Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair Page 33

  It did not take long for the rumors about the Van Gogh to breach the walls of Scotland Yard's pressroom and begin circulating on the Internet. And so it came as something of a shock when Ramsay strode to the podium to announce the recovery of a painting few people knew had ever been missing in the first place: Portrait of a Young Woman, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, by Rembrandt van Rijn. Ramsay refused to go into detail as to precisely how the painting had been found, though he went to great pains to say no ransom or reward money was paid. As for its current location, he claimed ignorance and cut off the questioning.

  There was much the press would never learn about the recovery of the Rembrandt. Even Ramsay himself was kept in the dark about most aspects of the case. He did not know, for example, that the painting had been quietly left in an alley behind a synagogue one week earlier in the Marais section of Paris. Or that it had been couriered to London by a sweating employee of the Israeli Embassy and turned over to Julian Isherwood, owner and sole proprietor of the sometimes solvent but never boring Isherwood Fine Arts, 7-8 Mason's Yard, St. James's. Nor would DI Ramsey ever learn that by the time of his news conference, the painting had already been quietly moved to a cottage atop the cliffs in Cornwall that bore a striking resemblance to the Customs Officer's Cabin at Pourville by Claude Monet. Only MI5 knew that, and even within the halls of Thames House it was strictly need to know.

  IN KEEPING with the spirit of Operation Masterpiece, her restoration would be a whirlwind. Gabriel would have three months to turn the most heavily damaged canvas he had ever seen into the star attraction of the National Gallery of Art's long-awaited Rembrandt: A Retrospective. Three months to reline her and attach her to a new stretcher. Three months to remove the bloodstains and dirty varnish from her surface. Three months to repair a bullet hole in her forehead and smooth the creases caused by Kurt Voss's decision to use her as the costliest envelope in history. It was an alarmingly short period of time, even for a restorer used to working under the pressure of a ticking clock.

  In his youth, Gabriel had preferred to work in strict isolation, but now that he was older he no longer liked to be alone. So with Chiara's blessing, he removed the furnishings from the living room and converted it into a makeshift studio. He rose before dawn each morning and worked until early evening, granting himself just one short break each day to walk the cliffs in the bitterly cold January wind. Chiara rarely strayed far from his side. She assisted with the relining and composed a small note to Rachel Herzfeld that Gabriel concealed against the inside of the new stretcher before tapping the last brad into place. She was even present the morning Gabriel undertook the unpleasant task of removing Christopher Liddell's blood. Rather than drop the soiled swabs onto the floor, Gabriel sealed them in an aluminum canister. And when it came time to remove the dirty varnish, he began on the curve of Hendrickje's breast, the spot where Liddell had been working the night of his murder.

  As usual, Chiara was bothered by the dizzying stench of Gabriel's solvents. To help cover the smell, she prepared lavish meals, which they ate by candlelight at their table overlooking Mount's Bay. Though they tried not to relive the operation over dinner, the constant presence of the Rembrandt made it a difficult subject to avoid. Invariably, Chiara would remind Gabriel that he would never have undertaken the investigation if she had not insisted.

  "So you enjoyed being back at the Office?" Gabriel asked, taunting her a bit.

  "Parts of it," Chiara conceded. "But I would be just as happy if the Landesmann operation turned out to be your last masterpiece."

  "It's not a masterpiece," Gabriel said. "Not until those centrifuges are in place."

  "Does it bother you to leave it in Uzi's hands?"

  "Actually, I prefer it." Gabriel looked at the battered painting propped on the easel in the living room. "Besides, I have other problems at the moment."

  "Will she be ready in time?"

  "She'd better be."

  "Are we going to attend the unveiling?"

  "I haven't decided yet."

  Chiara gazed at the painting. "I understand all the reasons why Lena decided to let the National Gallery have it, but..."

  "But what?"

  "I think I would find it hard to give her up."

