to shake his hand. If he offers his, take it briefly and let go.

  She stood very straight, with her hands behind her back and her eyes downward at a slight angle. Zizi’s eyes were roving over her. Finally he stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She took it and heard herself say: “The pleasure is mine, Mr. al-Bakari. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  He smiled and held on to her hand a moment more than was comfortable. Then he released it suddenly and made for the painting. Sarah turned and this time was treated to a view of his back, which was soft through the shoulders and wide in the hips. “I’d like to see the painting, please,” he said to no one in particular, but Sarah was once more listening only to the voice of Gabriel. Do the presentation on Zizi’s timetable, he had said. If you force him to sit through a story, you’ll only make him angry. Remember, Zizi is the star of the show, not Marguerite.

  Sarah slipped past him, careful not to brush his shoulder, then reached up and slowly removed the baize covering. She remained in front of the canvas for a moment longer, gathering up the fabric and blocking Zizi’s view, before finally stepping to one side. “May I present Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table by Vincent van Gogh,” she said formally. “Oil on canvas, of course, painted in Auvers in July 1890.”

  A collective gasp rose from Zizi’s entourage, followed by an excited murmur. Only Zizi remained silent. His dark eyes were casting about the surface of the painting, his expression inscrutable. After a moment he lifted his gaze from the canvas and looked at Isherwood.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “I wish I could take credit for it, Mr. al-Bakari, but it was Sarah who discovered Marguerite.”

  Zizi’s gaze moved to Sarah. “You?” he asked with admiration.

  “Yes, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “Then I’ll ask you the same question I asked of Mr. Isherwood. Where did you find her?”

  “As Julian explained to Mr. Malone, the owner wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “I’m not asking for the identity of the owner, Miss Bancroft. I’d just like to know how you discovered it.”

  You’ll have to give him something, Sarah. He’s entitled to it. But do it reluctantly and be discreet. A man like Zizi appreciates discretion.

  “It was the result of several years of investigation on my part, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “How interesting. Tell me more, please, Miss Bancroft.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t without violating my agreement with the owners, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “Owner,” said Zizi, correcting her. “According to Andrew, the painting is the property of a French woman.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific.”

  “But I’m just curious about how you found it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I love a good detective story.”

  “I would love to indulge you, Mr. al-Bakari, but I’m afraid I can’t. All I can tell you is that it took me two years of searching in Paris and Auvers to find the painting and another year to convince the owner to give it up.”

  “Perhaps someday, when sufficient time has elapsed, you’ll be gracious enough to share more of this fascinating story with me.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” she said. “As for the authentication, we have determined the work is unquestionably Vincent’s and, of course, we are prepared to stand behind that authentication.”

  “I’d be happy to examine the reports of your authenticators, Miss Bancroft, but quite frankly I don’t need to see them. You see, it’s quite obvious to me that this painting is truly the work of van Gogh.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come here,” he said paternally. “Let me show you something.”

  Sarah took a step closer to the canvas. Zizi pointed to the upper right corner.

  “Do you see that slight mark on the surface? If I’m not mistaken, that’s Vincent’s thumbprint. You see, Vincent was notoriously cavalier in the way he handled his work. When he finished this one, he probably picked it up by the corner and carried it through the streets of Auvers to his room above Café Ravoux. At any given time there were dozens of paintings in his room there. He used to lean them against the wall, one atop the next. He was working so quickly that the previous paintings were never quite dry when he laid the new ones on top. If you look carefully at this one, you can see the crosshatched impression of canvas on the surface of the paint.”

  His hand was still resting on her shoulder. “Very impressive, Mr. al-Bakari. But I’m not surprised, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “I learned a long time ago that a man in my position cannot rely on the promises of others. He must be constantly on guard against deceptive schemes and clever forgeries. I’m quite confident no one could ever slip a forgery past me, in business or in art.”

