“I put the varnish on yesterday before I left Jerusalem,” Gabriel said. “I’ll use one of our front shippers to get it here as quickly as possible. You could have it by the end of the week. By the way, you owe me a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Check’s in the mail, petal.”

“Who else?” Gabriel asked. “Who else knows about us?”

Isherwood made a show of thought. “The wretched Oliver Dimbleby,” he said. “You remember Oliver. I introduced you to him at Green’s one afternoon when we were having lunch. Tubby little dealer from King Street. Tried to buy my gallery out from under me one time.”

Gabriel remembered. Somewhere he still had the showy gold-plated business card Oliver had pressed upon him. Oliver had barely looked in Gabriel’s direction. Oliver was that way.

“I’ve done many a favor for Crabbe over the years,” Isherwood said. “The sorts of favors we don’t like to talk about in our line of work. As for Oliver Dimbleby, I helped him clean up a terrible mess he made with a girl who worked in his gallery. I took the poor waif in. Gave her a job. She left me for another dealer. Always do, my girls. What is it about me that drives women away? I’m an easy mark, that’s it. Women see that. So did your little outfit. Herr Heller certainly did.”

Herr Rudolf Heller, venture capitalist from Zurich, was one of Shamron’s favorite aliases. It was the one he had used when recruiting Isherwood.

“How is he, by the way?”

“He sends his best.”

Gabriel lowered his eyes to the damp pavement of Birdcage Walk. A breath of cold wind rose from the park. Dead leaves rattled across their path.

“I need a van Gogh,” Gabriel said again.

“Yes, I heard you the first time. The problem is, I don’t have a van Gogh. In case you’ve forgotten, Isherwood Fine Arts specializes in Old Masters. If you want Impressionists, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“But you know where I can get one.”

“Unless you’re planning on stealing one, there’s nothing on the market right now—at least not that I’m aware of.”

“But that’s not true, is it, Julian? You do know about a van Gogh. You told me about it once a hundred years ago—a story about a previously unknown painting your father had seen in Paris between the wars.”

“Not just my father,” Isherwood said. “I’ve seen it, too. Vincent painted it in Auvers, during the final days of his life. There’s a rumor it might have been his undoing. The problem is, the painting isn’t for sale, and it probably never will be. The family has made it clear to me they’ll never part with it. They’re also bound and determined to keep its very existence a secret.”

“Tell me the story again.”