The Rembrandt Affair

centrifuges while they were in transit. Which means Martin is going to pay dividends for years, and Uzi will be the primary beneficiary. No matter what happens for the rest of his term, Uzi will go down as one of the greatest directors in Office history. And all because of you.”
    Shamron scrutinized Gabriel. “It doesn’t bother you that Uzi is getting all the credit for your work?”
    “It wasn’t my work, Ari. It was a team effort. Besides, after everything I’ve done to make Uzi’s life miserable, he deserves to have a little glory thrown his way.”
    “The glory is yours, Gabriel. It’s quite possible you’ve derailed the Iranian program for years. And in the process you’ve also managed to restore three remarkable women.”
    “Three?”
    “Lena, Zoe, and Hendrickje. All in all, not bad for a few months’ work.” Shamron paused, then added, “Which leaves only you.”
    Gabriel made no response.
    “I suppose this is the part where you tell me you’re going to retire again?” Shamron shook his head slowly. “Maybe for a while. But then another Martin will come along. Or a new terrorist will carry out another massacre of innocents. And you’ll be back on the field of battle.”
    “You’re sure about that, Ari?
    “Your mother named you Gabriel for a reason. You’re eternal. Just like me.”
    Gabriel gazed silently at the purple thrift glowing atop the cliffs in the late-afternoon sun. Shamron seemed to sense that this time it was different. He looked around the terrace of the café and smiled reflectively.
    “Do you remember the afternoon we came here a long time ago? It was after Tariq killed our ambassador and his wife in Paris.”
    “I remember, Ari.”
    “There was a girl,” Shamron said after a long pause. “The one with all the earrings and bracelets. She was like a human wind chime. Do you remember her, Gabriel? She reminded me of—”
    Shamron stopped himself. Gabriel seemed not to be listening anymore. He was staring at the cliffs, lost in memory.
    “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to—”
    “Don’t apologize, Ari. I’ll carry Leah and Dani with me for the rest of my life.”
    “You’ve given enough, Gabriel. Too much. I suppose it’s fitting it should all end here.”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel distantly, “I suppose it is.”
    “Can I at least give you a ride back to your cottage?”
    “No,” said Gabriel. “I’ll walk.”
    He shouldered his rucksack and stood. Shamron remained seated, one final act of defiance.
    “Learn from my mistakes, Gabriel. Take good care of your wife. And if you’re fortunate enough to have children, take good care of them, too.”
    “I will, Ari.”
    Gabriel bent down and kissed Shamron’s forehead, then started across the terrace.
    “There’s one more thing,” Shamron called out in Hebrew.
    Gabriel stopped and turned around.
    “Put that gun at the small of your back where it belongs.”
    Gabriel smiled. “It’s already there.”
    “I never saw a thing.”
    “You never did, Abba.”
    Gabriel left without another word. Shamron saw him one last time, as he made his way swiftly along the cliffs of Kynance Cove. Then Gabriel vanished into the fire of the setting sun and was gone.

AUTHOR’S NOTE
    The Rembrandt Affair is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
    The statistics regarding art theft cited in the novel are accurate, as are the accounts of the theft of Leonardo’s Mona Lisa in 1911 and Corot’s Le Chemin de Sèvres in 1998. The Portrait of a Young Woman that appears in the pages of The Rembrandt Affair could never have been stolen, for it does not exist. If there was such a painting, it would look markedly like Portrait of Hendrickje Stoffels , oil on canvas, 101.9 by 83.7 centimeters, which hangs in Room 23 of the National Gallery in London.
    There is no art gallery on the Herengracht called De Vries Fine Arts, though many dealers in Amsterdam and The Hague were all too happy to do a brisk trade with their German occupiers during the Second World War. The story of Lena Herzfeld and her family is fictitious, but, sadly, the details of the Holocaust in Holland cited during her “testimony” are not. Of the 140,000 Jews who resided in the Netherlands at the time the