The Rembrandt Affair

murder investigation.”
    “How long until your insurance company pays out?”
    Isherwood frowned and drummed one finger nervously on the wheel. “I’m afraid you’ve just hit upon my dilemma.”
    “What dilemma?”
    “As of this moment, the rightful owner of the Rembrandt is still the unnamed client of David Cavendish. But when I took possession of the painting, it was supposed to come under my insurance policy.”
    Isherwood’s voice trailed off. It contained a melancholy note Gabriel had heard many times before. Sometimes it appeared when Isherwood’s heart had been broken or when he had been forced to sell a cherished painting. But usually it meant he was in financial trouble. Again.
    “What have you done now, Julian?”
    “Well, it’s been a rough year, hasn’t it, petal? Stock market declines. Real estate crashes. Falling sales for luxury items. What’s a small independent dealer like me supposed to do?”
    “You didn’t tell your insurance company about the painting, did you?”
    “The premiums are so bloody expensive. And those brokers are such leeches. Do you know how much it would have cost me? I thought I could—”
    “Cut a corner?”
    “Something like that.” Isherwood fell silent. When he spoke again, there was a note of desperation in his voice that had not been present before. “I need your help, Gabriel. I am personally on the hook for forty-five million dollars.”
    “This isn’t what I do, Julian. I’m a—”
    “Restorer?” Isherwood gave Gabriel a skeptical glance. “As we both know, you’re not exactly an ordinary art restorer. You also happen to be very good at finding things. And in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never asked you for a favor.” Isherwood paused. “There’s no one else I can turn to. Unless you help me, I’m ruined.”
    Gabriel rapped his knuckle lightly on his window to warn Isherwood that they were approaching the poorly marked turnoff for Gunwalloe. He had to admit he was moved by Isherwood’s appeal. The little he knew about the case suggested it was no ordinary art theft. He also was suffering from a nagging guilt over Liddell’s death. Like Shamron, Gabriel had been cursed with an exaggerated sense of right and wrong. His greatest professional triumphs as an intelligence officer had not come by way of the gun but through his unyielding will to expose past wrongs and make them right. He was a restorer in the truest sense of the word. For Gabriel, the case was like a damaged painting. To leave it in its current state, darkened by yellowed varnish and scarred by time, was not possible. Isherwood knew this, of course. He also knew he had a powerful ally. The Rembrandt was pleading his case for him.
    A medieval darkness had fallen over the Cornish coast by the time they arrived in Gunwalloe. Isherwood said nothing more as he piloted his Jaguar along the single street of the village and headed down to the little cottage at the far end of the cove. As they turned into the drive, a dozen security lamps came instantly to life, flooding the landscape with searing white light. Standing on the terrace of the cottage, her dark hair twisting in the wind, was Chiara. Isherwood watched her for a moment, then made a show of surveying the landscape.
    “Has anyone ever told you this place looks exactly like the Customs Officer’s Cabin at Pourville ?”
    “The girl from the Royal Mail might have mentioned it.” Gabriel stared at Chiara. “I’d like to help you, Julian…”
    “But?”
    “I’m not ready.” Gabriel paused. “And neither is she.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure about the last part.”
    Chiara disappeared into the cottage. Isherwood handed Gabriel a large manila envelope.
    “At least have a look at these. If you still don’t want to do it, I’ll find a nice picture for you to clean. Something challenging, like a fourteenth-century Italian panel with severe convex warping and enough losses to keep those magical hands of yours occupied for several months.”
    “Restoring a painting like that would be easier than finding your Rembrandt.”
    “Yes,” said Isherwood. “But nowhere near as interesting.”

7
    GUNWALLOE COVE, CORNWALL
    T he envelope contained ten photographs in all—one depiction of the entire canvas along with nine close-up detail images. Gabriel laid them out in a row on the kitchen counter and examined each with a magnifying glass.
    “What are you looking at?” Chiara asked.
    “The way he loaded his