The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  With the White House still hoping for a negotiated settlement to the Iran issue, the Americans entered the talks in the option two camp and remained there until the end. The British also liked the “wait and watch” approach, although in their mischievous hearts they wanted to do a bit of “messing about” as well. Option three was the most controversial of the plans—hardly surprising given its source—and in the end it was supported by only one country. Because that country also happened to be the one that would forever have to live under direct threat of a nuclear-armed Iran, its vote carried more weight. “Besides,” argued Shamron emphatically, “Martin is ours. We found him. We fought for him. And we bled for him. We own those centrifuges. And we can do with them what we please.”

  A centrifuge cascade is a complex facility. It is also quite fragile, as the Iranians themselves have learned the hard way. One faulty gas centrifuge, spinning at several thousand rotations a minute, can break into deadly shrapnel and blow through a facility like a tornado, destroying adjacent centrifuges along with connective piping and assemblies. Years of painstaking work can be wiped out in an instant by a single fingerprint, smudge, or some other impurity.

  In fact, that is precisely what the Iranians first suspected when a calamitous explosion swept through an undisclosed enrichment facility in Yazd at 4:42 a.m. Their suspicions quickly focused on sabotage, however, when a near-simultaneous blast shredded a second undisclosed facility at Gorgan near the Caspian Sea. When reports surfaced of explosions at two other secret enrichment plants, the Iranian president ordered an emergency shutdown of all nuclear facilities, along with an evacuation of nonessential personnel. By dawn Tehran time, the Hammer of Shamron had achieved its first goal. Four previously undisclosed plants lay in ruins. And the mullahs were in a panic.

  BUT HOW TO explain the blasts publicly without revealing the great lie that was the Iranian nuclear program? For the first seventy-two hours, it seemed the mullahs and their allies in the Revolutionary Guards had chosen silence. It cracked, however, when rumors of the mysterious explosions reached the ears of a certain Washington Post reporter known for the infallibility of his sources inside the White House. He confirmed the reports with a few well-placed phone calls and published his findings the next morning in a front-page exclusive. The story ignited a firestorm, which is precisely what the men behind it had in mind.

  Now under international pressure to explain the events, the Iranians shifted from silence to deception. Yes, they said, there had indeed been a string of unfortunate accidents at a number of civilian and military installations. Precisely how many facilities had been damaged the regime refused to say, only that all were nonnuclear in nature. “But this should come as a surprise to no one,” the Iranian president said in an interview with a friendly journalist from China. “The Islamic Republic has no desire to produce nuclear weapons. Our program is entirely peaceful.”

  But still the leaks kept coming. And still the questions continued to be asked. If the four facilities involved were truly nonnuclear, why were they concealed in tunnels? And if they were for entirely peaceful purposes, why did the regime attempt to keep the explosions a secret? Since the mullahs refused to answer, the International Atomic Energy Agency did so for them. In a dramatic special report, the IAEA stated conclusively that each of the four facilities housed a cascade of centrifuges. There was only one possible conclusion to be drawn from the evidence. The Iranians were enriching uranium in secret. And they were planning to go for nuclear breakout.

  The report was an earthquake. Within hours there were calls at the United Nations for crippling sanctions while the president of France suggested it might be time for allied military action—with the Americans taking the lead, of course. Painted into a rhetorical corner by years of deception, the Iranian regime had no option but to lash out, claiming it had been forced into a program of widespread concealment by constant Western threats. Furthermore, said the regime, its own investigation of the explosions had revealed they were caused by sabotage. High on the list of suspects were the Great Satan and its Zionist ally. “Tampering with our plants was an act of war,” said the Iranian president. “And the Islamic Republic will respond in the very near future in a manner of our choosing.”

  The level of bombast rose quickly, as did the specificity of Iranian accusations of American and Israeli involvement. Sensing an opportunity to strengthen its position internally, the regime called on the Iranian people to protest this wanton violation of sovereignty. What they got instead was the largest rally in the history of the Iranian opposition movement. The mullahs responded by unleashing the dreaded Basij paramilitary forces. By the end of the day, more than a hundred protesters were dead and thousands more were in custody.

  If the mullahs thought a display of naked brutality would end the protests, they were mistaken, for in the days to come, the streets of Tehran would become a virtual war zone of Green Movement rage and dissent. In the West, commentators speculated that the days of the regime might be numbered while security experts predicted a coming wave of Iranian-backed terrorism. Two questions, however, remained unanswered. Who had actually carried off the act of sabotage? And how had they managed to do it?

  There were many theories, all wildly inaccurate. Not one referred to a long-lost Rembrandt now hanging in the National Gallery in Washington, or a former British newspaper reporter who was now a star on American cable news, or a Swiss financier known to all the world as Saint Martin who was anything but. Nor did they mention a man of medium build with gray temples who was often seen hiking alone along the sea cliffs of Cornwall—sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a broad-shouldered youth with matinee-idol good looks.