  “One would be foolish even to try, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  Zizi looked at Isherwood. “You have quite a knack for finding undiscovered work. Didn’t I read something the other day about a Rubens of yours?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “And now a van Gogh.” Zizi’s gaze moved back to the painting. “Andrew tells me you have a price in mind.”

  “We do, Mr. al-Bakari. We think it’s quite reasonable.”

  “So do I.” He looked over his shoulder at Herr Wehrli, the banker. “Do you think you can find eighty-five million somewhere in the accounts, Manfred?”

  “I think it’s quite possible, Zizi.”

  “Then we have a deal, Mr. Isherwood.” He looked at Sarah and said, “I’ll take her.”

  AT 4:53 the neviot team sent word to Gabriel that the proceedings had moved to the lower offices and that Isherwood was now in discussions with Herr Wehrli and Abdul & Abdul over matters of payment and transfer of custody. Said discussions lasted slightly more than an hour, and at 6:05 came the flash that Mr. Baker and his party were traipsing across the darkened yard toward the motorcade parked in Duke Street. Eli Lavon handled the pursuit. For a few minutes it seemed the mansion in Mayfair was their destination, but by 6:15 it was clear that Mr. Baker and party were headed back to Heathrow and destinations unknown. Gabriel ordered Lavon to break off the chase. He didn’t care where Mr. Baker was going now. He knew they would all meet again soon.

  The video recording arrived at 7:45. It had been shot by the security camera mounted in the far corner of the exhibition room above the Claude landscape. Gabriel, as he watched it, felt as though he were seated in a box high above the stage.

  “…This is Sarah Bancroft, our assistant director. It’s because of Sarah we’re all here tonight….”

  “…Then, we have a deal, Mr. Isherwood. I’ll take her….”

  Gabriel stopped the recording and looked at Dina.

  “You’ve sold him one girl,” she said. “Now you just have to sell him the other.”

  Gabriel opened the audio file of Isherwood’s meeting with Andrew Malone and clicked Play.

  “It’s not Zizi’s money. It’s my money. And what Zizi doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “And if he finds out? He’ll drop you in the Empty Quarter and let the vultures pick over your bones.”

  21.

  London

  THE DENUNCIATION of Andrew Malone arrived at the headquarters of AAB Holdings in Geneva at 10:22 A.M. the following Thursday. It was addressed to “Mr. Abdul Aziz al-Bakari, Esq.” and hand-delivered by a motorcycle courier wearing the uniform of a local Geneva messenger service. The sender’s name was a Miss Rebecca Goodheart, Earl’s Court, London, but inspection by an AAB security underling determined that Miss Goodheart was merely a pseudonym for an anonymous snitch. After finding no evidence of radiological, biological, or explosive material, the underling forwarded the parcel to the office of Wazir bin Talal. There it r
emained until late Friday afternoon, when bin Talal returned to Geneva after a one-day trip to Riyadh.

  He had other more pressing matters to attend to, and so it was nearly eight o’clock before he got around to opening the envelope. He immediately regretted the delay, for the allegations were quite serious in nature. On no fewer than nine occasions, according to Miss Goodheart, Andrew Malone had taken cash payments in violation of his personal services contract with Abdul Aziz al-Bakari. The allegations were supported by a packet of corroborating evidence, including bank deposit receipts, faxes, and personal e-mails taken from Malone’s home computer. Bin Talal immediately placed a call to his superior’s lakeside Geneva mansion and by nine that evening he was placing the documents on the desk of an irate Zizi al-Bakari.

  That same evening, at eleven London time, bin Talal placed a call to Malone’s Knightsbridge residence and ordered him to come to Geneva on the first available flight. When Malone protested that he had a prior commitment—and that it was a weekend, for heaven’s sake—bin Talal made it clear that the summons was mandatory and failure to appear would be regarded as a grave offense. The call was recorded by a neviot team and forwarded immediately to Gabriel at the Surrey safe house, along with the rather shaky call Malone placed to British Airways ten minutes later, reserving a seat on the 8:30 A.M. flight to Geneva.

