The Rembrandt Affair ga-10 Read online

  "When did you speak with him?" Gabriel asked.

  "Shamron?" Isherwood gave an ambiguous shrug of his shoulders. "I bumped into him in Paris a few weeks ago."

  Gabriel, by his expression, made it clear he found Isherwood's account less than credible. No one bumped into Ari Shamron. And those who did rarely lived to recall the experience.

  "Where in Paris?"

  "We had dinner in his suite at the Ritz. Just the two of us."

  "How romantic."

  "Actually, we weren't completely alone. His bodyguard was there, too. Poor Shamron. He's as old as the Judean Hills, but even now his enemies are ruthlessly stalking him."

  "It comes with the territory, Julian."

  "I suppose it does." Isherwood looked at Gabriel and smiled sadly. "He's as stubborn as a mule and about as charming. But a part of me is glad he's still there. And another part lives in fear of the day he finally dies. Israel will never be quite the same. And neither will King Saul Boulevard."

  King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel's foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Those who worked there referred to it as the Office and nothing else.

  "Shamron will never die, Julian. Shamron is eternal."

  "I wouldn't be so sure, petal. He didn't look well to me."

  Gabriel sipped his tea. It had been nearly a decade since Shamron had done his last tour as chief, and yet he still meddled in the affairs of the Office as though it were his private fiefdom. Its ranks were filled with officers who had been recruited and groomed by Shamron—officers who operated by a creed, even spoke a language, written by him. Though he no longer had a formal position or title, Shamron remained the hidden hand that guided Israel's security policies. Within the corridors of the Israeli security establishment, he was known only as the Memuneh, the one in charge. For many years, he had devoted his formidable power to a single mission—persuading Gabriel, whom he regarded as a wayward son, to assume his rightful place in the director's suite of King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel had always resisted; and after his last operation, Shamron had finally granted him permission to leave the organization he had served since his youth.

  "Why are you here, Julian? We had an arrangement. When I was ready to work, I would make contact with you, not the other way around."

  Isherwood leaned forward and placed a hand on Gabriel's arm. "Shamron told me about what happened in Russia," he said softly. "Heaven knows I'm no expert, but I doubt even you have the power to erase a memory like that."

  Gabriel watched the seagulls floating like kites above the tip of Lizard Point. His thoughts, however, were of a birch forest east of Moscow. He was standing next to Chiara at the edge of a freshly dug grave, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes fixed on the barrel of a large-caliber pistol. At the other end of the gun was Ivan Kharkov, Russian oligarch, international financier, arms dealer, and murderer. Enjoy watching your wife die, Allon. Gabriel blinked and the vision was gone.

  "How much did Shamron tell you?"

  "Enough to know that you and Chiara have every right to lock yourselves away in that cottage and never come out again." Isherwood was silent for a moment. "Is it true she was pregnant when she was taken from that road in Umbria?"

  Gabriel closed his eyes and nodded. "Ivan's kidnappers gave her several doses of sedative while they were moving her from Italy to Russia. She lost the baby while she was in captivity."

  "How is she now?"

  "Like a newly restored painting. On the surface, she looks wonderful. But underneath..." Gabriel's voice trailed off. "She has losses, Julian."

  "How extensive?"

  "There are good days and bad."

  "I read about Ivan's murder in the newspapers. The French police seem convinced he was killed on orders from the Kremlin or by an angry business rival. But it was you, wasn't it, Gabriel? You were the one who killed Ivan outside that posh restaurant in Saint-Tropez."

  "Just because I'm officially retired now doesn't mean the rules have changed, Julian."

  Isherwood replenished his teacup and picked reflectively at the corner of his napkin. "You did the world a favor by killing him," he said quietly. "Now you have to do one for yourself and that gorgeous wife of yours. It's time for you and Chiara to rejoin the living."

  "We are living, Julian. Quite well, actually."

  "No, you're not. You're in mourning. You're sitting an extended shivah for the child you lost in Russia. But you can walk the cliffs from here to Land's End, Gabriel, and it will never bring that baby back. Chiara knows it. And it's time for you to start thinking about something other than a Russian oligarch named Ivan Kharkov."

  "Something like a painting?"

  "Exactly."

  Gabriel exhaled heavily. "Who's the artist?"

  "Rembrandt."

  "What condition is it in?"

  "Hard to say."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because at the moment, it's missing."

  "How can I restore a missing painting?"

  "Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. I don't need you to restore a painting, Gabriel. I need you to find one."

  5

  LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

  They walked along the cliffs toward Lizard Light, a study in contrasts, figures from different paintings. Isherwood's hands were shoved into the pockets of his tweed country coat, the ends of his woolen scarf fluttering like warning flags in the raw wind. Paradoxically, he was speaking of summer—a sultry afternoon in July when he had visited a chateau in the Loire Valley to pick over the collection of its deceased owner, one of the more ghoulish aspects of an art dealer's dubious existence.

  "There were one or two paintings that were mildly interesting, but the rest was complete crap. As I was leaving, my mobile rang. It was none other than David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and a rather shady character, to put it mildly."

  "What did he want?"

