The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  4

  LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

  How did you find me, Julian?”

  “Chiara told me you were headed this way.”

  Gabriel stared incredulously at Isherwood.

  “How do you think I found you, petal?”

  “Either you pried it out of the director-general of MI5 or Shamron told you. I’m betting it was Shamron.”

  “You always were a clever boy.”

  Isherwood added milk to his tea. He was dressed for the country in tweeds and wool, and his long gray locks appeared to have been recently trimmed, a sure sign he was involved with a new woman. Gabriel couldn’t help but smile. He had always been amazed by Isherwood’s capacity for love. It was matched only by his desire to find and acquire paintings.

  “They say there’s a lost land out there somewhere,” Isherwood said, nodding toward the window. “Apparently, it stretches from here to the Isles of Scilly. They say that when the wind is right you can hear the tolling of church bells.”

  “It’s known as Lyonesse, the City of Lions, and it’s nothing but a local legend.”

  “Like the one about an archangel living atop the cliffs of Gunwalloe Cove?”

  “Let’s not get carried away with the biblical allusions, Julian.”

  “I’m a dealer of Italian and Dutch Old Master art. Biblical allusions are my stock-in-trade. Besides, it’s hard not to get carried away in a place like this. It’s all a bit isolated for my taste, but I can understand why you’ve always been drawn to it.” Isherwood loosened the buttons of his overcoat. “I remember that lovely cottage you had over in Port Navas. And that dreadful little toad who used to watch over it when you weren’t around. Remind me of the lad’s name.”

  “Peel,” said Gabriel.

  “Ah, yes, young Master Peel. He was like you. A natural spy, that one. Gave me a devil of a time when I came looking for that painting I’d placed in your care.” Isherwood made a show of thought. “Vecellio, wasn’t it?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Adoration of the Shepherds.”

  “Gorgeous picture,” said Isherwood, his eyes glistening. “My business was hanging by the thinnest of threads. That Vecellio was the coup that was going to keep me in clover for a few more years, and you were supposed to be restoring it. But you’d disappeared from the face of the earth, hadn’t you? Vanished without a trace.” Isherwood frowned. “I was a fool to ever throw in my lot with you and your friends from Tel Aviv. You use people like me. And when you’re done, you throw us to the wolves.”

  Isherwood warmed his hands against the tarnished aluminum teapot. His backbone-of-England surname and English scale concealed the fact that he was not, at least technically, English at all. British by nationality and passport, yes, but German by birth, French by upbringing, and Jewish by religion. Only a handful of trusted friends knew that Isherwood had staggered into London as a child refugee in 1942 after being carried across the snowbound Pyrenees by a pair of Basque shepherds. Or that his father, the renowned Paris art dealer Samuel Isakowitz, had been murdered at the Sobibor death camp along with Isherwood’s mother. Though Isherwood had carefully guarded the secrets of his past, the story of his dramatic escape from Nazi-occupied Europe had managed to reach the ears of the legendary Israeli spymaster Ari Shamron. And in the mid-1970s, during a wave of Palestinian terrorist attacks against Israeli targets in Europe, Shamron had recruited Isherwood as a sayan, a volunteer helper. Isherwood had but one assignment—to assist in building and maintaining the operational cover of a young art restorer and assassin named Gabriel Allon.

  “When did you speak with him?” Gabriel asked.

  “Shamron?” Isherwood gave an ambiguous shrug of his shoulders. “I bumped into him in Paris a few weeks ago.”

  Gabriel, by his expression, made it clear he found Isherwood’s account less than credible. No one bumped into Ari Shamron. And those who did rarely lived to recall the experience.

  “Where in Paris?”

  “We had dinner in his suite at the Ritz. Just the two of us.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Actually, we weren’t completely alone. His bodyguard was there, too. Poor Shamron. He’s as old as the Judean Hills, but even now his enemies are ruthlessly stalking him.”

  “It comes with the territory, Julian.”

  “I suppose it does.” Isherwood looked at Gabriel and smiled sadly. “He’s as stubborn as a mule and about as charming. But a part of me is glad he’s still there. And another part lives in fear of the day he finally dies. Israel will never be quite the same. And neither will King Saul Boulevard.”

  King Saul Boulevard was the address of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Those who worked there referred to it as the Office and nothing else.

  “Shamron will never die, Julian. Shamron is eternal.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, petal. He didn’t look well to me.”

  Gabriel sipped his tea. It had been nearly a decade since Shamron had done his last tour as chief, and yet he still meddled in the affairs of the Office as though it were his private fiefdom. Its ranks were filled with officers who had been recruited and groomed by Shamron—officers who operated by a creed, even spoke a language, written by him. Though he no longer had a formal position or title, Shamron remained the hidden hand that guided Israel’s security policies. Within the corridors of the Israeli security establishment, he was known only as the Memuneh, the one in charge. For many years, he had devoted his formidable power to a single mission—persuading Gabriel, whom he regarded as a wayward son, to assume his rightful place in the director’s suite of King Saul Boulevard. Gabriel had always resisted; and after his last operation, Shamron had finally granted him permission to leave the organization he had served since his youth.