  On a warmish afternoon in early June, while nearing the southern end of Kynance Cove, he spotted an elderly, bespectacled figure standing on the terrace of the Polpeor Café at Lizard Point. For an instant, he considered turning in the opposite direction. Instead, he lowered his head and kept walking. The old man had traveled a long way to see him. The least he could do was say a proper good-bye.

  81

  LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

  The terrace was in bright sunlight. They sat alone in the corner beneath the shade of a parasol, Shamron with his back to the sea, Gabriel directly opposite. He was dressed in hiking shorts and waterproof boots with thick socks pulled down to the ankle. Shamron stirred two packets of sugar into his coffee and in Hebrew asked whether Gabriel was armed. Gabriel glanced at the nylon rucksack resting on the empty chair next to him. Shamron pulled a frown.

  “It’s a violation of Office doctrine to carry weapons in separate containers. That gun is supposed to be at the small of your back where you can get to it quickly.”

  “It bothers my back on long walks.”

  Shamron, sufferer of chronic pain, gave a sympathetic nod. “I’m just relieved the British have finally given you formal permission to carry a gun at all times.” He gave a faint smile. “I suppose we have the Iranians to thank for that.”

  “Are you hearing anything?”

  Shamron nodded gravely. “They’re convinced we were behind it and they’re anxious to return the favor. We know that Hezbollah’s top terror planner made a trip to Tehran last week. We also know that a number of operatives have been unusually chatty the last few days. It’s only a matter of time before they hit us.”

  “Has my name come up?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gabriel sipped his mineral water and asked Shamron what he was doing in the country.

  “A bit of post-Masterpiece housekeeping.”

  “Of what sort?”

  “The final interservice operational review,” Shamron said disdainfully. “My personal nightmare. For the past few days, I’ve been locked in a room at Thames House with two dozen British and American spies who think it is their God-given right to ask me any question they please.”

  “It’s a new world, Ari.”

  “I like the old ways better. They were less complicated. Besides, I’ve n
ever played well with others.”

  “Why didn’t Uzi handle the review himself?”

  “Uzi is far too busy to deal with something so trivial,” Shamron said sardonically. “He asked me to take care of it. I suppose it wasn’t a complete waste of time. There were some fences that needed mending. Things got a little tense in the ops center on the final night.”

  “How did I manage to stay off the invitation list for this little gathering?”

  “Graham Seymour felt you deserved a break.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “I’m afraid he does have a couple of questions before the case file can be officially closed.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “About the art end of the affair.”

  “Such as?”

  “How did Landesmann know the Rembrandt had resurfaced?”

  “Gustaaf van Berkel of the Rembrandt Committee.”

  “What was the connection?”

  “Who do you think was the committee’s main source of funding?”

  “Martin Landesmann?”

  Gabriel nodded. “What better way to find a long-lost Rembrandt than to create the most august body of Rembrandt scholars in the world? Van Berkel and his staff knew the location of every known Rembrandt. And when new paintings were discovered, they were automatically brought to Van Berkel and his committee for attribution.”

  “How Martin,” said Shamron. “So when the painting was moved to Glastonbury for cleaning, Martin hired a professional to steal it for him?”

  “Correct,” said Gabriel. “But his thief turned out to have a conscience, something Martin was never burdened with.”

  “The Frenchman?”

  “I assume so,” said Gabriel. “But under no circumstances are you to say anything about Maurice Durand to the British.”

  “Because you made a deal with him?”

  “Actually, it was Eli.”

  Shamron gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “As someone who’s devoted your life to preservation of paintings, have you no misgivings about protecting the identity of a man who has stolen billions of dollars’ worth of art?”

  “If Durand hadn’t given that list of names and account numbers to Hannah Weinberg, we would never have been able to break Martin. The list was Martin’s undoing.”

  “So the end justifies the means?”

  “You’ve made deals with people who are far worse than a professional art thief, Ari. Besides, Maurice Durand might come in handy the next time the Office needs to steal something. If I were Uzi, I’d stick him in my back pocket along with Martin Landesmann.”

  “He sends his regards, by the way.”

  “Uzi?”

  “Landesmann,” said Shamron, clearly enjoying the look of surprise on Gabriel’s face. “He was wondering whether the two of you might meet on neutral territory for a quiet dinner.”

  “I’d rather take your place at the interservice operational review. But tell him thanks for the offer.”

  “I’m sure he’s going to be disappointed. He says he has a great deal of respect for you. Apparently, Martin’s become quite philosophical about the entire affair.”

  “How long before he tries to dissolve our partnership?”

  “Actually, his efforts commenced not long after the explosions at the Iranian plants. Martin believes he’s lived up to his end of the deal and would like to be released from any further obligations. What he doesn’t quite understand is that our relationship is just beginning. Eventually, the Iranians will try to rebuild those enrichment plants. And we plan to make sure Martin is there to offer them a helping hand.”

  “Will the Iranians trust him?”

  “We’ve given them no reason not to. As far as the mullahs are concerned, we tampered with the centrifuges while they were in transit. Which means Martin is going to pay dividends for years, and Uzi will be the primary beneficiary. No matter what happens for the rest of his term, Uzi will go down as one of the greatest directors in Office history. And all because of you.”