  Eli Lavon booked a seat on the flight as well. Upon arrival in Geneva the two men were met by a pair of incongruous cars, Malone by a black S-Class Mercedes driven by one of Zizi’s chauffeurs, and Lavon by a mud-spattered Opel piloted by a courier from Geneva Station. Lavon ordered the bodel to give the Mercedes wide berth. As a result they arrived at Zizi’s mansion several minutes after Malone. They found a secluded parking space farther down the street but did not have to wait long, because twenty minutes later Malone emerged from the house, looking more ashen than usual.

  He proceeded directly back to the airport and booked a seat on the earliest flight back to London, which was at five o’clock. Lavon did the same. At Heathrow the two men went their separate ways, Lavon to Surrey and Malone to Knightsbridge, where he informed his wife that unless he could come up with four million pounds in extremely short order, Zizi al-Bakari was going to personally throw him off an extremely high bridge.

  That was Saturday night. By the following Wednesday it was clear to Gabriel and the rest of his team that Zizi was in the market for a new exclusive art consultant. It was also clear he had his eye on someone in particular, because Sarah Bancroft, assistant director of Isherwood Fine Arts of Mason’s Yard, St. James’s, was under surveillance.

  SHE BEGAN to think of them as friends. They rode with her in the Tube. They strolled in Mason’s Yard and loitered in Duke Street. They followed her to lunch and there was always one waiting in Green’s each evening when she stopped at the bar for a quick one with Oliver and the boys. They went with her to an auction at Sotheby’s and watched her pick over the dreary contents of a saleroom in Hull. They even made a long trip with her down to Devon, where she sweet-talked a dusty minor aristocrat into parting with a lovely Venetian Madonna and Child that Isherwood had coveted for years. “Zizi’s coming for you,” Gabriel told her in a brief telephone call on the Monday afternoon. “It’s only a matter of time. And don’t be alarmed if your things seem a bit out of place when you go home tonight. Sharuki broke into your flat and searched it this morning.”

  The next day the first gift arrived, a Harry Winston diamond watch. Attached to the gift-wrapped box was a handwritten note: Thank you for finding Marguerite. Eternally grateful, Zizi. The earrings from Bulgari came the following day. The double strand of Mikimoto pearls the day after that. The gold mesh bangle from Tiffany on Thursday evening, just as she was preparing to leave work. She stuck it on her right wrist and walked over to Green’s, where Oliver made a clumsy pass at her. “In another lifetime,” she said, kissing his cheek, “but not tonight. Be a love, Oliver, and walk me to the Tube.”

  Evenings were the hardest on her. There were no more trips to the Surrey safe house. As far as Sarah was concerned the Surrey safe house did not exist. She found she missed them all terribly. They were a family, a loud, quarrelsome, cacophonous, loving family—the sort of family Sarah had never had. All that remained of them now was the occasional cryptic phone call from Gabriel and the light in the flat on the opposite side of the street. Yossi’s light, but soon even Yossi would be lost to her. At night, when she was alone and afraid, she sometimes wished she had told them to find someone else. And sometimes she would think of poor Julian and wonder how on earth he was going to get along without her.

  THE FINAL PACKAGE arrived at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was hand-delivered by a messenger dressed in a suit and tie. Inside was a handwritten note and a single airline ticket. Sarah opened the ticket jacket and looked at the destination. Ten seconds later the telephone on her desk rang.

  “Isherwood Fine Arts. This is Sarah.”

  “Good afternoon, Sarah.”

  It was Zizi.

  “Hello, Mr. al-Bakari. How are you, sir?”

  “I’ll know in a moment. Did you receive the invitation and the airline tickets?”

  “I did, sir. And the earrings. And the watch. And the pearls. And the bangle.”

  “The bangle is my favorite.”

  “Mine, too, sir, but the gifts were completely unnecessary. As is this invitation. I’m afraid I can’t accept.”