  "Not if your sister had been turned to ash because her hair was dark."

  "I know, Gabriel." Chiara looked at the painting again. "I think she's happy here."

  "You wouldn't feel that way if you spent as much time with her as I do."

  "She's misbehaving?"

  "Let's just say she has her moods."

  For the most part, Gabriel and Chiara managed to keep the outside world at bay after their return to Cornwall. But in late February, as Gabriel was laboring through the teeth of the restoration, Martin Landesmann managed to intrude on their seclusion. It seemed Saint Martin, after an unusually long absence from public view, had decided to raise the stakes on his annual appearance at Davos. After opening the forum by pledging an additional hundred million dollars to his African food initiative, he delivered an electrifying speech that was unanimously declared the highlight of the week. Not only did the oracle declare an end to the Great Recession, he described himself as "more hopeful than ever" about the future of the planet.

  Saint Martin seemed particularly upbeat about the potential for progress in the Middle East, though events on the ground the very day of his remarks seemed to conflict with his optimism. Along with the usual litany of terrorist horrors, there was an alarming report from the IAEA concerning the state of the Iranian nuclear program. The agency's director dispensed with his usual caution and predicted the Iranians were perhaps only months from a nuclear capability. "The time for talk is over," he said. "The time for action is finally upon us."

  In a somewhat shocking break with past tradition, Martin ended his week at Davos by agreeing to make a brief appearance in the media center to take a few questions from the press. Not present was Zoe Reed, who had requested a leave of absence from the Financial Journal for reasons never made clear to her colleagues. Still more intriguing was the fact no one had seen her for some time. Like the Rembrandt, Zoe's whereabouts were strictly need to know. Indeed, even Gabriel was never told her exact location. Not that he could have been much help in her recovery. Hendrickje would never have allowed it.

  In mid-April, on the first remotely pleasant day in Cornwall in months, Gerald Malone, CEO of Latham International Media, announced he was selling the venerable Financial Journal to the former Russian oligarch Viktor Orlov. Two days later, Zoe surfaced briefly to say she would be leaving the Journal to take a television job with CNBC in America. By coincidence, her announcement came on the very day Gabriel finished the retouching of Hendrickje's face. The next morning, when the painting was thoroughly dry, he covered it with a fresh coat of varnish. Chiara caught him standing in front of the canvas, one hand to his chin, head tilted slightly to one side.

  "Is she ready for her coming-out party?" asked Chiara.

  "I think so," said Gabriel.

  "Does she approve of your work?"

  "She's not speaking to me at the moment."

  "Another quarrel?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Have you made a decision about Washington?"

  "I think she needs us to be there."

  "So do I, Gabriel. So do I."

  78

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  By the time Gabriel and Chiara arrived in America, their silent but demanding houseguest of three months was an international sensation. Her celebrity was not instant; it was rooted in an affair she'd had four hundred years earlier with a painter named Rembrandt and by the long and tragic road she had traveled ever since. Once upon a time, she would have been forced to live out her days in shame. Now they were lining up for tickets just to have a glimpse of her.

  In an era when museums had been scorched repeatedly by provenance scandals, the director of the National Gallery of Art had felt compelled to reveal much of her sordid past. She h
ad been sold in Amsterdam in 1936 to a man named Abraham Herzfeld, acquired by coercion in 1943 by an SS officer named Kurt Voss, and sold twenty-one years later in a private transaction conducted by the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne. At the request of the White House, the National Gallery never revealed the name of the Zurich bank where she had been hidden for several years, nor was there any mention of the document once hidden inside her. Her links to a looted Holocaust fortune had been carefully erased, just like the bullet hole in her forehead and the blood that had stained her garment. No one named Landesmann had ever laid hands on her. No one named Landesmann had ever killed to protect her terrible secret.

