Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair Read online

  "All you have to do now," Shamron added, "is have a baby."

  Gabriel shook his head in amazement. "Is there no aspect of my life that you regard as private or out-of-bounds?"

  "No," Shamron replied without hesitation.

  "At least you're honest."

  "Only when it suits my purposes." Shamron drew heavily on his cigarette. "So I hear Uzi is giving you a hard time."

  "How do you know?"

  "I still have plenty of sources at King Saul Boulevard, despite the fact that Uzi has decided to cast me into the wilderness."

  "What did you expect? Did you think he was going to give you a big office on the top floor and reserve a place for you at the operational-planning table?"

  "What I expected, my son, was to be treated with a certain amount of respect and dignity. I've earned it."

  "You have, Ari. But may I speak bluntly?"

  "Tread carefully." Shamron clamped his large hand around Gabriel's wrist and squeezed. "I'm not as frail as I look."

  "You suck the oxygen out of any room you enter. Every time you set foot in King Saul Boulevard, the troops want to bask in your glow and touch the hem of your garment."

  "Are you taking Uzi's side?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  "Wise boy."

  "But you should at least consider the possibility that Uzi can run the Office without your constant input. After all, that's why you recommended him for the job in the first place."

  "I recommended him because the man I really wanted wasn't available. But that's a topic for another conversation." Shamron tapped his cigarette against the side of his ashtray and gave Gabriel a sideways glance. "No regrets?"

  "None whatsoever. Uzi Navot is the director of the Office, and he's going to be the director for a very long time. You'd better make peace with that fact. Otherwise, your final years on this earth are going to be filled with bitterness."

  "You sound like Gilah."

  "Gilah is a very wise woman."

  "She is," Shamron agreed. "But if you're so pleased with the way Uzi is running things, then what are you doing here? Surely you didn't come all the way up to Tiberias for the pleasure of my company. You're here because you want something from Uzi and he won't give it to you. Try as I might, I haven't been able to figure out what it is. But I'm getting close."

  "How much do you know?"

  "I know that Julian Isherwood retained your services to track down a missing portrait by Rembrandt. I know that Eli Lavon is watching over an old woman in Amsterdam. And I know you've set your sights on one of the most successful businessmen in the world. What I don't quite yet understand is how these things are connected."

  "It has something to do with an old acquaintance of yours."

  "Who's that?"

  "Eichmann."

  Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. "You have my attention, Gabriel. Keep talking."

  ARI SHAMRON, the only survivor of a large Jewish family from Poland, captor of Adolf Eichmann, knew much about the unfinished business of the Holocaust. But even Shamron appeared spellbound by the story Gabriel told him next. It was the story of a hidden child from Amsterdam, a murderer who had traded lives for property, and a painting stained with the blood of all those who had ever attempted to find it. Concealed inside the painting was a deadly secret--a list of names and numbers, proof that one of the most powerful business empires in the world had been built upon the looted assets of the dead.

  "The boy king is right about one thing," Shamron said at the conclusion of Gabriel's briefing. "You should have told us about your travel plans. I could have arranged an escort for you in Argentina."

  "I was looking for a missing painting, Ari. I didn't think I needed one."

  "It's possible you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. After all, Alfonso Ramirez was one of the few people in the world with nearly as many enemies as you."

  "It's possible," Gabriel conceded. "But I don't believe it." He paused, then said, "And neither do you, Ari."

  "No, I don't." Shamron lit another cigarette. "You've managed to build an impressive case against Martin Landesmann in a short period of time. But there's just one problem. You'll never be able to prove it in a court of law."

  "Who said anything about a court of law?"

  "What exactly are you suggesting?"

  "That we find a way to convince Martin to make amends for the sins of his father."

  "What do you need?"

  "Enough money, resources, and personnel to mount an operation on European soil against one of the world's richest men."

  "It sounds expensive."

  "It will be. But if I'm successful, the operation will fund itself."

  The concept seemed to appeal to Shamron, who still acted as though operational expenditures came from his own pocket. "I suppose the next thing you're going to request is your old team."

  "I was getting to that."

  Shamron studied Gabriel in silence for a moment. "What happened to the tired warrior who sat on this terrace not long ago and told me he wanted to run away with his wife and leave the Office for good?"

  "He met a woman in Amsterdam who's alive because her father gave Kurt Voss a Rembrandt." Gabriel paused, then asked, "The only question is, can you convince Uzi to change his mind?"

  "Uzi?" Shamron waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about Uzi."

  "How are you going to handle it?"

  Shamron smiled. "Did I ever tell you that the prime minister's grandparents were from Hungary?"

  40

  JERUSALEM

  Uzi Navot inherited many traditions from the eight men who had served as director before him, including a weekly private breakfast meeting with the prime minister at his Jerusalem office. Navot regarded the sessions as invaluable, for they provided an opportunity to brief his most important client on current operations without having to compete with the heads of Israel's other intelligence services. Usually, it was Navot who did most of the talking, but on the morning after Gabriel's pilgrimage to Tiberias the prime minister was curiously expansive. Just forty-eight hours earlier, he had been in Washington for his first summit with the new American president, a former academic and U.S. senator who hailed from the liberal wing of the Democratic Party. As predicted, the encounter had not gone well. Indeed, behind the frozen smiles and posed handshakes a palpable tension had crackled between the two men. It was now clear the close relationship the prime minister had enjoyed with the last occupant of the Oval Office would not be duplicated in the new administration. Change had definitely come to Washington.

