The Rembrandt Affair Read online

  “Maybe they should try looking in Japan.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Any others?”

  “Not an idea,” Chiara said carefully. “Just a suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your friend Julian needs you, Gabriel.” Chiara pointed to the photographs spread along the countertop. “And so does she.”

  Gabriel was silent. Chiara picked up the photograph showing the canvas in full.

  “When did he paint it?”

  “Sixteen fifty-four.”

  “The same year Hendrickje gave birth to Cornelia?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “I think she looks pregnant.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Chiara scrutinized the image carefully for a moment. “Do you know what else I think? She’s keeping a secret. She knows she’s pregnant but hasn’t worked up the courage to tell him.” Chiara glanced up at Gabriel. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

  “I think you would have made a good art historian, Chiara.”

  “I grew up in Venice. I am an art historian.” She looked down at the photo again. “I can’t leave a pregnant woman buried in a hole, Gabriel. And neither can you.”

  Gabriel flipped open his mobile phone. As he entered Isherwood’s number, he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself. Chiara always sang when she was happy. It was the first time Gabriel had heard her sing in more than a year.

  8

  RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

  The sign in the shop window read ANTIQUITÉS SCIENTIFIQUES. Beneath it stood row upon row of meticulously arranged antique microscopes, cameras, barometers, telescopes, surveyors, and spectacles. Usually, Maurice Durand would spend a moment or two inspecting the display for the slightest flaw before opening the shop. But not that morning. Durand’s well-ordered little world was beset by a problem, a crisis of profound magnitude for a man whose every waking moment was devoted to avoiding them.

  He unlocked the door, switched the sign in the door from FERMÉ to OUVERT, and retreated to his office at the back of the shop. Like Durand himself, it was small and tidy and lacking in even the slightest trace of flair. After hanging his overcoat carefully on its hook, he rubbed an island of chronic pain at the base of his spine before sitting down to check his e-mail. He did so with little enthusiasm. Maurice Durand was a bit of an antique himself. Trapped by circumstance in an age without grace, he had surrounded himself with symbols of enlightenment. He regarded electronic correspondence as a disagreeable but obligatory nuisance. He preferred pen and paper to the ethereal mist of the Internet and consumed his news by reading several papers over coffee in his favorite café. In Durand’s quietly held opinion, the Internet was a plague that killed everything it touched. Eventually, he feared, it would destroy Antiquités Scientifiques.

  Durand spent the better part of the next hour slowly working his way through a long queue of orders and inquiries from around the world. Most of the clients were well established; some, relatively new. Invariably, when Durand read their addresses, his mind drifted to other matters. For example, when responding to an e-mail from an old client who lived on P Street in the Georgetown section of Washington, he couldn’t help but think of the small museum located a few blocks away. He had once entertained a lucrative proposal to relieve the gallery of its signature painting: Luncheon of the Boating Party by Renoir. But after a thorough review—Durand was always thorough—he had declined. The painting was far too large, and the chances for success far too small. Only adventurers and mafiosi stole large paintings, and Durand was neither. He was a professional. And a true professional never accepted a commission he could not fulfill. That’s how clients became disappointed. And Maurice Durand made it his business never to disappoint a client.

  Which explained his anxious mood that morning and his preoccupation with the copy of Le Figaro lying on his desk. No matter how many times he read the article surrounded by a perfect red triangle, the details did not change.

  Well-known British art restorer…shot twice in his Glastonbury residence…motive for murder unclear…nothing missing…

  It was the last part—the part about nothing being missing—that troubled Durand most. He scanned the article again, then reached for his phone and dialed. Same result. Ten times he had called the same number. Ten times he had been condemned to the purgatory of voice mail.

  Durand replaced the receiver and stared at the newspaper. Nothing missing…He wasn’t sure he believed it. But given the circumstances, he had no choice but to investigate personally. Unfortunately, that would require him to close the shop and travel to a city that was an affront to all things he held sacred. He picked up the phone again and this time dialed a new number. A computer answered. But of course. Durand rolled his eyes and asked the machine for a first-class ticket on the morning TGV to Marseilles.

  9

  GUNWALLOE COVE, CORNWALL

  In the aftermath of the affair, all those involved agreed that no quest for a stolen masterpiece had ever begun in quite the same way. Because within minutes of accepting the assignment, Gabriel Allon, the retired Israeli assassin and spy, placed a quiet call to none other than Graham Seymour, deputy director of the British Security Service, MI5. Upon hearing Gabriel’s request, Seymour contacted the Home Secretary, who in turn contacted the chief constable of the Avon and Somerset Police, headquartered in Portishead. There the request encountered its first resistance, which crumbled when the chief constable received yet another call, this one from Downing Street. By late that evening, Gabriel had notched a small but significant victory—an invitation to view the home and studio of his old colleague from Venice, Christopher Liddell.

