The Heist. Daniel Silva

replied Isherwood before settling in at his usual table next to the window overlooking Duke Street. And there he ordered a bottle of the stuff, brutally cold, for a glass wouldn’t do. Mendenhall soon departed with his usual flourish, and Isherwood was alone with his thoughts and his drink, a dangerous combination for a man of advancing years with a career in full retreat.

      But eventually the door swung open, and the wet darkening street yielded a pair of curators from the National Gallery. Someone important from the Tate came next, followed by a delegation from Bonhams led by Jeremy Crabbe, the tweedy director of the auction house’s Old Master paintings department. Hard on their heels was Roddy Hutchinson, widely regarded as the most unscrupulous dealer in all of London. His arrival was a bad omen, for everywhere Roddy went, tubby Oliver Dimbleby was sure to follow. As expected, he came waddling into the bar a few minutes later with all the discretion of a train whistle at midnight. Isherwood seized his mobile phone and feigned an urgent conversation, but Oliver was having none of it. He made a straight line toward the table—like a hound bearing down on a fox, Isherwood would recall later—and settled his ample backside into the empty chair. “Domaine Daniel Chotard,” he said approvingly, lifting the bottle of wine from the ice bucket. “Don’t mind if I do.”

      He wore a blue power suit that fit his portly frame like a sausage casing and large gold cuff links the size of shillings. His cheeks were rounded and pink; his pale blue eyes shone with a brightness that suggested he slept well at night. Oliver Dimbleby was a sinner of the highest order, but his conscience bothered him not.

      “Don’t take this the wrong way, Julie,” he said as he poured himself a generous measure of Isherwood’s wine, “but you look like a pile of dirty laundry.”

      “That’s not what Simon Mendenhall said.”

      “Simon earns his living by talking people out of their money. I, however, am a source of unvarnished truth, even when it hurts.” Dimbleby settled his gaze on Isherwood with a look of genuine concern.

      “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Oliver.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like you’re trying to think of something kind to say before the doctor pulls the plug.”

      “Have you had a peek in the mirror lately?”

      “I try to avoid mirrors these days.”

      “I can see why.” Dimbleby added another half inch of the wine to his glass.

      “Is there anything else I can get for you, Oliver? Some caviar?”

      “Don’t I always reciprocate?”

      “No, Oliver, you don’t. In fact, if I were keeping track, which I am not, you would be several thousand pounds in arrears.”

      Dimbleby ignored the remark. “What is it, Julian? What’s troubling you this time?”

      “At the moment, Oliver, it’s you.”

      “It’s that girl, isn’t it, Julie? That’s what’s got you down. What was her name again?”

      “Cassandra,” Isherwood answered to the window.

      “Broke your heart, did she?”

      “They always do.”

      Dimbleby smiled. “Your capacity for love astounds me. What I wouldn’t give to fall in love just once.”

      “You’re the biggest womanizer I know, Oliver.”

      “Being a womanizer has precious little to do with being in love. I love women, all women. And therein lies the problem.”

      Isherwood stared into the street. It was starting to rain again, just in time for the evening rush.

      “Sold any paintings lately?” asked Dimbleby.

      “Several, actually.”

      “None that I’ve heard about.”

      “That’s because the sales were private.”

      “Bollocks,” replied Oliver with a snort. “You haven’t sold anything in months. But that hasn’t stopped you from acquiring new stock, has it? How many paintings have you got stashed away in that storeroom of yours? Enough to fill a museum, with a few thousand paintings to spare. And they’re all burned to a crisp, deader than the proverbial doornail.”

      Isherwood made no response other than to rub at his lower back. It had replaced a barking cough as his most persistent physical ailment. He supposed it was an improvement. A sore back didn’t disturb the neighbors.

      “My offer still stands,” Dimbleby was saying.

      “What offer is that?”

      “Come on, Julie. Don’t make me say it aloud.”

      Isherwood swiveled his head a few degrees and stared directly into Dimbleby’s fleshy, childlike face. “You’re not talking about buying my gallery again, are you?”

      “I’m prepared to be more than generous. I’ll give you a fair price for the small portion of your collection that’s sellable and use the rest to heat the building.”

      “That’s very charitable of you,” Isherwood responded sardonically, “but I have other plans for the gallery.”

      “Realistic?”

      Isherwood was silent.

      “Very well,” said Dimbleby. “If you won’t allow me to take possession of that flaming wreck you refer to as a gallery, at least let me do something else to help lift you out of your current Blue Period.”

      “I don’t want one of your girls, Oliver.”

      “I’m not talking about a girl. I’m talking about a nice trip to help take your mind off your troubles.”

      “Where?”

      “Lake Como. All expenses paid. First-class airfare. Two nights in a luxury suite at the Villa d’Este.”

      “And what do I have to do in return?”

      “A small favor.”

      “How small?”

      Dimbleby helped himself to another glass of the wine and told Isherwood the rest of it.

      It seemed Oliver Dimbleby had recently made the acquaintance of an expatriate Englishman who collected ravenously but without the aid of a trained art adviser to guide him. Furthermore, it seemed the Englishman’s finances were not what they once were, thus requiring the rapid sale of a portion of his holdings. Dimbleby had agreed to have a quiet look at the collection, but now that the trip was upon him, he couldn’t face the prospect of getting on yet another airplane. Or so he claimed. Isherwood suspected Dimbleby’s true motives for backing out of the trip resided elsewhere, for Oliver Dimbleby was ulterior motives made flesh.

      Nevertheless, there was something about the idea of an unexpected journey that appealed to Isherwood, and against all better judgment he accepted the offer on the spot. That evening he packed lightly, and at nine the next morning was settling into his first-class seat on British Airways Flight 576, with nonstop service to Milan’s Malpensa Airport. He drank only a single glass of wine during the flight—for the sake of his heart, he told himself—and at half past twelve, as he was climbing into a rented Mercedes, he was fully in command of his faculties. He made the drive northward to Lake Como without the aid of a map or navigation device. A highly regarded art historian who specialized in the painters of Venice, Isherwood had made countless journeys to Italy to prowl its churches and museums. Even so, he always leapt at the chance to return, especially when someone else was footing the bill. Julian Isherwood was French by birth and English by upbringing,