The Rembrandt Affair

your work?”
    “She’s not speaking to me at the moment.”
    “Another quarrel?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Have you made a decision about Washington?”
    “I think she needs us to be there.”
    “So do I, Gabriel. So do I.”

78
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    B y the time Gabriel and Chiara arrived in America, their silent but demanding houseguest of three months was an international sensation. Her celebrity was not instant; it was rooted in an affair she’d had four hundred years earlier with a painter named Rembrandt and by the long and tragic road she had traveled ever since. Once upon a time, she would have been forced to live out her days in shame. Now they were lining up for tickets just to have a glimpse of her.
    In an era when museums had been scorched repeatedly by provenance scandals, the director of the National Gallery of Art had felt compelled to reveal much of her sordid past. She had been sold in Amsterdam in 1936 to a man named Abraham Herzfeld, acquired by coercion in 1943 by an SS officer named Kurt Voss, and sold twenty-one years later in a private transaction conducted by the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne. At the request of the White House, the National Gallery never revealed the name of the Zurich bank where she had been hidden for several years, nor was there any mention of the document once hidden inside her. Her links to a looted Holocaust fortune had been carefully erased, just like the bullet hole in her forehead and the blood that had stained her garment. No one named Landesmann had ever laid hands on her. No one named Landesmann had ever killed to protect her terrible secret.
    Her scandalous past did nothing to tarnish her reception. In fact, it only added to her allure. There was no escaping her face in Washington. She stared from billboards and buses, from souvenir shirts and coffee mugs, and even from a hot-air balloon that floated over the city the day before her unveiling. Gabriel and Chiara saw her for the first time minutes after stepping off their plane at Dulles Airport, gazing at them disapprovingly from an advertisement as they glided through customs on false passports. They saw her again peering from a giant banner as they hurried up the steps of the museum through an evening thunderstorm, this time as if urging them to quicken their pace. Uncharacteristically, they were running late. The fault was entirely Gabriel’s. After years of toiling in the shadows of the art world, he’d had serious misgivings about stepping onto so public a stage, even clandestinely.
    The exhibition opening was a formal, invitation-only affair. Even so, all guests had to have their possessions searched, a policy instituted at the gallery immediately after the attacks of 9/11. Julian Isherwood was waiting just beyond the checkpoint beneath the soaring main rotunda, gazing nervously at his wristwatch. Seeing Gabriel and Chiara, he made a theatrical gesture of relief. Then, looking at Gabriel’s clothing, he tried unsuccessfully to conceal a smile.
    “I never thought I would live to see the day you put on a tuxedo.”
    “Neither did I, Julian. And if you make any more cracks—”
    Chiara silenced Gabriel with a discreet elbow to the ribs. “If it would be at all possible, I’d like to get through the evening without you threatening to kill anyone.”
    Gabriel frowned. “If it wasn’t for me, Julian would be trying to scrounge up forty-five million dollars right now. The least he can do is show me a modicum of respect.”
    “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Isherwood said. “But right now there are two people who are very anxious to see you.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Upstairs.”
    “In separate rooms, I hope?”
    Isherwood nodded gravely. “Just as you requested.”
    “Let’s go.”
    Isherwood led them across the rotunda through a sea of tuxedos and gowns, then up several flights of wide marble steps. A security guard admitted them into the administrative area of the museum and directed them to a waiting room at the end of a long carpeted hallway. The door was closed; Gabriel started to turn the latch but hesitated.
    She’s fragile. They’re all a bit fragile …
    He knocked lightly. Lena Herzfeld, child of the attic, child of darkness, said, “Come in.”

    S HE WAS SEATED ramrod straight at the center of a leather couch, knees together, hands in her lap. They were clutching the official program of the exhibition, which was wrinkled and wet with her tears. Gabriel and