The Rembrandt Affair

  “You brought me a present, Maurice?”

  “Actually, I was wondering whether you could do something for me.”

  She gave him a wicked smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “It’s not that. I need you to keep this for me.”

  She glanced at the tube again. “What’s inside?”

  “It’s better you don’t know. Just keep it someplace where no one will find it. Someplace where the temperature and humidity are relatively stable.”

  “What is it, Maurice? A bomb?”

  “Don’t be silly, Angélique.”

  She picked a fleck of tobacco thoughtfully from the tip of her tongue. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Maurice?”

  “Never.”

  “So what’s inside the package?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s a Rembrandt portrait worth forty-five million dollars.”

  “Really? Is there anything else I should know?”

  “It has a bullet hole, and it’s covered in blood.”

  She blew a stream of smoke dismissively toward the ceiling. “What’s wrong, Maurice? You don’t seem yourself today.”

  “I’m just a bit distracted.”

  “Problems with your business?”

  “You might say that.”

  “My business is hurting, too. Everyone on the street is in trouble. I never thought I would say this, but the world was a much better place when the Americans were still rich.”

  “Yes,” Durand said absently.

  Angélique frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Durand assured her.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what’s really in the package?”

  “Trust me, Angélique. It’s nothing.”

  39

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  To describe the influence of Ari Shamron on the defense and security of the State of Israel was tantamount to explaining the role played by water in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. In many respects, Ari Shamron was the State of Israel. After fighting in the war that led to Israel’s reconstitution, he had spent the subsequent sixty years protecting the country from a host of enemies bent on its destruction. His star had burned brightest in times of crisis. He had penetrated the courts of kings, stolen the secrets of tyrants, and killed countless foes, sometimes with his own hands, sometimes with the hands of men such as Gabriel. Yet for all of Shamron’s clandestine achievements, a single act had made him an icon. On a rainy night in May 1960, Shamron had leapt from the back of a car in Argentina and seized Adolf Eichmann, managing director of the Holocaust and immediate superior of SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Voss. In a way, all roads had been leading to Shamron from the moment Gabriel had entered Lena Herzfeld’s sitting room. But then all roads usually did.

  Shamron’s role in the affairs of state had been drastically reduced in recent years, as had the size of his domain. He was now master of little more than his honey-colored villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee, yet even there he served mainly as a minister without portfolio to Gilah, his long-suffering wife. Shamron was now the worst thing a once-powerful man could be—unwanted and unneeded. He was regarded as a pest and a nuisance, someone to be tolerated but largely ignored. In short, he was underfoot.

  Shamron’s mood improved dramatically, however, when Gabriel and Chiara telephoned from Jerusalem to invite themselves to dinner. He was waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, his pale blue eyes shimmering with an impish excitement. Despite his obvious curiosity over the reason for Gabriel’s sudden return to Israel, he managed to restrain himself at dinner. They spoke of Shamron’s children, of Gabriel’s new life in Cornwall, and, like everyone else these days, the dire state of the global economy. Twice Shamron tried to broach the subjects of Uzi Navot and King Saul Boulevard, and twice Gilah deftly steered him into less turbulent waters. During a stolen moment in the kitchen, Gabriel quietly asked her about the state of Shamron’s health. “Even I can’t remember all the things that are wrong with him,” she said. “But don’t worry, Gabriel. He’s not going anywhere. Shamron is eternal. Now go sit with him. You know how happy that makes him.”

  There is a familial quality to the intelligence services of Israel that few outsiders ever manage to grasp. More often then not, major operations are conceived and planned not in secure briefing rooms but in the homes of their participants. Few venues had played a more prominent role in the secret wars of Israel—or in Gabriel’s own life—than Shamron’s large terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee. It was now noteworthy in Shamron’s life as the only place where Gilah permitted him to smoke his wretched unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. He lit one over Gabriel’s objections and lowered himself into his favorite chair facing the looming black mass of the Golan Heights. Gabriel ignited a pair of gas patio heaters and sat next to him.

  “Chiara looks wonderful,” Shamron said. “But that’s hardly surprising. You’ve always had a knack for repairing beautiful objects.”

  Shamron gave a faint smile. He had been responsible for sending Gabriel to Venice to study the craft of restoration but had always been mystified by his prodigy’s ability to paint in the manner of the Old Masters. As far as Shamron was concerned, Gabriel’s remarkable talent with a brush was akin to a parlor trick or a magician’s sleight of hand. It was something to be exploited, like Gabriel’s unique gift for languages and his ability to get a Beretta off his hip and into firing position in the time it takes most men to clap their hands.

  “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 displayed 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 t
ossed 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.