The Heist Read Online Free PDF Page B

“The last thing you want is for Jack Bradshaw’s killers to read your name in the papers.”
    Isherwood chewed his lip and nodded slowly in agreement. “The general seemed to think Bradshaw was trafficking in stolen paintings,” he said after a moment. “He also seemed to think I was in business with him. He gave me quite a going-over.”
    “Were you, Julian?”
    “In business with Jack Bradshaw?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
    “I had to ask.”
    “I’ve done many naughty things during my career, usually at your behest. But I have never, and I mean never , sold a painting that I knew was stolen.”
    “What about a smuggled painting?”
    “Define smuggled ,” said Isherwood with an impish smile.
    “What about Oliver?”
    “Are you asking whether Oliver Dimbleby is flogging stolen paintings?”
    “I suppose I am.”
    Isherwood had to think it over for a moment before answering. “There’s not much I would put past Oliver Dimbleby,” he said finally. “But no, I don’t believe he’s dealing in stolen pictures. It was all a case of bad luck and timing.”
    Isherwood signaled the waiter and ordered another Bellini. He was finally beginning to relax. “I have to admit,” he said, “that you were the absolute last person in the world I expected to see today.”
    “The feeling is mutual, Julian.”
    “I take it you and the general are acquainted.”
    “We’ve exchanged business cards.”
    “He’s one of the most disagreeable creatures I’ve ever met.”
    “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
    “How much does he know about our relationship?”
    “He knows we’re friends and that I’ve cleaned a number of pictures for you. And if I had to guess,” Gabriel added, “he probably knows about your links to King Saul Boulevard.”
    King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Those who worked there referred to it as the Office and nothing else. So did Julian Isherwood. He was not directly employed by the Office; he was a member of the sayanim , a global network of volunteer helpers. They were the bankers who supplied Office agents with cash in emergencies; the doctors who treated them in secret when they were wounded; the hoteliers who gave them rooms under false names, and the rental car agents who supplied them with untraceable vehicles. Isherwood had been recruited in the mid-1970s, during a wave of Palestinian terrorist attacks against Israeli targets in Europe. He’d had but one assignment—to assist in building and maintaining the operational cover of a young art restorer and assassin named Gabriel Allon.
    “I suppose my release didn’t come free of charge,” Isherwood said.
    “No,” replied Gabriel. “In fact, it was rather pricey.”
    “How pricey?”
    Gabriel told him.
    “So much for your sabbatical in Venice,” said Isherwood. “It seems I’ve ruined everything.”
    “It’s the least I can do for you, Julian. I owe you a great deal.”
    Isherwood smiled wistfully. “How long has it been?” he asked.
    “A hundred years.”
    “And now you’re going to be a father again, twice over. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
    “Neither did I.”
    Isherwood looked at Gabriel. “You don’t sound thrilled about the prospect of having children.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “But?”
    “I’m old, Julian.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Perhaps too old to be starting another family.”
    “Life dealt you a lousy hand, my boy. You’re entitled to a bit of happiness in your dotage. I must admit I envy you. You’re married to a beautiful young woman who’s going to bear you two beautiful children. I wish I were in your shoes.”
    “Be careful what you wish for.”
    Isherwood drank slowly of his Bellini but said nothing.
    “It’s not too late, you know.”
    “To have