Geneva."
"And if I need more?"
"Then I'll get you more. But the well is not bottomless. You were always careful about money. I hope nothing will change now that you have no reason to fear the accountants of King Saul Boulevard."
"I'll spend only what I need."
Shamron changed the subject to communication. Because Lev controlled London Station, its staff and facilities were strictly off-limits to Gabriel. There were three London bodelim who were loyal to Shamron and could be counted on to do favors for Gabriel without telling the station chief. Shamron recited a series of telephone numbers. Gabriel committed them to memory. It was as if they were back at the Academy, playing silly memory games and awareness drills, like counting the steps on a flight of stairs, or recording the contents of a man's closet, or the registration numbers of a dozen parked cars, with one brief glance.
Shamron moved on. The London Station secure cable could not be used for electronic communication because all transmissions would have to be cleared by the station chief. The London Station pouch could not be used for the same reason. In a pinch Gabriel could insert a field report into the diplomatic pouch addressed to Amos Argov. A friend in the Foreign Ministry would forward it to Shamron at King Saul Boulevard. But he should not abuse the privilege. Gabriel was also forbidden to use London safe flats, because London Station administered them and Lev kept careful track of their use.
Shamron rattled off a telephone number in Oslo that was routed through to his home in Tiberias. Gabriel was to treat the line as though it were insecure.
"If a face-to-face meeting is required, Paris will be the venue," Shamron said. "We'll use the sites from the Black September operation, for old times' sake. Same sequence, same fallbacks, same body talk. Do you remember the Paris sites?"
"We'll always have Paris."
"Any questions?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"You may leave the United Kingdom as quickly as possible," Gabriel said.
Then he turned and walked quickly away.
TEN
St. James's, London
"Listen, Julie," said Oliver Dimbleby, leaning his thick head over the table and lowering his voice. "I know you're in trouble. The whole street knows you're in trouble. There're no secrets down here, petal."
Oliver Dimbleby was a pink man in a pink shirt who always seemed unduly pleased with himself. His hair was curly and sandy, with tiny horns over his ears. Isherwood and Dimbleby were as close as two competitors could be in the London art trade, which meant that Isherwood despised him only a little.
"You've lost your backing," Dimbleby said. "You can't give a painting away. You even lost this month's girl, two weeks ahead of schedule. Oh, hell, what was this one's name?"
"Heather."
"Ah, yes, Heather. A shame to lose one like that, wasn't it? I would have enjoyed getting to know Heather a bit better. She came to me before she went to Giles Pittaway. Lovely girl, but I told her I wouldn't poach in a friend's forest. Sent her packing. Unfortunately, she walked to New Bond Strasse and straight into the arms of the devil."
"So I'm in trouble," said Isherwood, trying to change the subject. "What's your point?"
"It's Pittaway, isn't it? Killing all of us, what?" There was a bit of the Estuary in Dimbleby's accent, and it had thickened with the two bottles of Burgundy they'd consumed over lunch at Wilton's. "Allow me to let you in on a little secret, old love. We're all in the same boat. There are no buyers and no good pictures to sell even if there were. It's all modern and the Impressionists, and nobody can afford to deal van Goghs and Monets except the big boys. I had a pop star come into my gallery the other day. Wanted something for his bedroom to pull together his duvet cover and Santa Fe carpet. I sent him to Selfridges. He didn't see the humor in that, thick bastard. Father warned me to stay out of this business.
"And if I need more?"
"Then I'll get you more. But the well is not bottomless. You were always careful about money. I hope nothing will change now that you have no reason to fear the accountants of King Saul Boulevard."
"I'll spend only what I need."
Shamron changed the subject to communication. Because Lev controlled London Station, its staff and facilities were strictly off-limits to Gabriel. There were three London bodelim who were loyal to Shamron and could be counted on to do favors for Gabriel without telling the station chief. Shamron recited a series of telephone numbers. Gabriel committed them to memory. It was as if they were back at the Academy, playing silly memory games and awareness drills, like counting the steps on a flight of stairs, or recording the contents of a man's closet, or the registration numbers of a dozen parked cars, with one brief glance.
Shamron moved on. The London Station secure cable could not be used for electronic communication because all transmissions would have to be cleared by the station chief. The London Station pouch could not be used for the same reason. In a pinch Gabriel could insert a field report into the diplomatic pouch addressed to Amos Argov. A friend in the Foreign Ministry would forward it to Shamron at King Saul Boulevard. But he should not abuse the privilege. Gabriel was also forbidden to use London safe flats, because London Station administered them and Lev kept careful track of their use.
Shamron rattled off a telephone number in Oslo that was routed through to his home in Tiberias. Gabriel was to treat the line as though it were insecure.
"If a face-to-face meeting is required, Paris will be the venue," Shamron said. "We'll use the sites from the Black September operation, for old times' sake. Same sequence, same fallbacks, same body talk. Do you remember the Paris sites?"
"We'll always have Paris."
"Any questions?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"You may leave the United Kingdom as quickly as possible," Gabriel said.
Then he turned and walked quickly away.
TEN
St. James's, London
"Listen, Julie," said Oliver Dimbleby, leaning his thick head over the table and lowering his voice. "I know you're in trouble. The whole street knows you're in trouble. There're no secrets down here, petal."
Oliver Dimbleby was a pink man in a pink shirt who always seemed unduly pleased with himself. His hair was curly and sandy, with tiny horns over his ears. Isherwood and Dimbleby were as close as two competitors could be in the London art trade, which meant that Isherwood despised him only a little.
"You've lost your backing," Dimbleby said. "You can't give a painting away. You even lost this month's girl, two weeks ahead of schedule. Oh, hell, what was this one's name?"
"Heather."
"Ah, yes, Heather. A shame to lose one like that, wasn't it? I would have enjoyed getting to know Heather a bit better. She came to me before she went to Giles Pittaway. Lovely girl, but I told her I wouldn't poach in a friend's forest. Sent her packing. Unfortunately, she walked to New Bond Strasse and straight into the arms of the devil."
"So I'm in trouble," said Isherwood, trying to change the subject. "What's your point?"
"It's Pittaway, isn't it? Killing all of us, what?" There was a bit of the Estuary in Dimbleby's accent, and it had thickened with the two bottles of Burgundy they'd consumed over lunch at Wilton's. "Allow me to let you in on a little secret, old love. We're all in the same boat. There are no buyers and no good pictures to sell even if there were. It's all modern and the Impressionists, and nobody can afford to deal van Goghs and Monets except the big boys. I had a pop star come into my gallery the other day. Wanted something for his bedroom to pull together his duvet cover and Santa Fe carpet. I sent him to Selfridges. He didn't see the humor in that, thick bastard. Father warned me to stay out of this business.
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