  "He had a proposition for me. The kind that couldn't be discussed over the phone. Insisted I come see him right away. He was staying at a borrowed villa on Sardinia. That's Cavendish's way. He's a houseguest of a man. Never pays for anything. But he promised the trip would be well worth my time. He also hinted that the house was filled with pretty girls and a great deal of excellent wine."

  "So you caught the next plane?"

  "What choice did I have?"

  "And the proposition?"

  "He had a client who wanted to dispose of a major portrait. A Rembrandt. Quite a prize. Never been seen in public. Said his client was disinclined to use one of the big auction houses. Wanted the matter handled privately. He also said the client wished to see the painting hanging in a museum. Cavendish tried to portray him as some sort of humanitarian. More likely, he just couldn't bear the thought of it hanging on the wall of another collector."

  "Why you?"

  "Because by the rather low standards of the art world, I'm considered a paragon of virtue. And despite my many stumbles over the years, I've somehow managed to maintain an excellent reputation among the museums."

  "If they only knew." Gabriel shook his head slowly. "Did Cavendish ever tell you the seller's name?"

  "He spun some nonsense about faded nobility from an Eastern land, but I didn't believe a word of it."

  "Why a private sale?"

  "Haven't you heard? In these uncertain times, they're all the rage. First and foremost, they ensure the seller total anonymity. Remember, darling, one normally doesn't part with a Rembrandt because one is tired of looking at it. One parts with it because one needs money. And the last thing a rich person wants is to tell the world that he's not so rich anymore. Besides, taking a painting to auction is always risky. Doubly so in a climate like this."

  "So you agreed to handle the sale."

  "Obviously."

  "What was your take?"

  "Ten percent commission, split down the middle with Cavendish."

  "That's no
t terribly ethical, Julian."

  "We do what we have to do. My phone stopped ringing the day the Dow went below seven thousand. And I'm not alone. Every dealer in St. James's is feeling the pinch. Everyone but Giles Pittaway, of course. Somehow, Giles always manages to weather all storms."

  "I assume you got a second opinion on the canvas before taking it to market?"

  "Immediately," said Isherwood. "After all, I had to make sure the painting in question was actually a Rembrandt and not a Studio of Rembrandt, a School of Rembrandt, a Follower of Rembrandt, or, heaven forbid, in the Manner of Rembrandt."

  "Who did the authentication for you?"

  "Who do you think?"

  "Van Berkel?"

  "But of course."

  Dr. Gustaaf van Berkel was widely acknowledged to be the world's foremost authority on Rembrandt. He also served as director and chief inquisitor of the Rembrandt Committee, a group of art historians, scientists, and researchers whose lifework was ensuring that every painting attributed to Rembrandt was in fact a Rembrandt.

  "Van Berkel was predictably dubious," Isherwood said. "But after looking at my photographs, he agreed to drop everything and come to London to see the painting himself. The flushed expression on his face told me everything I needed to know. But I still had to wait two agonizing weeks for Van Berkel and his star chamber to hand down their verdict. They decreed that the painting was authentic and could be sold as such. I swore Van Berkel to secrecy. Even made him sign a confidentiality agreement. Then I boarded the next plane to Washington."

  "Why Washington?"

  "Because the National Gallery was in the final stages of assembling a major Rembrandt exhibit. A number of prominent American and European museums had agreed to lend their own Rembrandts, but I'd heard rumors about a pot of money that had been set aside for a new acquisition. I'd also heard they wanted something that could generate a few headlines. Something sexy that could turn out a crowd."

  "And your newly discovered Rembrandt fit that description."

  "Like one of my tailor-made suits, petal. In fact, we were able to reach a deal very quickly. I was to deliver the painting to Washington, fully restored, in six months' time. Then the director of the National Gallery would unveil his prize to the world."

  "You didn't mention the sale price."

  "You didn't ask."

  "I'm asking."

  "Forty-five million. I initialed a draft agreement of the deal in Washington and treated myself to a few days with a special friend at the Eden Rock Hotel in Saint Barths. Then I returned to London and started looking for a restorer. I needed someone good. Someone with a bit of natural discretion. Which is why I went to Paris to see Shamron."

  Isherwood looked to Gabriel for a response. Greeted by silence, he slowed to a stop and watched the waves crashing against the rocks at Lizard Point.

  "When Shamron told me that you still weren't ready to work, I reluctantly settled on another restorer. Someone who would jump at the chance to clean a long-lost Rembrandt. A former staff conservator from the Tate who'd gone into private practice. Not quite as elegant as my first choice but solid and much less complicated. No issues with terrorists or Russian arms dealers. Never asked me to keep a defector's cat for the weekend. And no dead bodies turning up. Except now." Isherwood turned to Gabriel. "Unless you've given up watching the news, I'm sure you can finish the rest of the story."

  "You hired Christopher Liddell."

  Isherwood nodded slowly and gazed at the darkening sea. "It's a shame you didn't take the job, Gabriel. The only person to die would have been the thief. And I'd still have my Rembrandt."

  6

  THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL

  Hedgerows lined the narrow track leading north from Lizard Point, blocking all views of the surrounding countryside. Isherwood drove at a snail's pace, his long body hunched over the wheel, while Gabriel stared silently out the window.