  Her scandalous past did nothing to tarnish her reception. In fact, it only added to her allure. There was no escaping her face in Washington. She stared from billboards and buses, from souvenir shirts and coffee mugs, and even from a hot-air balloon that floated over the city the day before her unveiling. Gabriel and Chiara saw her for the first time minutes after stepping off their plane at Dulles Airport, gazing at them disapprovingly from an advertisement as they glided through customs on false passports. They saw her again peering from a giant banner as they hurried up the steps of the museum through an evening thunderstorm, this time as if urging them to quicken their pace. Uncharacteristically, they were running late. The fault was entirely Gabriel's. After years of toiling in the shadows of the art world, he'd had serious misgivings about stepping onto so public a stage, even clandestinely.

  The exhibition opening was a formal, invitation-only affair. Even so, all guests had to have their possessions searched, a policy instituted at the gallery immediately after the attacks of 9/11. Julian Isherwood was waiting just beyond the checkpoint beneath the soaring main rotunda, gazing nervously at his wristwatch. Seeing Gabriel and Chiara, he made a theatrical gesture of relief. Then, looking at Gabriel's clothing, he tried unsuccessfully to conceal a smile.

  "I never thought I would live to see the day you put on a tuxedo."

  "Neither did I, Julian. And if you make any more cracks--"

  Chiara silenced Gabriel with a discreet elbow to the ribs. "If it would be at all possible, I'd like to get through the evening without you threatening to kill anyone."

  Gabriel frowned. "If it wasn't for me, Julian would be trying to scrounge up forty-five million dollars right now. The least he can do is show me a modicum of respect."

  "There'll be plenty of time for that later," Isherwood said. "But right now there are two people who are very anxious to see you."

  "Where are they?"

  "Upstairs."

  "In separate rooms, I hope?"

  Isherwood nodded gravely. "Just as you requested."

  "Let's go."

  Isherwood led them across the rotunda through a sea of tuxedos and gowns, then up several flights of wide marble steps. A security guard admitted them into the administrative area of the museum and directed them to a waiting room at the end of a long carpeted hallway. The door was closed; Gabriel started to turn the latch but hesitated.

  She's fragile. They're all a bit fragile...

  He knocked lightly. Lena Herzfeld, child of the attic, child of darkness, said, "Come in."

  SHE WAS SEATED ramrod straight at the center of a leather couch, knees together, hands in her lap. They were clutching the official program of the exhibition, which was wrinkled and wet with her tears. Gabriel and Chiara sat on either side of her and held her tightly while she wept. After several minutes, she looked at Gabriel and touched his cheek.

  "What shall I call you tonight? Are you Mr. Argov or Mr. Allon?"

  "Please call me Gabriel."

  She smiled briefly, then looked down at the program.

  "I'm still amazed you were actually able to find her after all these years."

  "We would never have been able to do it without the help of Kurt Voss's son."

  "I'm glad he came tonight. Where is he?"

  "Just down the hall. If you wouldn't mind, he'd like to have a word with you in private before the unveiling. He wants to apologize for what his father did."

  "It wasn't his crime, Gabriel. And his apology won't bring my sister back."

  "But it might help to hear it." Gabriel held her hand. "You've punished yourself long enough, Lena. It's time for you to let someone else bear the guilt for your family's murder."

  Tears spilled onto her cheeks, though she emitted not a sound. Finally, she composed herself and nodded. "I'll listen to his apology. But I will not cry in front of him."

  "There's something I need to warn you about, Lena."

  "He looks like this father?"

  "An older version," Gabriel said. "But the resemblance is striking."

  "Then I suppose God decided to punish him, too." She shook her head slowly. "To live with the face of a murderer? I cannot imagine."

  FOR PETER VOSS'S sake, Lena managed to conceal her shock when seeing him for the first time, though controlling her tears proved impossible. Gabriel remained in the room with them only a moment, then slipped into the corridor to wait with Chiara and Isherwood. Lena emerged ten minutes later, eyes raw, but looking remarkably composed. Gabriel took her hand and said there was one more person who wanted to see her.

  PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG WOMAN, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, by Rembrandt van Rijn, was propped on an easel in a small holding room, covered by baize cloth, surrounded by several security guards and a nervous-looking curator. Chiara held Lena by the arm while Gabriel and Isherwood carefully removed the cover.

  "She looks more beautiful than I remember."

  "It's not too late to change your mind, Lena. If you don't want to give her up permanently, Julian can alter the terms of the contract so it's only a temporary loan."

  "No," she said after a pause. "I can't care for her, not at my age. She'll be happier here."

  "You're sure?" Gabriel pressed.

  "I'm sure." Lena looked at the painting. "You put a prayer to my sister inside it?"

  "Here," said Chiara, pointing to the center of the bottom portion of the frame.

  "It will stay with her always?"

  "The museum has promised to keep it there forever," said Gabriel.

  Lena took a hesitant step forward. "I was never able to say good-bye to her that night in Amsterdam. There wasn't time." She looked at Gabriel. "May I touch her? One final time?"

  "Carefully," said Gabriel.

  Lena reached out and traced her finger slowly over the dark hair. Then she touched the bottom of the frame and walked silently from the room.

  THE UNVEILING had been scheduled for eight, but due to circumstances never explained to the guests it was closer to half past before Portrait of a Young Woman was carried into the rotunda, cloaked in her shroud of baize. Unexpectedly, Gabriel felt as nervous as a playwright on opening night. He found a hiding place with Isherwood and Chiara at the edge of the crowd and stared at his shoes during several long and deeply boring speeches. Finally, the lights dimmed and the covering came off to tumultuous applause. Chiara kissed his cheek and said, "They adore it, Gabriel. Look around you, darling. They don't realize it, but they're cheering for you."

  Gabriel looked up but immediately managed to find the one person in the crowd who was not clapping. She was a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair, olive-complected skin, and intoxicating green eyes that were focused directly on him. She raised a glass of champagne in his direction and mouthed the words, "Well done, Gabriel." Then she handed the glass to a passing waiter and headed toward the exit.

  79

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  You never told me how much I look like her," said Zoe.

  "Like Hendrickje?" Gabriel shrugged. "You're much prettier than she is."

  "I'm sure you say that to all the girls."

  "Only the ones I place in great danger."

  Zoe laughed. They were walking along the edge of the Mall, the vast dome of the Capitol floating before them, the Washington Monument rising at their backs. Paris, Greece, and Egypt, thought
Gabriel, all in the space of a few hundred yards. He looked at Zoe carefully. She was wearing an elegant evening gown, similar to the one she had worn to Martin's party, and a slender strand of pearls at her throat. Despite everything she had been through, she appeared relaxed and happy. It seemed to Gabriel that the burden of deception had been lifted from her shoulders. She was Zoe before the lies. Zoe before Martin.

  "I didn't realize you were planning to come."

  "I wasn't," she said. "But I decided I couldn't miss it."

  "How did you manage to get a ticket?"

  "Membership has its privileges, darling."

  "You should have let me know."

  "And how might I have done that? Call you? Drop you an e-mail or a text message?" She smiled. "Do you even have an e-mail address?"

  "Actually, I do. But it doesn't work like a normal account."

  "What a surprise," said Zoe. "How about a mobile phone? Do you carry one?"

  "Only under duress."

  "Mine's been acting up on me. You're not doing anything funny to it, are you?"

  "You're off the grid, Zoe."

  "I'm not sure I'll ever think of my phone quite the same way."

  "You shouldn't."

  They crossed the stone esplanade separating the main building of the National Gallery from its east wing.

  "Do you always bring members of your team to openings or is that gorgeous creature on your arm tonight your wife?" Zoe gave him a sideways glance and smiled. "I do believe you're blushing, Mr. Allon. If you'd like, I can teach you a few tricks of the trade to help you better conceal your emotions."