The Rembrandt Affair

Chiara sat on either side of her and held her tightly while she wept. After several minutes, she looked at Gabriel and touched his cheek.
    “What shall I call you tonight? Are you Mr. Argov or Mr. Allon?”
    “Please call me Gabriel.”
    She smiled briefly, then looked down at the program.
    “I’m still amazed you were actually able to find her after all these years.”
    “We would never have been able to do it without the help of Kurt Voss’s son.”
    “I’m glad he came tonight. Where is he?”
    “Just down the hall. If you wouldn’t mind, he’d like to have a word with you in private before the unveiling. He wants to apologize for what his father did.”
    “It wasn’t his crime, Gabriel. And his apology won’t bring my sister back.”
    “But it might help to hear it.” Gabriel held her hand. “You’ve punished yourself long enough, Lena. It’s time for you to let someone else bear the guilt for your family’s murder.”
    Tears spilled onto her cheeks, though she emitted not a sound. Finally, she composed herself and nodded. “I’ll listen to his apology. But I will not cry in front of him.”
    “There’s something I need to warn you about, Lena.”
    “He looks like this father?”
    “An older version,” Gabriel said. “But the resemblance is striking.”
    “Then I suppose God decided to punish him, too.” She shook her head slowly. “To live with the face of a murderer? I cannot imagine.”

    F OR P ETER V OSS’S sake, Lena managed to conceal her shock when seeing him for the first time, though controlling her tears proved impossible. Gabriel remained in the room with them only a moment, then slipped into the corridor to wait with Chiara and Isherwood. Lena emerged ten minutes later, eyes raw, but looking remarkably composed. Gabriel took her hand and said there was one more person who wanted to see her.

    P ORTRAIT OF A Y OUNG W OMAN, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, by Rembrandt van Rijn, was propped on an easel in a small holding room, covered by baize cloth, surrounded by several security guards and a nervous-looking curator. Chiara held Lena by the arm while Gabriel and Isherwood carefully removed the cover.
    “She looks more beautiful than I remember.”
    “It’s not too late to change your mind, Lena. If you don’t want to give her up permanently, Julian can alter the terms of the contract so it’s only a temporary loan.”
    “No,” she said after a pause. “I can’t care for her, not at my age. She’ll be happier here.”
    “You’re sure?” Gabriel pressed.
    “I’m sure.” Lena looked at the painting. “You put a prayer to my sister inside it?”
    “Here,” said Chiara, pointing to the center of the bottom portion of the frame.
    “It will stay with her always?”
    “The museum has promised to keep it there forever,” said Gabriel.
    Lena took a hesitant step forward. “I was never able to say good-bye to her that night in Amsterdam. There wasn’t time.” She looked at Gabriel. “May I touch her? One final time?”
    “Carefully,” said Gabriel.
    Lena reached out and traced her finger slowly over the dark hair. Then she touched the bottom of the frame and walked silently from the room.

    T HE UNVEILING had been scheduled for eight, but due to circumstances never explained to the guests it was closer to half past before Portrait of a Young Woman was carried into the rotunda, cloaked in her shroud of baize. Unexpectedly, Gabriel felt as nervous as a playwright on opening night. He found a hiding place with Isherwood and Chiara at the edge of the crowd and stared at his shoes during several long and deeply boring speeches. Finally, the lights dimmed and the covering came off to tumultuous applause. Chiara kissed his cheek and said, “They adore it, Gabriel. Look around you, darling. They don’t realize it, but they’re cheering for you.”
    Gabriel looked up but immediately managed to find the one person in the crowd who was not clapping. She was a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair, olive-complected skin, and intoxicating green eyes that were focused directly on him. She raised a glass of champagne in his direction and mouthed the words, “Well done, Gabriel.” Then she handed the glass to a passing waiter and headed toward the exit.

79
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    Y ou never told me how much I look like her,” said Zoe.
    “Like Hendrickje?” Gabriel shrugged. “You’re much prettier than she is.”
    “I’m sure you say that to all the