The Girl in Black

Chapter 3

As he entered the lobby, Shamron glanced at the mailbox for apartment three and found there was no nameplate. He climbed the stairs heavily. His figure was thick, and as usual, he wore khaki pants and an old leather jacket that was torn on his right chest. His face was cracked and covered with crow"s feet, and the few remaining silver rims of his hair were cut so short that it almost disappeared. His hands were like leather, speckled with tortoiseshell, and seemed to have been borrowed from some hand twice his size. His other hand held a file.

The door was ajar when he reached the landing on the third floor. He put his hand on the door and gently pushed it inside. This apartment was once meticulously decorated by an Italian-Jewish woman with great taste. Now the furniture in the house, like the woman, is gone, and the apartment is turned into a studio. However, it is not an artist"s studio, Shamron reminded himself. Gabriel Allon is a restorer - one of the three or four most talented restorers in the world. Now he was standing in front of a large canvas depicting a man surrounded by carnivorous cats. Shamron sat quietly on a painted stool, watching Gabriel work. He had always felt strange about his ability to imitate the drawings of the ancient masters. For Shamron, it was a magic trick, another of Gabriel"s gifts beyond his linguistic prowess or the ability to pull a Beretta from his hip and aim for a shot in the span of a clap.

“It certainly looked better when it first arrived,” Shamron commented, “But I still don’t understand why so many people want to hang pictures like that in their homes.”

“This painting will not be hung in the house,” Gabriel said, raising his brush to the canvas. "This is a museum piece."

"Who drew it?". Shamron asked suddenly, as if interrogating the bomber.

"The Bohnams auction house in London thinks it"s a work of Eramus Quellinus," Gabriel replied. "Perhaps Quellinus laid the foundation for the real painting, but it is clear to me that Rubens completed the painting for him." He ran his hand across the large canvas. "His brush strokes are everywhere."

"If so, what"s the difference?"

"About 10 million pounds," Gabriel replied. "Julian will be rich with this picture."

Julian Isherwood is a London art dealer, and a temporary employee of Israel Intelligence. The Intelligence Bureau has a very long name but it has nothing to do with the nature of its work. People like Shamron and Gabriel simply call it The Office.

“I hope Julian pays you well.”

"Restore fee for me, add a little commission if sold."

"How much in total?"

Gabriel tapped the paintbrush on the palette and continued working.

“We need to talk,” Shamron continued.

"Then tell him."

"I won"t talk while you"re working."

Gabriel turned to look at Shamron through the magnifying glass. “And I won"t talk to you as long as you"re wearing this. You look like my nightmare."

Gabriel hesitantly placed the palette on the desk. He removed his magnifying glass, revealing startling emerald green eyes. His height is below average but he has the square figure of a cyclist. His forehead was wide, but narrow at the chin, and his long, bony nose looked like it was carved out of wood. His hair was cut short and speckled with silver at his temples. It was because of Shamron that Gabriel became a restorer, not one of the most accomplished painters of his generation. It was Shamron who was also the reason why his temples turned salt and pepper overnight even though he was just over twenty years old. Shamron is an intelligence agent chosen by Golda Meir to hunt down and assassinate the perpetrators of the 1972 Munich m******e. A promising young art student named Gabriel Allon is his main g*n.

Gabriel washed the palette and paintbrush, then he went into the kitchen. Shamron sat down at the small table, waited for Gabriel"s back, and then hurriedly lit a strong Turkish cigarette. Gabriel, hearing the familiar snap of Shamron"s old Zippo lighter, pointed angrily at the Rubens paintings, afraid the smoke would ruin them, but Shamron made a gesture of disregard and defiantly handed over the cigarette. to the lips. A pleasant silence drifted between the two as Gabriel poured the water from the bottle into the teapot and scooped the coffee into the coffee maker. Shamron relaxed listening to the wind blowing through the eucalyptus trees in the garden. A believer in reason and justice, he marked time not with Jewish festivals but with the rhythms of heaven and earth - the day the rain came, the day the wildflowers bloomed in the Galilee, the day the cool winds returned. Gabriel could read his thoughts. Another fall but we"re still here. The treaty has not yet been canceled.

"The prime minister wants answers." Shamron"s gaze remained fixed on the messy little garden. "He"s a patient man, but he"s not going to sit around and wait forever."

“I told him that I would give him the answer once the painting was restored.”

Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Does your arrogance have no end? The Prime Minister of Israel wanted you to be the head of the Task Force, and you delayed the answer because of a 500-year-old drawing."

"Four hundred years".

Gabriel brought coffee to the table and poured two cups. Shamron scooped sugar into his cup and stirred it just once.

“You said your work was almost done, so what was your answer?”

"I haven"t decided yet."

“May I give you some advice?”

"What if I don"t like your advice?"

"Like it or not, I advise you." Shamron extinguished the cigarette butt. "You should take the Prime Minister"s offer before he hands it over to someone else."

"Nothing could make me happier than if the Prime Minister did."