  "But none of this comes as a surprise to you, does it, Uzi?"

  "I'm afraid we saw it coming even during the transition," Navot said. "It was obvious that the special operational bond we had forged with the CIA after 9/11 wasn't going to carry over."

  "Special operational bond?" The prime minister treated Navot to a campaign-poster smile. "Spare me the Officespeak, Uzi. Gabriel Allon practically had an office at Langley during the last administration."

  Navot made no response. He was used to toiling in Gabriel's long shadow. But now that he had reached the pinnacle of Israel's intelligence community, he didn't enjoy being reminded of his rival's many exploits.

  "I hear Allon's in town." The prime minister paused, then added, "I also hear he got into a bit of trouble in Argentina."

  Navot steepled his forefingers and pressed them tightly to his lips. A trained interrogator would have recognized the gesture as a transparent attempt to conceal discomfort. The prime minister recognized it, too. He also was clearly relishing the fact that he had managed to surprise the chief of his foreign intelligence service.

  "Why didn't you tell me about Buenos Aires?" the prime minister asked.

  "I didn't feel it was necessary to burden you with the details."

  "I like details, Uzi, especially when they involve a national hero."

  "I'll keep that in mind, Prime Minister."

  Navot's tone displ
ayed a transparent lack of enthusiasm, and his temper was now at a slow simmer. The prime minister had obviously been talking to Shamron. Navot had been expecting something like this from the old man for some time. But how to proceed? With care, he decided.

  "Is there something you wish to say to me, Prime Minister?"

  The prime minister refilled his coffee cup and contemplatively added a few drops of cream. Clearly, there was something he wished to say, but he seemed in no hurry to come to the point. Instead, he launched into a lengthy homily on the burdens of leadership in a complex and dangerous world. Sometimes, he said, decisions were influenced by national security, other times by political expediency. Occasionally, though, it boiled down to a simple question of right and wrong. He allowed this last statement to hang in the air for a moment before lifting his white linen napkin from his lap and folding it deliberately.

  "My father's family came from Hungary. Did you know that, Uzi?"

  "I suspect the entire country knows that."

  The prime minister gave a fleeting smile. "They lived in a dreadful little village outside Budapest. My grandfather was a tailor. They had nothing to their name other than a pair of silver Shabbat candlesticks and a kiddush cup. And do you know what Kurt Voss and Adolf Eichmann did before putting them on a train to Auschwitz? They stole everything they had. And then they gave them a receipt. I have it to this day. I keep it as a reminder of the importance of the enterprise we call Israel." He paused. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Uzi?"

  "I believe I do, Prime Minister."

  "Keep me informed, Uzi. And remember, I like details."

  NAVOT STEPPED into the anteroom and was immediately accosted by several members of the Knesset waiting to see the prime minister. Claiming an unspecified problem requiring his urgent attention, he shook a few of the more influential hands and patted a few of the more important backs before beating a hasty retreat to the elevators. His armored limousine was waiting outside, surrounded by his security detail. Fittingly, the heavy gray skies were pouring with rain. He slipped into the back and tossed his briefcase onto the floor. As the car lurched forward, the driver sought Navot's eyes in the rearview mirror.

  "Where to, boss? King Saul Boulevard?"

  "Not yet," Navot said. "We have to make one stop first."

  THE EUCALYPTUS TREE perfumed the entire western end of Narkiss Street. Navot lowered his window and peered up at the open French doors on the third floor of the limestone apartment house. From inside came the faint strains of an aria. Tosca? La Traviata? Navot didn't know. Nor did he much care. At this moment, he was loathing opera and anyone who listened to it with an unreasonable passion. For a mad instant, he considered returning to the prime minister's office and tendering his immediate resignation. Instead, he opened his secure cell phone and dialed. The aria went silent. Gabriel answered.

  "You had no right going behind my back," Navot said.

  "I didn't do a thing."

  "You didn't have to. Shamron did it for you."

  "You left me no choice."

  Navot gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm down in the street."

  "I know."

  "How long do you need?"

  "Five minutes."

  "I'll wait."

  The volume of the aria rose to a crescendo. Navot closed his window and luxuriated in the deep silence of his car. God, but he hated opera.

  41

  ST. JAMES'S, LONDON

  The one name not spoken that morning in Jerusalem was the name of the man who had started it all: Julian Isherwood, owner and sole proprietor of Isherwood Fine Arts, 7-8 Mason's Yard, St. James's, London. Of Gabriel's many discoveries and travails, Isherwood knew nothing. Indeed, since securing a set of yellowed sales records in Amsterdam, his role in the affair had been reduced to that of a worried and helpless bystander. He filled the empty hours of his days by following the British end of the investigation. The police had managed to keep the theft out of the papers but had no leads on the painting's whereabouts or the identity of Christopher Liddell's killer. This was not an amateur looking for a quick score, the detectives muttered in their own defense. This was the real thing.