  “You insult me, Sarah.”

  “It’s not my intention, sir. As much as I would love to spend a few days in the sun, I’m afraid I can’t go jetting off at a moment’s notice.”

  “It’s not a moment’s notice. If you look carefully at the tickets, you see that you have three days until your departure.”

  “I can’t go jetting off three days from now either. I have business to attend to here at the gallery.”

  “I’m sure Julian can spare you for a few days. You just made him a great deal of money.”

  “This is true.”

  “So how about it, Sarah? Will you come?”

  “I’m afraid the answer is no, sir.”

  “You should know one thing about me, Sarah, and that is I never take no for an answer.”

  “I just don’t think it would be appropriate, sir.”

  “Appropriate? I think you’ve misinterpreted my motives.”

  “What are your motives, sir?”

  “I’d like you to come to work for me.”

  “As what, sir?”

  “I never discuss such matters over the phone, Sarah. Will you come?”

  She allowed ten seconds to elapse before she gave him her answer.

  “Brilliant,” he said. “One of my men will accompany you. He’ll collect you at your flat at eight A.M. Monday morning.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of traveling alone, Mr. al-Bakari.”

  “I’m sure you are, but it will be easier if one of my security men comes with you. I’ll see you Monday evening.”

  And then he rang off. As Sarah replaced the receiver, she realized he hadn’t asked for her address.

  GABRIEL WAS breaking down his studio at the Surrey safe house when Lavon came pounding up the stairs, holding a printout of the message that had just arrived from the neviot team in Mason’s Yard. “Zizi’s made his move,” he said, handing the printout to Gabriel. “He wants to see her right away.”

  Gabriel read the message, then looked up at Lavon. “Shit,” he murmured. “We’re going to need a boat.”

  THEY HAD a champagne supper to celebrate, complete with a place setting for Sarah, the one member of the team who could not join them. The next morning Lavon drove Gabriel to Heathrow Airport, and by four-thirty that afternoon he was enjoying the view of the sunset from a CIA safe flat on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Adrian Carter was wearing chinos, a cotton pullover, and penny loafers with no socks. He handed Gabriel a glass of lemonade and a photograph of a very large boat.

  “She’s called Sun Dancer,” Carter sai
d. “She’s a seventy-four-foot ocean-going luxury motor yacht. I’m sure you and your team will find her more than comfortable.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “We seized it a few years ago from a Panamanian drug runner named Carlos Castillo. Mr. Castillo now resides in a federal prison in Oklahoma, and we’ve been using his boat to do the Lord’s work down here in the Caribbean.”

  “How many times has it been used?”

  “Five or six times by the DEA, and we’ve used it twice.”

  Gabriel handed the photograph back to Carter. “It’s dirty,” he said. “Can’t you get me something with a clean provenance?”

  “We’ve changed her name and registry several times. There’s no way Zizi or any of his security goons can trace it back to us.”

  Gabriel sighed. “Where is it now?”

  “A marina on Fisher Island,” Carter said, pointing to the south. “It’s being provisioned right now. We have a CIA crew leaving Langley tonight.”

  “Nice try,” Gabriel said, “but I’ll use my own crew.”

  “You?”

  “We have a navy, Adrian. A very good one, in fact. I have a crew on standby in Haifa. And tell your boys to take out the listening devices. Otherwise, we’ll do it for them, and Sun Dancer won’t look very good when we give it back to you.”

  “It’s already been taken care of,” Carter said. “How are you planning to get your team over here?”

  “I was hoping a friend of mine from American intelligence would extend a helping hand.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Airlift and landing rights.”

  “How quickly can your crew get from Haifa to London?”

  “They can leave first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll send one of our planes to London tonight. It will collect your team and bring them back here. We’ll set it down at Homestead and dispense with passports and customs. You can put out to sea on Sunday night and rendezvous with Zizi Monday afternoon.”