Free Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 by Daniel Silva

are.”
    “I should have chosen my words more carefully, Julian.”
    “If I have to liquidate I’ll lose my shirt,” Isherwood said. “I’d be lucky to get thirty pence on the pound for what my collection is really worth.”
    Shamron was unmoved by his pleadings. “Where is he?”
    “Why should I tell you?”
    “Because I need him, Julian. We need him.”
    “Oh, Christ! Don’t pull that shit with me, because it won’t work a second time. I’ve heard all your stories, and I know how they end. And by the way, Gabriel feels the same way. He’s through with your lot, too.”
    “So tell me where he is. What harm would it do?”
    “Because I know you too well to trust you. No one in his right mind would trust you.”
    “You can tell me where he is, or we can find him ourselves. It might take a few days, but we’ll find him.”
    “Suppose I tell you. What are you prepared to offer in return?”
    “Maybe I could find a backer to keep you afloat until you sell your Vecellio.”
    “Reliable backers are as rare as a reliable Vecellio.”
    “I know someone who’s been thinking about getting into the art business. I might be able to speak to him on your behalf.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “I’m afraid he would insist on anonymity.”
    “If Gabriel suspects I told you—”
    “He won’t suspect a thing.”
    Isherwood licked his bloodless lips.

8
    PORT NAVAS, CORNWALL
    The old man came while the stranger was away on his boat. Peel spotted him from his bedroom window as the man tried to guide a big Mercedes along the narrow lane overlooking the quay. He stopped at the foreman’s cottage, rang the bell, and knocked on the door. Peel could hear the old man’s knuckles striking the wood all the way across the creek: short, brutal blows. He pulled on a sweater and raincoat and dashed out of the cottage. A moment later he was standing behind the man, panting, face hot from exertion.
    The old man said, “Who are you?”
    An accent, Peel noted—like the stranger’s, but heavier.
    “I’m Peel. Who are you?”
    But the old man ignored this question. “I’m looking for the man who lives in this cottage.”
    “He’s not here now.”
    “I’m a friend. Do you know where he is?”
    Peel said nothing, for the notion of the stranger having a friend who would appear unannounced was ludicrous. The old man looked toward the quay, then his gaze settled once again on Peel. “He’s out on his boat, isn’t he?”
    Peel nodded. Something about the man’s eyes made the boy shiver.
    The old man looked at the sky: pewter-colored clouds pressing down on the creek, thick and heavy with coming rain. “Rather unpleasant weather for sailing.”
    “He’s very good.”
    “Yes, he is. When will he be back?”
    “He never says. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
    “Actually, I think I’d like to wait for him.” He looked like a man who could wait a long time if he set his mind to it. “Is there someplace to get some coffee around here?”
    Peel pointed toward the village.
     
    But the old man didn’t go into the village for coffee. In fact he didn’t go anywhere. He just climbed into the Mercedes and settled himself behind the wheel like a statue. Peel walked to the point and made a base camp next to the oyster farm, staring down the river toward the sea, waiting for the stranger. By midafternoon there were whitecaps on the river, and a rainstorm was coming up. At four o’clock it was thoroughly dark. Peel was soaked, freezing half to death. He was about to give up his vigil when he spotted a cluster of soft blue running lights floating upriver through the mist. A moment later he heard the rhythmic rattle of an engine: the stranger’s fine wooden ketch, heading for home under power.
    Peel switched on his flashlight and signaled the stranger. The ketch made a gentle turn to starboard, headed toward the point, slicing through black water. When the boat was within a few yards of the shore, the stranger shouted,