  As with all condemned men, Isherwood's world shrank. He attended the odd auction, showed the odd painting, and tried in vain to distract himself by flirting with his latest young receptionist. But most of his time was devoted to planning his own professional funeral. He rehearsed the speech he would give to the hated David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and even produced a rough draft of a mea culpa he would eventually have to send to the National Gallery of Art in Washington. Images of flight and exile also filled his thoughts. Perhaps a little villa in the hills of Provence or a shack on the beach in Costa Rica. And the gallery? In his worst moments, Isherwood imagined having to drop it in Oliver Dimbleby's lap. Oliver had always coveted the gallery. Now, thanks to Portrait of a Young Woman, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, Oliver could have it at no cost other than cleaning up Julian's mess.

  It was complete twaddle, of course. Isherwood was not about to spend the rest of his life in exile. Nor would he ever allow his beloved gallery to fall into the grubby hands of Oliver Dimbleby. If Isherwood had to face a public firing squad, he would do it without a blindfold and with his chin held high. For once in his life, he would be courageous. Just like his old father. And just like Gabriel Allon.

  Coincidentally, these were the very images occupying Isherwood's thoughts when he spotted a solitary figure coming across the damp paving stones of Mason's Yard, coat collar turned up against the late-autumn chill, eyes on the prowl. The man was in his early thirties, built like an armored fighting vehicle, and dressed in a dark suit. For an instant, Isherwood feared the man was some sort of heavy-fisted debt collector. But a few seconds later, he realized he had seen the man before. He worked in the security section of a certain embassy located in South Kensington--an embassy that, regrettably, was forced to employ many others like him.

  A moment later, Isherwood heard the drowsy voice of his receptionist announcing there was a Mr. Radcliff to see him. It seemed Mr. Radcliff, a nom de plume if ever there was one, had a few minutes to kill between appointments and was wondering whether he might have a peek at the gallery's inventory. Isherwood normally turned away such drop-ins. But on that morning, for all the obvious reasons, he made an exception.

  He greeted the man circumspectly and led him to the privacy of the upper exhibition room. Just as Isherwood suspected, Mr. Radcliff's tour was brief. He frowned at a Luini, clucked his tongue at a Bordone, and appeared puzzled by a luminous landscape by Claude. "I think I like it," he said, handing Isherwood an envelope. "I'll be in touch." Then he lowered his voice to a whisper and added, "Make sure you follow the instructions carefully."

  Isherwood saw the young man to the door, then, in the privacy of his washroom, unsealed the envelope. Inside was a brief note. Isherwood read it once, then a second time, just to be sure. Leaning against the basin to steady himself, he was overcome by an immense wave of relief. Though Gabriel had not found the painting, his investigation had produced a critical piece of information. Isherwood's original search of the painting's provenance had failed to reveal it had been stolen during the Second World War. Therefore the rightful owner of the painting was not the mysterious unnamed client of David Cavendish but an elderly woman in Amsterdam. For Julian Isherwood, the discovery meant that the cloud of financial ruin had been lifted. Typically, matters involving looted art might be litigated for years. But Isherwood knew from experience that no decent court in the world would ever force him to compensate a man for a painting that was not rightly his. The Rembrandt was still missing and might never be found. But, simply put, Isherwood was now off the hook.

  His relief, however, was soon followed by a pang of deep guilt. Guilt over the tragedy of the Herzfeld family, a story Isherwood understood all too well. Guilt over the fate of Christopher Liddell, who had sacrificed his life trying to protect the Rembrandt. And guilt, too, o
ver the present circumstances of one Gabriel Allon. It seemed Gabriel's quest to recover the painting had earned him a powerful new enemy. And once more it seemed he had fallen under the spell of Ari Shamron. Or perhaps, thought Isherwood, it was the other way around.

  Isherwood read the note a final time, then as instructed touched it to the open flame of a match. In an instant, the paper vanished in a burst of fire that left no trace of ash. Isherwood returned to his office, hands shaking, and gingerly sat at his desk. You might have warned me about the flash paper, petal, he thought. Nearly stopped my bloody heart.

  PART THREE

  AUTHENTICATION

  42

  KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

  The operation began in earnest when Gabriel and Chiara arrived at Room 456C. A subterranean chamber located three levels beneath the lobby of King Saul Boulevard, it had once been a dumping ground for obsolete computers and worn-out furniture, often used by the night staff for romantic trysts. Now it was known throughout the Office only as Gabriel's Lair.

  A strip of bluish fluorescent light shone from beneath the closed door, and from the opposite side came the expectant murmur of voices. Gabriel smiled at Chiara, then punched the code into the pad and led her inside. For a few seconds, none of the nine people sprawled around the dilapidated worktables seemed to notice their presence. Then a single face turned, and there arose a loud cheer. When the cacophony finally subsided, Gabriel and Chiara made their way slowly around the room, greeting each member of the fabled team.