  He woke the following morning to find the other side of the bed empty—unusual, since he was nearly always the first to rise. He lay there for a moment listening to the splashing of water in the shower, then headed into the kitchen. After preparing a large bowl of café au lait, he switched on his laptop and skimmed the news. Out of habit, he read the dispatches from the Middle East first. A sixteen-year-old girl had carried out a suicide bombing in a crowded market in Afghanistan, a mysterious explosion in a remote corner of Yemen had claimed the lives of three senior al-Qaeda leaders, and Iran’s always-entertaining president had made yet another incendiary speech about wiping Israel from the face of the earth. Led by the new administration in Washington, the civilized world was murmuring veiled threats about sanctions while in Jerusalem the Israeli prime minister warned that with each turn of the centrifuges the Iranians were moving closer to a nuclear weapon.

  Gabriel read these accounts with an odd sense of dislocation. He had given more than thirty years of his life to protecting the State of Israel and by extension its Western allies. But now, having finally convinced the Office to release him, he could only wonder at the truth behind the headlines. Any regrets about retirement, however, quickly evaporated when Chiara entered the room, her hair still damp, her skin luminous. Gabriel peered at her over the top of the computer and smiled. For the moment, at least, he was more than willing to leave the problems of Iran and Islamic terrorism to other men.

  It was 9:15 when Gabriel and Chiara climbed into the Range Rover and departed Gunwalloe Cove. The traffic was moderate; the weather, volatile: brilliant sun one minute, biblical rain the next. They reached Truro by ten, Exeter by eleven, and by noon were approaching Glastonbury’s southwestern flank. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a prosperous and slightly dull English market town. Only when they reached Magdalene Street did the true character of modern Glastonbury reveal itself.

  “Where in God’s name are we?” asked Chiara.

  “Venus,” said Gabriel.

  He eased into Henley Close and switched off the engine. Waiting outside the house at No. 8 was Detective Inspector Ronald Harkness of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s Criminal Investigation Department. He had a ruddy, outdoor complexion and wore a blazer that had seen better days. Judging by his expression, he was not pleased t
o be there, which was understandable. Higher Authority had conspired against Harkness. It had instructed him to open his active crime scene to a pair of art investigators named Rossi. Higher Authority had also ordered Harkness to cooperate fully, to answer all questions to the best of his ability, and to give the art investigators a wide berth. What’s more, it had been suggested to Harkness that he might recognize Mr. Rossi. And if that turned out to be the case, Harkness was to keep his trap shut and his eyes on the ground.

  After a round of judicious handshakes, Harkness gave them each a pair of gloves and shoe covers and led them across the unkempt garden. Attached to the front door was a lime green notice forbidding all unauthorized visitors. Gabriel searched the jamb in vain for evidence of forcible entry, then, stepping into the foyer, was greeted by a vague scent he recognized as acetone. Harkness closed the door. Gabriel looked at the security keypad mounted on the wall.

  “It’s a high-quality system,” Harkness said, taking note of Gabriel’s interest. “The last activity occurred at six fifty-three p.m. the evening of the murder. We believe it was the victim returning from dinner. After triggering the front-door sensor, he immediately entered the correct code to disarm. Unfortunately, he didn’t reset the system once inside the house. According to the security company, he rarely did. We believe the thief knew this.”

  “Thief?”

  The detective nodded. “We have an initial suspect. It appears he spent at least three days in Glastonbury surveilling both the property and the victim before making his move. In fact, he and Mr. Liddell had dinner together the night of the murder.” Harkness caught himself. “Well, not exactly together. Have a look at these.”

  He produced a pair of CCTV still photos from his coat pocket and handed them over to Gabriel. The first showed Christopher Liddell departing a café called the Hundred Monkeys at 6:32 p.m. on the evening of his murder. The second showed a man with a stubby ponytail, dressed in denim and flannel, leaving the same café just three minutes later.

  “We have a couple more that were shot alongside St. John’s Church and near the preschool. That’s where Liddell’s daughter is a student. A pity. She’s a lovely child.”

  “But none of the killer near the house?”

  “Unfortunately, the area of CCTV coverage ends a few streets from here.” The detective examined Gabriel carefully. “But I suspect you noticed that on the way in, didn’t you, Mr….”

  “Rossi,” said Gabriel. He examined the face of the suspect, then handed the photographs to Chiara.

  “Is he British?” she asked the detective.

  “We don’t think so. He stayed with a group of New Age squatters in an empty field a couple of miles outside town. They say he spoke English with a pronounced French accent and rode a motorcycle. Called himself Lucien. The girls liked him.”

  “And I assume he hasn’t appeared in any more CCTV images since the murder?” she asked.

  “Not so much as a glimmer.” The detective accepted the photographs from Chiara and looked at Gabriel. “Where would you like to start?”

  “His studio.”

  “It’s in the attic.”

  The detective led them up a flight of narrow stairs, then paused on the landing at the foot of the next flight. It was littered with yellow evidence markers and covered by a great deal of dried blood. Gabriel cast a glance at Chiara. Her face was expressionless.

  “This is where Liddell’s body was found,” Harkness said. “The studio is one more flight up.”

