Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair

  The events of the next few seconds would play incessantly in Gabriel's mind for months to come. Unfortunately, they were images he had seen too many times before--images of a world he thought he had finally left behind. Another man might have missed the warning signs--the large suitcase in the corner of the lobby that had not been there earlier, the muscular figure with blond hair and sunglasses stepping rather too quickly into the street, the car waiting curbside with its back door ajar--but Gabriel noticed them all. And without a word he wrapped his arm around Chiara's waist and swept her through the doorway.

  Neither he nor Chiara would ever be able to recall the actual sound of the explosion, only the searing wave of air and the helpless sensation of being hurled into the street like toys thrown by a petulant child. They came to rest side by side, Gabriel facedown with his hands flung over his head, Chiara on her back with her eyes tightly closed in pain. Gabriel managed to shield her from the hailstorm of masonry and shattered glass that rained down upon them but not from the sight of Alfonso Ramirez. He was lying in the center of the street, his clothing blackened by fire. Fluttering all around them were thousands of pieces of paper, the priceless files of Ramirez's archives. Gabriel crawled to Ramirez's side and felt his neck for a pulse. Then he rose and returned to Chiara.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I think so."

  "Can you stand up?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You have to try."

  "Help me."

  Gabriel pulled Chiara gently to her feet, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Chiara's first steps were unsteady, but by the time the sirens began to sound in the distance she was moving along the devastated street at a brisk pace. Gabriel led her around a corner, then pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number from memory. A female voice answered calmly in Hebrew; in the same language, Gabriel recited a code phrase followed by a series of numbers. After a few seconds, the female voice asked, "What is the nature of your emergency?"

  "I need an extraction."

  "How soon?"

  "Immediately."

  "Are you alone?"

  "No."

  "How many in your party?"

  "Two."

  "What is your present location?"

  "Avenida Caseros, San Telmo, Buenos Aires..."

  37

  BEN GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

  There is a room at Ben Gurion Airport known to only a handful of people. It is located to the left of passport control, behind an unmarked door kept locked at all times. Its walls are faux Jerusalem limestone; its furnishings are typical airport fare: black vinyl couches and chairs, modular end tables, cheap modern lamps that cast an unforgiving light. There are two windows, one looking onto the tarmac, the other onto the arrivals hall. Both are fashioned of high-quality one-way glass. Reserved for Office personnel, it is the first stop for operatives returning from secret battlefields abroad, thus the permanent odor of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The cleaning staff has tried every product imaginable to expel it, but the smell remains. Like Israel's enemies, it cannot be defeated by conventional means.

  Gabriel had entered this room, or versions of it, many times before. He had entered it in triumph and staggered into it in failure. He had been feted in this room, consoled in it, and once he had been wheeled into it with a bullet wound in his chest. Usually it was Ari Shamron who was waiting to receive him. Now, as Gabriel slipped through the door with Chiara at his side, he was greeted by the sight of Uzi Navot. He had shed at least thirty pounds since Gabriel had seen him last and was wearing a new pair of stylish spectacles that made him look like the editor of a trendy magazine. The stainless steel chronometer he had always worn to emulate Shamron was gone, replaced by a tank-style watch that went well with his tailored navy blue suit and white open-collared dress shirt. The metamorphosis was complete, thought Gabriel. Any trace of the hard-bitten field operative had been carefully erased. Uzi Navot was now a headquarters man, a spy in the prime of life.

  Navot stared at them wordlessly for a moment, a look of genuine relief on his face. Then, satisfied that Gabriel and Chiara had suffered no serious injuries, his expression darkened.

  "This is a special occasion," he said finally. "My first personnel crisis as chief. I suppose it's only fitting that you're involved. Then again, it was rather mild by your exalted standards--just an apartment building in ruins and eight people dead, including one of Argentina's most prominent journalists and social critics."

  "Chiara and I are fine, Uzi, but thank you for asking."

  Navot made a placatory gesture, as if to say he wanted the tone of the conversation to remain civil.

  "I realize your status is somewhat vague at the moment, Gabriel, but there is no ambiguity over the rules governing your movements. Because your passports and identities are still managed by the Office, you're supposed to tell me when you travel." Navot paused. "You do recall making that promise, don't you, Gabriel?"

  With a nod, Gabriel conceded the point.

  "When were you planning to tell me about your little adventure?"

  "It was a private matter."

  "Private? There's no such thing where you're concerned." Navot frowned. "And what the hell were you doing in Alfonso Ramirez's apartment?"

  "We were looking for a portrait by Rembrandt," Gabriel said. "And a great deal of money."

  "And I thought it was going to be something dull." Navot sighed heavily. "I assume that you were the target of that bomb, and not Alfonso Ramirez?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Any suspects?"

  "Just one."

  THEY CLIMBED into the back of Navot's armored limousine, with Chiara between them like a separation fence, and headed up Highway 1 toward Jerusalem. Navot appeared intrigued by Gabriel's account at first, but by the time the briefing was concluded his arms were folded defensively across his chest and his face was fixed in an expression of transparent disapproval. Navot was like that. A veteran field agent trained to conceal his emotions, he had never been good at hiding the fact he was annoyed.

