The Rembrandt Affair

Renoir, Degas. Every one. Thieves have pillaged some of man’s most beautiful creations. And for the most part, we’ve done nothing to stop it.”
    “And the thieves themselves?”
    “Some are bumblers and adventurers looking for a thrill. Some are ordinary criminals trying to make a name for themselves by stealing something extraordinary. But unfortunately a few are real pros. And from their perspective, the risk-reward ratio is weighted heavily in their favor.”
    “High rewards, low risks?”
    “Extremely low risks,” Gabriel said. “A security guard might shoot a thief during a bank robbery, but to the best of my knowledge no one has ever been shot trying to steal a painting. In fact, we make it rather easy for them.”
    “Easy?”
    “In 1998, a thief walked into Room Sixty-seven of the Louvre, sliced Corot’s Le Chemin de Sèvres from its frame, and walked out again. An hour elapsed before anyone even realized the painting was missing. And why was that? Because Room Sixty-seven had no security camera. The official postmortem proved more embarrassing. Louvre officials couldn’t produce a complete list of employees or even an accurate accounting of the museum’s inventory. The official review concluded that it would be harder for a thief to rob the average Paris department store than the most famous museum on earth.”
    Chiara shook her head in amazement. “What happens to the art after it’s stolen?”
    “That depends on the motive. Some thieves are just out to make a quick score. And the quickest way to convert a painting into cash is by handing it over in exchange for a reward. In reality, it’s ransom. But since it’s almost always a small fraction of the painting’s true value, the museums and the insurance companies are only too happy to play the game. And the thieves know it.”
    “And if it’s not a ransom job?”
    “There’s a debate within the art world and law enforcement over that. Some paintings end up being used as a sort of underworld currency. A Vermeer stolen from a museum in Amsterdam, for example, might fall into the hands of a drug gang in Belgium or France, which in turn might use it as collateral or a down payment on a shipment of heroin from Turkey. A single painting might circulate for years in this manner, passing from one criminal to the next, until someone decides to cash in. Meanwhile, the painting itself suffers terribly. Four-hundred-year-old Vermeers are delicate objects. They don’t like being stuffed into suitcases or buried in holes.”
    “Do you accept that theory?”
    “In some cases, it’s indisputable. In others…” Gabriel shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve never met a drug dealer who preferred a painting to cold hard cash.”
    “So what’s the other theory?”
    “That stolen paintings end up hanging on the walls of very rich men.”
    “Do they?”
    Gabriel peered thoughtfully into his wineglass. “About ten years ago, Julian was putting the finishing touches on a deal with a Japanese billionaire at his mansion outside Tokyo. At one point during the meeting, the collector excused himself to take a call. Julian being Julian, he got out of his seat and had a look around. At the far end of a hallway he saw a painting that looked shockingly familiar. To this day, he swears it was Chez Tortoni. ”
    “The Manet stolen in the Gardner heist? Why would a billionaire take such a risk?”
    “Because you can’t buy what’s not for sale. Remember, the vast majority of the world’s masterpieces will never come on the market. And for some collectors—men used to always getting what they want—the unobtainable can become an obsession.”
    “And if someone like that has Julian’s Rembrandt? What are the chances of finding it?”
    “One in ten, at best. And the odds of recovery drop precipitously if it isn’t recovered quickly. People have been searching for that Manet for two decades.”
    “Maybe they should try looking in Japan.”
    “That’s not a bad idea. Any others?”
    “Not an idea,” Chiara said carefully. “Just a suggestion.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Your friend Julian needs you, Gabriel.” Chiara pointed to the photographs spread along the countertop. “And so does she.”
    Gabriel was silent. Chiara picked up the photograph showing the canvas in full.
    “When did he paint it?”
    “Sixteen fifty-four.”
    “The same year Hendrickje gave birth to Cornelia?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “I think she looks pregnant.”
    “It’s