“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 had 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.”
Gabriel was silent.
“Is this the part where you’re going to remind me that you demand truthfulness in others while concealing yourself behind a cloak of lies?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my personal life, Zoe.”
“So we’re not all going to be friends?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”
“Too bad,” she said. “I always liked her. And, for the record, when we were all in Highgate together you two did a damn lousy job of hiding the fact you’re madly in love.”
“There is no safe house in Highgate, Zoe.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot.”
Gabriel changed the subject. “You look lovely, Zoe. New York obviously agrees with you.”
“I still haven’t managed to find a decent cup of tea.”
“No second thoughts about leaving the newspaper business?”
“There is no newspaper business,” Zoe said acidly. “What did you think of Martin’s performance at Davos?”
“I sleep easier at night knowing that Martin is optimistic about our future.”
“Has he been behaving himself?”
“I hear he’s been a model prisoner.”
“What’s going on with the centrifuges?”
“There are no centrifuges, Zoe, at least none where Martin is concerned. Martin never puts a foot wrong. He’s pure of heart and noble of intent. He’s a saint.”
“And to think I actually fell for that bilge.”
“From our point of view, we’re very glad you did.” Gabriel smiled and guided her toward the main building. “Have you heard from him?”
“Martin? Not a peep. But it galls me to no end that he’s actually going to get away with it. After what he and Müller did to Mikhail, I wish I could bring them down myself.”
“You’re still covered by the Official Secrets Act, Zoe. Even here in America.”
“The MI6 station in Washington reminds me of that on a regular basis.” Zoe s
miled and asked about Mikhail.
“From what I hear, he’s like new.”
“Just like the Rembrandt?”
“I doubt Mikhail needed as much work as the Rembrandt.”
“Do send him my best. I’m afraid I still see his face in my dreams every night.”
“It won’t last forever.”
“Yes,” she said distantly, “that’s what the MI5 psychiatrists told me.”
They had reached the gallery’s front entrance. Chiara and Isherwood were waiting outside with Lena Herzfeld.
“Who’s the woman with your wife?”
“She’s the reason we recruited you,” Gabriel said.
“Lena?”
Gabriel nodded. “Would you like to meet her?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll just admire her from afar.” Zoe hailed a passing taxi. “If you ever need someone to do another dangerous job, you know where to find me.”
“Go back to your life.”
“I’m trying to,” she said, smiling. “But it’s just not as bloody interesting as yours.”
Zoe kissed his cheek and climbed into the taxi. As it pulled away from the curb, Gabriel felt his phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. It was an e-mail from King Saul Boulevard, just one word in length.
BOOM…
80
THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL
As with nearly every other aspect of Operation Masterpiece, deciding precisely what to do with Martin Landesmann’s centrifuges was the source of a contentious internal debate. Roughly speaking, there were three options—only fitting, since the political leadership and intelligence services of three nations were involved. Options one and two involved tampering and bugging while option three imagined a far more decisive course of action. Also known as the Hammer of Shamron, it called for concealing monitoring devices in the centrifuges along with enough high explosives to blow Iran’s entire secret enrichment chain to kingdom come if the opportunity presented itself. The benefits, said Shamron, were twofold. Not only would a major act of sabotage deal a severe setback to the program but it would forever make the Iranians think twice about doing their nuclear shopping in Europe.