  The detective stepped carefully over the evidence markers and started up the stairs. Gabriel entered the studio last and waited patiently for the detective to switch on the halogen work lamps. The harsh white glow was hauntingly familiar, as was everything else about the room. Indeed, with a few minor changes, Gabriel might well have mistaken the studio for his own. In the center stood a tripod with a Nikon camera pointed toward a now-empty easel. To the right of the easel was a small trolley cluttered with bottles of medium, pigment, and Series 7 sable brushes by Winsor & Newton. The Series 7 was Umberto Conti’s favorite. Umberto always said a skilled restorer could do anything with a good Series 7.

  Gabriel picked up one of the bottles of pigment—Alizarin Orange, once manufactured by Britain’s Imperial Chemical Industries, now nearly impossible to find. Mixed with transparent blacks, it produced a glaze unique in its richness. Gabriel’s own supply was running dangerously low. The restorer in him wanted to slip the bottle in his pocket. Instead, he returned the bottle to its place and studied the floor. Scattered around the base of the trolley were several more evidence markers.

  “We found broken glass there along with two small wads of cotton wool. We also found the residue of a liquid chemical mixture of some sort. The lab is still working on the analysis.”

  “Tell your lab it’s a mixture of acetone, methyl proxitol, and mineral spirits.”

  “You sound fairly sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  It was Chiara who answered. “In all likelihood, your lab technicians will discover that the proportions of the solution were two parts acetone, one part methyl proxitol, and ten parts mineral spirits.”

  The detective gave her a nod of professional respect. Clearly, he was beginning to wonder about the true identities of the two “art investigators” with friends at MI5 and Downing Street.

  “And the cotton wool?” he asked.

  Gabriel lifted a pencil-sized wooden dowel from the trolley to demonstrate. “Liddell had begun removing the dirty varnish from the painting. He would have wound the cotton around the end of this and twirled it gently over the surface. When it became soiled, he would have dropped it on the floor and made a new one. He must have been working when the thief entered the house.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because a good restorer always cleans up his studio at the end of a session. And Christopher Liddell was a good restorer.”

  Gabriel looked at the camera. It was attached by a cable to a large-screen iMac computer, which stood at one end of an antique library table with leather inlay. Next to the computer was a stack of monographs dealing with Rembrandt’s life and work, including Gustaaf van Berkel’s indispensable Rembrandt: The Complete Paintings.

  “I’d like to see the photographs he made of the canvas.”

  Harkness appeared to search his mind for a reason to object, but could find none. With Chiara peering over his shoulder, Gabriel powered on the computer and clicked on a folder labeled REMBRANDT, PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG WOMAN. Inside were eighteen photos, including several that had been taken after Liddell had begun the process of removing the varnish. Three of the shots seemed to focus on a pair of thin lines—one perfectly vertical, the other perfectly horizontal—that converged a few centimeters from Hendrickje’s left shoulder. Gabriel had encountered many types of surface creasing during his long career, but these were unusual in both their faintness and regularity. It was obvious the lines had intrigued Liddell as well.

  There was one more thing Gabriel needed from the computer. It was the duty of every restorer to keep a record of the procedures carried out on a painting, especially one as important as a newly discovered Rembrandt. Though Liddell was still early in the restoration process at the time of his death, it was possible he had recorded some of his initial observations. Without asking for permission, Gabriel started the word-processing program and opened the most recent document. It was two pages in length and written in Liddell’s precise, scholarly prose. Gabriel read it quickly, his face an inscrutable mask. Resisting the impulse to click PRINT, he closed the document, along with the photo folder.

  “Anything unusual?” the detective asked.

  “No,” said Gabriel, “nothing at all.”

  “Is there anything else you would like to see?”

  Gabriel switched off the computer and said, “Just one more thing.”

  10

  GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

  T
hey stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the landing and stared silently down at the dried blood. “I have photographs,” said the detective, “but I’m afraid they’re not for the squeamish.”

  Gabriel wordlessly held out his hand and accepted a stack of eight-by-ten prints—Christopher Liddell, eyes frozen wide in death, a gaping exit wound at the base of his throat, a small entry wound in the center of his forehead. Again, Harkness watched Gabriel intently, plainly intrigued by his failure to register even a hint of revulsion at the sight of a brutally murdered corpse. Gabriel handed the photos to Chiara, who examined them with a similar dispassion before returning them to the detective.

  “As you can see,” he said, “Liddell was shot twice. Both rounds exited the victim and were recovered. One from the wall, the other from the floor.”

  Gabriel examined the wall first. The bullet hole was located approximately three feet above the floor, opposite the flight of stairs descending from the studio.

  “I assume this is the neck shot?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Nine millimeter?”

  “You obviously know your weaponry, Mr. Rossi.”

  Gabriel looked up toward the third-floor studio. “So the killer fired from the top of the stairs?”

  “We don’t have a final report yet, but the angle of the wound, combined with the angle that the round entered the wall, would suggest that. The medical examiner says the shot struck the victim in the back of the neck, shattering the fourth cervical vertebra and severing the spinal cord.”

  Gabriel looked at the crime-scene photographs again. “Judging from the powder burns on Liddell’s forehead, the second shot was fired at close range.”

  “A few inches,” Harkness agreed. Then he looked at Gabriel and added provocatively, “I suppose a professional assassin might refer to that one as the control shot.”