  “Why are you here, Julian? We had an arrangement. When I was ready to work, I would make contact with you, not the other way around.”

  Isherwood leaned forward and placed a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Shamron told me about what happened in Russia,” he said softly. “Heaven knows I’m no expert, but I doubt even you have the power to erase a memory like that.”

  Gabriel watched the seagulls floating like kites above the tip of Lizard Point. His thoughts, however, were of a birch forest east of Moscow. He was standing next to Chiara at the edge of a freshly dug grave, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes fixed on the barrel of a large-caliber pistol. At the other end of the gun was Ivan Kharkov, Russian oligarch, international financier, arms dealer, and murderer. Enjoy watching your wife die, Allon. Gabriel blinked and the vision was gone.

  “How much did Shamron tell you?”

  “Enough to know that you and Chiara have every right to lock yourselves away in that cottage and never come out again.” Isherwood was silent for a moment. “Is it true she was pregnant when she was taken from that road in Umbria?”

  Gabriel closed his eyes and nodded. “Ivan’s kidnappers gave her several doses of sedative while they were moving her from Italy to Russia. She lost the baby while she was in captivity.”

  “How is she now?”

  “Like a newly restored painting. On the surface, she looks wonderful. But underneath…” Gabriel’s voice trailed off. “She has losses, Julian.”

  “How extensive?”

  “There are good days and bad.”

  “I read about Ivan’s murder in the newspapers. The French police seem convinced he was killed on orders from the Kremlin or by an angry business rival. But it was you, wasn’t it, Gabriel? You were the one who killed Ivan outside that posh restaurant in Saint-Tropez.”

  “Just because I’m officially retired now doesn’t mean the rules have changed, Julian.”

  Isherwood replenished his teacup and picked reflectively at the corner of his napkin. “You did the world a favor by killing him,” he said quietly. “Now you have to do one for yourself and that gorgeous wife of yours. It’s tim
e for you and Chiara to rejoin the living.”

  “We are living, Julian. Quite well, actually.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re in mourning. You’re sitting an extended shivah for the child you lost in Russia. But you can walk the cliffs from here to Land’s End, Gabriel, and it will never bring that baby back. Chiara knows it. And it’s time for you to start thinking about something other than a Russian oligarch named Ivan Kharkov.”

  “Something like a painting?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gabriel exhaled heavily. “Who’s the artist?”

  “Rembrandt.”

  “What condition is it in?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because at the moment, it’s missing.”

  “How can I restore a missing painting?”

  “Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. I don’t need you to restore a painting, Gabriel. I need you to find one.”

  5

  LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

  They walked along the cliffs toward Lizard Light, a study in contrasts, figures from different paintings. Isherwood’s hands were shoved into the pockets of his tweed country coat, the ends of his woolen scarf fluttering like warning flags in the raw wind. Paradoxically, he was speaking of summer—a sultry afternoon in July when he had visited a château in the Loire Valley to pick over the collection of its deceased owner, one of the more ghoulish aspects of an art dealer’s dubious existence.

  “There were one or two paintings that were mildly interesting, but the rest was complete crap. As I was leaving, my mobile rang. It was none other than David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and a rather shady character, to put it mildly.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He had a proposition for me. The kind that couldn’t be discussed over the phone. Insisted I come see him right away. He was staying at a borrowed villa on Sardinia. That’s Cavendish’s way. He’s a houseguest of a man. Never pays for anything. But he promised the trip would be well worth my time. He also hinted that the house was filled with pretty girls and a great deal of excellent wine.”

  “So you caught the next plane?”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “And the proposition?”

  “He had a client who wanted to dispose of a major portrait. A Rembrandt. Quite a prize. Never been seen in public. Said his client was disinclined to use one of the big auction houses. Wanted the matter handled privately. He also said the client wished to see the painting hanging in a museum. Cavendish tried to portray him as some sort of humanitarian. More likely, he just couldn’t bear the thought of it hanging on the wall of another collector.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because by the rather low standards of the art world, I’m considered a paragon of virtue. And despite my many stumbles over the years, I’ve somehow managed to maintain an excellent reputation among the museums.”

  “If they only knew.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “Did Cavendish ever tell you the seller’s name?”

  “He spun some nonsense about faded nobility from an Eastern land, but I didn’t believe a word of it.”

  “Why a private sale?”

  “Haven’t you heard? In these uncertain times, they’re all the rage. First and foremost, they ensure the seller total anonymity. Remember, darling, one normally doesn’t part with a Rembrandt because one is tired of looking at it. One parts with it because one needs money. And the last thing a rich person wants is to tell the world that he’s not so rich anymore. Besides, taking a painting to auction is always risky. Doubly so in a climate like this.”

  “So you agreed to handle the sale.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What was your take?”

  “Ten percent commission, split down the middle with Cavendish.”