  "It's a fascinating story. But if the point of your little excursion was to find your friend Julian Isherwood's painting, you don't seem much closer. And it appears you've tread on some serious toes. You and Chiara are lucky to be alive right now. Take the hint. Drop the case down a very deep hole and forget about it. Julian will survive. Go back to your cottage by the sea in Cornwall. Live your life." Navot paused, then asked, "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

  Gabriel left the question unanswered. "This may have started out as a search for a stolen painting, Uzi, but it's become much more. If everything we've learned is correct, Martin Landesmann is sitting on a mountain of stolen money. He and his father have killed several people to protect that secret, and someone just tried to kill us in Buenos Aires. But I can't prove it on my own. I need--"

  "The resources of the Office?" Navot stared incredulously. "Perhaps it's escaped your notice, but at the moment the State of Israel is confronting more serious threats. Our friends in Iran are on the verge of becoming a nuclear power. In Lebanon, Hezbollah is arming for an all-out war. And, in case the news hasn't reached Cornwall, we're not exactly popular in the world right now. It's not that I don't take what you've discovered seriously, Gabriel. It's just we have other things to worry about."

  Chiara interjected for the first time. "You might feel otherwise if you met Lena Herzfeld."

  Navot raised a hand in his own defense. "Listen, Chiara, in a perfect world we would go after all the Martin Landesmanns out there. But it's not a perfect world. If it was, the Office could close its doors, and we could all spend the rest of our days thinking pure thoughts."

  "So what should we do?" Gabriel asked. "Wash our hands of it?"

  "Let Eli handle it. Or give it to the bloodhounds at the Holocaust restitution agencies."

  "Landesmann and his lawyers will swat them away like flies."

  "Better them than you. Given your history, y
ou're not exactly the best candidate to take on a man like Landesmann. He has friends in high places."

  "So do I."

  "And they'll disown you if you try to bring down a man who's given away as much money as he has." Navot was silent for a moment. "I'm going to say something I'll probably regret later."

  "Then maybe you shouldn't say it."

  Navot didn't heed Gabriel's advice. "If you had taken the director's job the way Shamron wanted, then you would be the one making the decisions like this. But you--"

  "Is that what this is about, Uzi? Putting me in my place?"

  "Don't flatter yourself, Gabriel. My decision is based on my need to set priorities. And one of those priorities is maintaining good relations with the security and intelligence services of Western Europe. The last thing we need is some ill-conceived cowboy operation against Martin Landesmann. This discussion is now officially over."

  Gabriel peered silently out the window as the car turned into Narkiss Street. Near the end was a small limestone apartment house largely concealed by a sprawling eucalyptus tree growing in the front garden. As the car came to a stop at the entrance, Navot was shifting uneasily in his seat. Personal confrontation had never been his strong suit.

  "I'm sorry about the circumstances, but welcome home. Go upstairs and lie low for a few days until we've had a chance to sort through the wreckage in Buenos Aires. And try to get some rest. Don't take this the wrong way, Gabriel, but you look like hell."

  "I can't sleep on airplanes, Uzi."

  Navot smiled. "It's good to know some things never change."

  38

  RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

  By the afternoon of Gabriel Allon's unheralded return to Jerusalem, Maurice Durand was thoroughly regretting that he had ever heard the name Rembrandt van Rijn or laid eyes on the portrait of his delectable young mistress. Durand's predicament was now twofold. He was in possession of a bloodstained painting too badly damaged to deliver to his client, along with a very old list of names and numbers that had been gnawing at the edges of his conscience from the moment he saw it. He decided to confront his problems sequentially. Methodical in all things, he knew no other way.

  He dealt with the first problem by dispatching a brief e-mail to an address at yahoo.com. It stated that, much to the regret of Antiquites Scientifiques, the item requested by the client had not arrived as scheduled. Sadly, Durand added, it never would, for it had been involved in a tragic warehouse fire and now was little more than a worthless pile of ash. Given the fact that the item was a one-of-a-kind and therefore irreplaceable, Antiquites Scientifiques had no choice but to immediately refund the client's deposit--two million euros, a figure not included in the communique--and to offer its deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused by the unforeseen turn of events.

  Having dealt with his first dilemma, Durand turned his attention to the troubling three pages of decaying onionskin paper he had found inside the painting. This time he chose a more archaic solution, a box of wooden matches from Fouquet's. Striking one, he lifted it toward the bottom right corner of the first page. For the next several seconds, he tried to close the three-inch gap between fuel and flame. The names, however, would not allow it.

  Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...

  The match extinguished itself in a puff of smoke. Durand tried a second time, but with the same result. He didn't bother to make a third attempt. Instead, he carefully returned the document to its wax paper sheath and placed it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. A woman answered after the first ring.

  "Is your husband there?"

  "No."

  "I need to see you."

  "Hurry, Maurice."

  ANGELIQUE BROSSARD was a good deal like the glass figurines lining the display cases of her shop--small, delicate, and pleasing to look at provided one's gaze did not linger too long or in too critical a manner. Durand had known her for nearly ten years. Their liaison fell under the heading of what Parisians politely refer to as a cinq a sept, a reference to the two hours in late afternoon traditionally reserved for the commission of adultery. Unlike Durand's other relationships, it was relatively uncomplicated. Pleasure was given, pleasure was demanded in return, and the word love was never spoken. That is not to say their attachment lacked affection or commitment. A thoughtless word or forgotten birthday could send Angelique into a fury. As for Durand, he had long ago given up on the idea of marriage. Angelique Brossard was the closest thing to a wife he would ever have.

  Invariably, their encounters took place on the couch in Angelique's office. It was not large enough for proper lovemaking, but through many years of regular use they had trained themselves to utilize its limited geography to its full potential. On that afternoon, however, Durand was in no mood for romance. Clearly disappointed, Angelique lit a Gitane and looked at the cardboard tube in Durand's hand.

  "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, Angelique."

  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.

  Angelique 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, Angelique. 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-Hauptsturmfuhrer 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.