The Kill Artist by Daniel Silva Page B

Stone’s gullet. For twenty minutes he treated Shamron to tales of his business ventures, his charitable activities, his most recent meeting with the Prince of Wales, his active and diverse sex life. He paused only once to scream for Angelina to bring another vat of caviar. Shamron sat with his legs crossed, watching the bubbles rise in his champagne. Occasionally he murmured, “How interesting,” or “That’s fascinating.”
    “How are your children?” Stone blurted, unexpectedly changing course. Shamron had a son serving in the IDF in the security zone of southern Lebanon and a daughter who had moved to New Zealand, gone native, and never returned his calls.
    “Fine,” said Shamron. “And you? How are the boys?”
    “I had to fire Christopher last week.”
    “So I heard.”
    “My competitors had great fun at my expense, but I thought it showed courage. Every Looking Glass employee, no matter how far down the food chain, now knows I’m a tough bastard—but fair.”
    “It was a bit harsh for coming five minutes late to a meeting.”
    “The principle, Ari. The principle. You should use some of my techniques in your shop.”
    “And Jonathan?”
    “Gone to work for the competition. Told him to forget about his inheritance. Said he’d forgotten about it long ago.”
    Shamron shook his head at the strange ways of children.
    “So what brings you to my doorstep, Ari Shamron? Certainly not food. You’ve not touched the caviar. Or the champagne. Don’t just sit there. Speak, Ari.”
    “I need money.”
    “Can see that, can’t I? Not a complete idiot, after all. Practically have your cap in hand. What’s it for? Share, Ari. Entitled to it after everything I’ve done for you.”
    “It concerns the incident in Paris,” Shamron said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can say.”
    “Come on, Ari. You can do better than that. Give me something I can hang my hat on.”
    “I need it to catch the terrorists who did it.”
    “Now that’s more like it. How much this time?”
    “Half million.”
    “What flavor?”
    “Dollars.”
    “Down payment or payment in full?”
    “Actually, I may need a line of credit, depending on how long the search for these boys lasts.”
    “I think I can manage that. How would you like it delivered?”
    “There’s a small shipping company based in Nassau called Carlton Limited. Its largest container vessel is in dry dock undergoing repairs. Unfortunately, the repairs are taking longer and costing much more than the owners of Carlton Limited projected. They need an infusion of cash quickly, or the ship may go down and take Carlton with it.”
    “I see.”
    Shamron rattled off the number of an account in the Bahamas, which Stone jotted down on a notepad with a gold pen.
    “I can have a half million in the account by morning.”
    “Thank you.”
    “What else?”
    “I need you to make another investment.”
    “Another shipping company?”
    “Actually, in an art dealership here in London.”
    “Art! No, thank you, Ari.”
    “I’m asking you as a favor.”
    Stone let out a long sigh. Shamron could smell the caviar and champagne on his breath. “I’m listening.”
    “I need you to make a bridge loan to a firm called Isherwood Fine Arts.”
    “Isherwood!”
    Shamron nodded.
    “ Julian Isherwood? Julie Isherwood? I have made my share of questionable investments, Ari, but lending money to Julie Isherwood is tantamount to setting it on fire. Won’t do it. Sorry, can’t help.”
    “I’m asking you as a personal favor.”
    “And I’m telling you that I won’t do it. Julie can sink or swim on his own.” Stone made another of his sudden course changes. “I didn’t know Julie was part of the brotherhood.”
    “I didn’t say that he was.”
    “Doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to give him any of my money. I’ve made my decision. End of discussion.”
    “That’s disappointing.”
    “Don’t threaten me, Ari Shamron. How dare you, after everything I’ve done