  “That’s not terribly ethical, Julian.”

  “We do what we have to do. My phone stopped ringing the day the Dow went below seven thousand. And I’m not alone. Every dealer in St. James’s is feeling the pinch. Everyone but Giles Pittaway, of course. Somehow, Giles always manages to weather all storms.”

  “I assume you got a second opinion on the canvas before taking it to market?”

  “Immediately,” said Isherwood. “After all, I had to make sure the painting in question was actually a Rembrandt and not a Studio of Rembrandt, a School of Rembrandt, a Follower of Rembrandt, or, heaven forbid, in the Manner of Rembrandt.”

  “Who did the authentication for you?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Van Berkel?”

  “But of course.”

  Dr. Gustaaf van Berkel was widely acknowledged to be the world’s foremost authority on Rembrandt. He also served as director and chief inquisitor of the Rembrandt Committee, a group of art historians, scientists, and researchers whose lifework was ensuring that every painting attributed to Rembrandt was in fact a Rembrandt.

  “Van Berkel was predictably dubious,” Isherwood said. “But after looking at my photographs, he agreed to drop everything and come to London to see the painting himself. The flushed expression on his face told me everything I needed to know. But I still had to wait two agonizing weeks for Van Berkel and his star chamber to hand down their verdict. They decreed that the painting was authentic and could be sold as such. I swore Van Berkel to secrecy. Even made him sign a confidentiality agreement. Then I boarded the next plane to Washington.”

  “Why Washington?”

  “Because the National Gallery was in the final stages of assembling a major Rembrandt exhibit. A number of prominent American and European museums had agreed to lend their own Rembrandts, but I’d heard rumors about a pot of money that had been set aside for a new acquisition. I’d also heard they wanted something that could generate a few headlines. Something sexy that could turn out a crowd.”

  “And your newly discovered Rembrandt fit that description.”

  “Like one of my tailor-made suits, petal. In fact, we were able to reach a deal very quickly. I was to deliver the painting to Washington, fully restored, in six months’ time. Then the director of the National Gallery would unveil his prize to the world.”

  “You didn’t mention the sale price.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Forty-five million. I initialed a draft agreement of the deal in Washington and treated myself to a few days with a special friend at the Eden Rock Hotel in Saint Barths. Then I returned to London and started looking for a restorer. I needed someone good. Someone with a bit of natural discretion. Which is why I went to Paris to see Shamron.”

  Isherwood looked to Gabriel for a response. Greeted by silence, he slowed to a stop and watched the waves crashing against the rocks at Lizard Point.

  “When Shamron told me that you still weren’t ready to work, I reluctantly settled on another restorer. Someone who would jump at the chance to clean a long-lost Rembrandt. A former staff conservator from the Tate who’d gone into private practice. Not quite as elegant as my first choice but solid and much less complicated. No issues with terrorists or Russian arms dealers. Never asked me to keep a defector’s cat for the weekend. And no dead bodies turning up. Except now.” Isherwood turned to Gabriel. “Unless you’ve given up watching the news, I’m sure you can finish the rest of the story.”

  “You hired Christopher Liddell.”

  Isherwood nodded slowly and gazed at the darkening sea. “It’s a shame you didn’t take the job, Gabriel. The only person to die would have been the thief. And I’d still have my Rembrandt.”

  6

  THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL

  Hedgerows lined the narrow track leading north from Lizard Point, blocking all views of the surrounding countryside. Isherwood drove at a snail’s pace, his long body hunched over the wheel, while Gabriel stared silently out the window.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Gabriel nodded absently. “We apprenticed together in Venice unde
r Umberto Conti. Liddell never cared for me.”

  “That’s understandable. He must have been envious. Liddell was gifted, but he wasn’t in your league. You were the star, and everyone knew it.”

  It was true, thought Gabriel. By the time Christopher Liddell arrived in Venice he was already a skilled craftsman—more skilled, even, than Gabriel—but he had never been able to win Umberto’s approval. Liddell’s work was methodical and thorough but lacked the invisible fire Umberto saw each time Gabriel’s brush touched a canvas. Umberto had a magic ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. Late at night he would drag Gabriel from his room to study the city’s masterpieces. Liddell became angry when he learned of the nocturnal tutorials and asked for an invitation. Umberto refused. Liddell’s instruction would be limited to daylight hours. The nights belonged to Gabriel.

  “It’s not every day an art restorer is brutally murdered in the United Kingdom,” Isherwood said. “Given your circumstances, it must have come as something of a shock.”

  “Let’s just say I read the stories this morning with more than a passing interest. And none mentioned a missing Rembrandt, newly discovered or otherwise.”

  “That’s because on the advice of the Art and Antiques Squad at Scotland Yard, the local police have agreed to keep the theft a secret, at least for the time being. Undue publicity only makes recovery more difficult since it tends to invite contact from people who don’t actually have possession of the painting. As far as the public is concerned, the motive for Liddell’s murder remains a mystery.”