  "You knew him, didn't you?"

  Gabriel nodded absently. "We apprenticed together in Venice under Umberto Conti. Liddell never cared for me."

  "That's understandable. He must have been envious. Liddell was gifted, but he wasn't in your league. You were the star, and everyone knew it."

  It was true, thought Gabriel. By the time Christopher Liddell arrived in Venice he was already a skilled craftsman—more skilled, even, than Gabriel—but he had never been able to win Umberto's approval. Liddell's work was methodical and thorough but lacked the invisible fire Umberto saw each time Gabriel's brush touched a canvas. Umberto had a magic ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. Late at night he would drag Gabriel from his room to study the city's masterpieces. Liddell became angry when he learned of the nocturnal tutorials and asked for an invitation. Umberto refused. Liddell's instruction would be limited to daylight hours. The nights belonged to Gabriel.

  "It's not every day an art restorer is brutally murdered in the United Kingdom," Isherwood said. "Given your circumstances, it must have come as something of a shock."

  "Let's just say I read the stories this morning with more than a passing interest. And none mentioned a missing Rembrandt, newly discovered or otherwise."

  "That's because on the advice of the Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard, the local police have agreed to keep the theft a secret, at least for the time being. Undue publicity only makes recovery more difficult since it tends to invite contact from people who don't actually have possession of the painting. As far as the public is concerned, the motive for Liddell's murder remains a mystery."

  "As it should be," said Gabriel. "Besides, the last thing we need to advertise is that private restorers keep extremely valuable paintings under less than secure circumstances."

  It was one of the art world's many dirty secrets. Gabriel had always worked in isolation. But in New York and London, it was not unusual to enter the studio of an elite restorer to find tens of millions of dollars' worth of paintings. If the auction season was approaching, the value of the inventory could be stratospheric.

  "Tell me more about the painting, Julian."

  Isherwood glanced at Gabriel expectantly. "Does that mean you'll do it?"

  "No, Julian. It just means I want to know more about the picture."

  "Where would you like me to begin?"

  "The dimensions."

  "One hundred four by eighty-six centimeters."

  "Date?"

  "Sixteen fifty-four."

  "Panel or canvas?"

  "Canvas. The thread count is consistent with canvases Rembrandt was using at the time."

  "When was the last restoration?"

  "Hard to say. A hundred years ago...maybe longer. The paint was quite worn in some places. Liddell believed it would require a substantial amount of inpainting to knock it into shape. He was worried about whether he would be able to finish it in time."

  Gabriel asked about the composition.

  "Stylistically, it's similar to his other three-quarter-length portraits from the period. The model is a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Attractive. She's wearing a wrap of jeweled silk and little else. There's something intimate about it. She clearly managed to get under Rembrandt's skin. He worked with a heavily loaded brush and at considerable speed. In places, it appears he was painting alla prima, wet into wet."

  "Do we know who she is?"

  "There's nothing to identify her specifically, but the Rembrandt Committee and I both concur it's Rembrandt's mistress."

  "Hendrickje Stoffels?"

  Isherwood nodded. "The date of the painting is significant because it was the same year Hendrickje gave birth to Rembrandt's child. The Dutch Church didn't look kindly on that, of course. She was put on trial and condemned for living with Rembrandt like a whore. Rembrandt, archcad that he was, never married her."

  Isherwood seemed genuinely disturbed by this. Gabriel smiled.

  "If I didn't know better, Julian, I'd think you were jealous."

  "Wait until you see her."

&nbs
p; The two men lapsed into silence as Isherwood guided the car into Lizard village. In summer, it would be filled with tourists. Now, with its shuttered souvenir stands and darkened ice-cream parlors, it had the sadness of a fete in the rain.

  "What's the provenance like?"

  "Thin but clean."

  "Meaning?"

  "There are gaps here and there. Rather like yours," Isherwood added with a confiding glance. "But there are no claims against it. I had the Art Loss Register run a quiet search just to be certain."

  "The London office?"

  Isherwood nodded.

  "So they know about the picture, too?"

  "The Art Loss Register is dedicated to finding paintings, darling, not stealing them."

  "Go on, Julian."

  "It's believed the painting remained in Rembrandt's personal collection until his death, whereupon it was sold off by the bankruptcy court to help pay his debts. From there, it floated around The Hague for a century or so, made a brief foray to Italy, and returned to the Netherlands in the early nineteenth century. The current owner purchased it in 1964 from the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne. That beautiful young woman has been in hiding her entire life."

  They entered a tunnel of trees dripping with ivy and headed downward into a deep storybook hollow with an ancient stone church at its base.

  "Who else knew the painting was in Glastonbury?"

  Isherwood made a show of thought. "The director of the National Gallery of Art in Washington and my shipping company." He hesitated, then added, "And I suppose it's possible I may have mentioned it to Van Berkel."

  "Did Liddell have any other paintings in his studio?"

  "Four," replied Isherwood. "A Rubens he'd just finished for Christie's, something that may or may not have been a Titian, a landscape by Cezanne—quite a good one, actually—and some hideously expensive water lilies by Monet."