The Rembrandt Affair

when it came time to remove the dirty varnish, he began on the curve of Hendrickje’s breast, the spot where Liddell had been working the night of his murder.
    As usual, Chiara was bothered by the dizzying stench of Gabriel’s solvents. To help cover the smell, she prepared lavish meals, which they ate by candlelight at their table overlooking Mount’s Bay. Though they tried not to relive the operation over dinner, the constant presence of the Rembrandt made it a difficult subject to avoid. Invariably, Chiara would remind Gabriel that he would never have undertaken the investigation if she had not insisted.
    “So you enjoyed being back at the Office?” Gabriel asked, taunting her a bit.
    “Parts of it,” Chiara conceded. “But I would be just as happy if the Landesmann operation turned out to be your last masterpiece.”
    “It’s not a masterpiece,” Gabriel said. “Not until those centrifuges are in place.”
    “Does it bother you to leave it in Uzi’s hands?”
    “Actually, I prefer it.” Gabriel looked at the battered painting propped on the easel in the living room. “Besides, I have other problems at the moment.”
    “Will she be ready in time?”
    “She’d better be.”
    “Are we going to attend the unveiling?”
    “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