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Drewe said that he and his colleagues had to move quickly because someone else had also expressed an interest in the same batch of Holocaust files. There wasn’t time to go to the auction houses, which planned their sales months in advance. Not only that, they charged a steep seller’s commission, as well as a fee for reproducing the works in their catalogs. With several dozen works at stake, these commissions would be astronomical. It would be far more economical and much faster if Belman agreed to act as a middleman for the works, for which he would get a 20 percent cut.

Belman was hesitant; there must be a catch. “How much will it cost me to get in?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Drewe. “The paintings are the crème de la crème, from Picasso on down. They’re worth millions.”

Belman, an utter novice, felt that he was probably the wrong man for the job, but the offer was a lifeline.

“You’re a good salesman,” Drewe said. “It’ll be like falling off a log.”

The professor had read his mind. It was no secret that Belman was nearly broke. He’d been open about his predicament, and everyone knew about the smash-and-grab robbery at his jewelry store. He’d always had an uncertain career, starting out as an actor at a repertory company in his hometown of Cardiff, then working in voice-overs and on radio adaptations of television shows. These were written the night before they aired, so there was little time for rehearsal. If an actor dropped a line, the others improvised. It was bare-bones theater, and Belman learned to spin on a dime and crank out his shtick on the high wire. Finally, when even these meager acting jobs had dried up, Belman took a job managing an all-night bridge club in London, confident that he understood this world as only the child of a champion bridge player could. Each hand was a new adventure that required card smarts as well as mental fortitude.

With Drewe, Belman’s improvisational and mental skills would be tested again. There was a lot to learn about the art world. Belman would have to educate himself and get to know his inventory thoroughly. But what was selling if not playing a role to perfection? He could do it. He knew from experience that if he was selling something even remotely interesting or worth buying, he could make a profit. As for finding the right buyer, he’d always operated on the “six degrees of separation” principle. If you cast your net wide enough, you’d find someone who would lead you to the perfect buyer.

Belman wasn’t simply interested in the money. He needed a shot of confidence, a sip of success. Drewe’s proposition might just get him back on his feet. And besides, he would be helping to keep the reviled Holocaust revisionists at bay.

He shook hands with Drewe, and they agreed to talk again soon.

A couple of days later Drewe came by with two paintings, a Giacometti and a Nicholson watercolor composed of blue, red, and yellow squares and rectangles. Belman knew a little about Giacometti but almost nothing about Nicholson. He went to the library and found that the British painter had died a decade earlier, in 1982, and that he was best known for his geometric landscapes and white reliefs. A Nicholson work had recently sold at auction for more than £1,000,000, a record for a British abstract.

Drewe told Belman that his syndicate wanted £200,000 for the Giacometti and £40,000 for Nicholson’s Aegean. He said the Nicholson had languished on consignment at a London gallery, and that its price had been reduced from £70,000. Belman began cold-calling anyone who knew anyone who might be even vaguely interested, and soon he had a bite from David Stern, a respectable dealer in Notting Hill.

The Stern Pissarro Gallery, a second-generation family business, had opened its doors in Tel Aviv in the early 1960s before branching out. David Stern, its current director, was married to Lelia Pissarro, the great-granddaughter of the French impressionist Camille Pissarro. Oil and provenance ran through the family’s