  Shamron scrutinized Gabriel. “It doesn’t bother you that Uzi is getting all the credit for your work?”

  “It wasn’t my work, Ari. It was a team effort. Besides, after everything I’ve done to make Uzi’s life miserable, he deserves to have a little glory thrown his way.”

  “The glory is yours, Gabriel. It’s quite possible you’ve derailed the Iranian program for years. And in the process you’ve also managed to restore three remarkable women.”

  “Three?”

  “Lena, Zoe, and Hendrickje. All in all, not bad for a few months’ work.” Shamron paused, then added, “Which leaves only you.”

  Gabriel made no response.

  “I suppose this is the part where you tell me you’re going to retire again?” Shamron shook his head slowly. “Maybe for a while. But then another Martin will come along. Or a new terrorist will carry out another massacre of innocents. And you’ll be back on the field of battle.”

  “You’re sure about that, Ari?

  “Your mother named you Gabriel for a reason. You’re eternal. Just like me.”

  Gabriel gazed silently at the purple thrift glowing atop the cliffs in the late-afternoon sun. Shamron seemed to sense that this time it was different. He looked around the terrace of the café and smiled reflectively.

  “Do you remember the afternoon we came here a long time ago? It was after Tariq killed our ambassador and his wife in Paris.”

  “I remember, Ari.”

  “There was a girl,” Shamron said after a long pause. “The one with all the earrings and bracelets. She was like a human wind chime. Do you remember her, Gabriel? She reminded me of—”

  Shamron stopped himself. Gabriel seemed not to be listening anymore. He was staring at the cliffs, lost in memory.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize, Ari. I’ll carry Leah and Dani with me for the rest of my life.”

  “You’ve given enough, Gabriel. Too much. I suppose it’s fitting it should all end here.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel distantly, “I suppose it is.”

  “Can I at least give you a ride back to your cottage?”

  “No,” said Gabriel. “I’ll walk.”

  He shouldered his rucksack and stood. Shamron remained seated, one final act of defiance.

  “Learn from my mistakes, Gabriel. Take good care of your wife. And if you’re fortunate enough to have children, take good care of them, too.”

  “I will, Ari.”

  Gabriel bent down and kissed Shamron’s forehead, then started across the terrace.

  “There’s one more thing,” Shamron called out in Hebrew.

  Gabriel stopped and turned around.

  “Put that gun at the small of your back where it belongs.”

  Gabriel smiled. “It’s already there.”

  “I never saw a thing.”

  “You never did, Abba.”

  Gabriel left without another word. Shamron saw him one last time, as he made his way swiftly along the cliffs of Kynance Cove. Then Gabriel vanished into the fire of the setting sun and was gone.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Rembrandt Affair is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The statistics regarding art theft cited in the novel are accurate, as are the accounts of the theft of Leonardo’s Mona Lisa in 1911 and Corot’s Le Chemin de Sèvres in 1998. The Portrait of a Young Woman that appears in the pages of The Rembrandt Affair could never have been stolen, for it does not exist. If there was such a painting, it would look markedly like Portrait of Hendrickje Stoffels, oil on canvas, 101.9 by 83.7 centimeters, which hangs in Room 23 of the National Gallery in London.

  There is no art gallery on the Herengracht called De Vrie
s Fine Arts, though many dealers in Amsterdam and The Hague were all too happy to do a brisk trade with their German occupiers during the Second World War. The story of Lena Herzfeld and her family is fictitious, but, sadly, the details of the Holocaust in Holland cited during her “testimony” are not. Of the 140,000 Jews who resided in the Netherlands at the time the roundups began, only 25,000 managed to find a place to hide. Of those, one-third were either betrayed or arrested, oftentimes by their own countrymen. The famous Hollandsche Schouwburg theater did in fact serve as a detention center, and there was indeed a crèche across the street for young children. Several hundred young lives were saved due to the courage of the staff and the Dutch Resistance, one of the few bright spots on the otherwise bleak landscape of the Holocaust in the Netherlands.

  The assistance given to fugitive Nazi war criminals by the Roman Catholic Church has been well documented. So, too, has the shameful wartime behavior of Switzerland’s banks. Less well known, however, is the role played by Swiss high-technology firms in secretly supplying aspiring nuclear powers with the sophisticated equipment required to produce highly enriched uranium. In his authoritative book, Peddling Peril, proliferation expert David Albright describes how, in the 1990s, CIA operatives “witnessed Swiss government officials helping suppliers send sensitive goods to Pakistan, making a mockery of the official Swiss policy to maintain strict export control laws.” Furthermore, Albright writes, “the Swiss government demonstrated an unwillingness to take action to disrupt these activities or to work with the CIA.” Quite the opposite, in the summer of 2006, Swiss prosecutors threatened to bring criminal charges against several CIA officers involved in bringing down the global nuclear-smuggling network of A. Q. Khan. Only the intervention by officials at the highest levels of the American government convinced Bern to rethink its position.