The Rembrandt Affair

brush.”
    “And?”
    “Julian was right. He painted it very quickly and with great passion. But I doubt he was working alla prima . I can see places where he laid the shadows in first and allowed them to dry.”
    “So it’s definitely a Rembrandt?”
    “Without question.”
    “How can you be so certain just by looking at a photograph?”
    “I’ve been around paintings for a hundred thousand years. I know it when I see it. This is not only a Rembrandt but a great Rembrandt. And it’s two and a half centuries ahead of its time.”
    “How so?”
    “Look at the brushwork. Rembrandt was an Impressionist before anyone had ever heard the term. It’s proof of his genius.”
    Chiara picked up one of the photos, a detail image of the woman’s face.
    “Pretty girl. Rembrandt’s mistress?”
    Gabriel raised one eyebrow in surprise.
    “I grew up in Venice and have a master’s degree in the history of the Roman Empire. I do know something about art.” Chiara looked at the photograph again and shook her head slowly. “He treated her shabbily. He should have married her.”
    “You sound like Julian.”
    “Julian is right.”
    “Rembrandt’s life was complicated.”
    “Where have I heard that one before?”
    Chiara gave a puckish smile and returned the photograph to its place on the counter. The Cornish winter had softened the tone of her olive skin while the moist sea air had added curls and ringlets to her hair. It was held in place by a clasp at the nape of her neck and hung between her shoulder blades in a great cloud of auburn and copper highlights. She was taller than Gabriel by an inch and blessed with the square shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs of a natural athlete. Had she been raised somewhere other than Venice, she might very well have become a star swimmer or tennis player. But like most Venetians, Chiara regarded sporting contests as something to be viewed over coffee or a good meal. When one required exercise, one made love or strolled down to the Zattere for a gelato. Only the Americans exercised with compulsion, she argued, and look what it had wrought—an epidemic of heart disease and children prone to obesity. The descendant of Spanish Jews who fled to Venice in the fifteenth century, Chiara believed there was no malady that could not be cured by a bit of mineral water or a glass of good red wine.
    She opened the stainless steel door of the oven and from inside removed a large orange pot. As she lifted the lid there arose a warm rush of steam that filled the entire room with the savor of roasting veal, shallots, fennel, and sweet Tuscan dessert wine. She inhaled deeply, poked at the surface of the meat with her fingertip, and gave a contented smile. Chiara’s disdain for physical exertion was matched only by her passion for cooking. And now that she was officially retired from the Office, she had little to do other than read books and prepare extravagant meals. All that was expected of Gabriel was an appropriate display of appreciation and undivided attention. Chiara believed that food hastily consumed was food wasted. She ate in the same manner in which she made love, slowly and by the flickering glow of candles. Now she licked the tip of her finger and replaced the cover on the pot. Closing the door, she turned and noticed Gabriel staring at her.
    “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “I’m just looking.”
    “Is there a problem?”
    He smiled. “None at all.”
    She furrowed her brow. “You need something else to occupy your thoughts other than my body.”
    “Easier said than done. How long before dinner?”
    “Not long enough for that, Gabriel.”
    “I wasn’t suggesting that. ”
    “You weren’t?” She pouted playfully. “I’m disappointed.”
    She opened a bottle of Chianti, poured two glasses, and pushed one toward Gabriel. “Who steals paintings?”
    “Thieves steal paintings, Chiara.”
    “I guess you don’t want any of the veal.”
    “Allow me to rephrase. What I was trying to say is that it really doesn’t matter who steals paintings. The simple truth is, they’re stolen every day. Literally. And the losses are huge. According to Interpol, between four and six billion dollars a year. After drug trafficking, money laundering, and arms dealing, art theft is the most lucrative criminal enterprise. The Museum of the Missing is one of the greatest in the world. Everyone is there—Titian, Rubens, Leonardo, Caravaggio, Raphael, Van Gogh, Monet,