The Rembrandt Affair

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 time 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
    T hey 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