The Rembrandt Affair

all those involved agreed that no quest for a stolen masterpiece had ever begun in quite the same way. Because within minutes of accepting the assignment, Gabriel Allon, the retired Israeli assassin and spy, placed a quiet call to none other than Graham Seymour, deputy director of the British Security Service, MI5. Upon hearing Gabriel’s request, Seymour contacted the Home Secretary, who in turn contacted the chief constable of the Avon and Somerset Police, headquartered in Portishead. There the request encountered its first resistance, which crumbled when the chief constable received yet another call, this one from Downing Street. By late that evening, Gabriel had notched a small but significant victory—an invitation to view the home and studio of his old colleague from Venice, Christopher Liddell.
    He woke the following morning to find the other side of the bed empty—unusual, since he was nearly always the first to rise. He lay there for a moment listening to the splashing of water in the shower, then headed into the kitchen. After preparing a large bowl of café au lait, he switched on his laptop and skimmed the news. Out of habit, he read the dispatches from the Middle East first. A sixteen-year-old girl had carried out a suicide bombing in a crowded market in Afghanistan, a mysterious explosion in a remote corner of Yemen had claimed the lives of three senior al-Qaeda leaders, and Iran’s always-entertaining president had made yet another incendiary speech about wiping Israel from the face of the earth. Led by the new administration in Washington, the civilized world was murmuring veiled threats about sanctions while in Jerusalem the Israeli prime minister warned that with each turn of the centrifuges the Iranians were moving closer to a nuclear weapon.
    Gabriel read these accounts with an odd sense of dislocation. He had given more than thirty years of his life to protecting the State of Israel and by extension its Western allies. But now, having finally convinced the Office to release him, he could only wonder at the truth behind the headlines. Any regrets about retirement, however, quickly evaporated when Chiara entered the room, her hair still damp, her skin luminous. Gabriel peered at her over the top of the computer and smiled. For the moment, at least, he was more than willing to leave the problems of Iran and Islamic terrorism to other men.
    It was 9:15 when Gabriel and Chiara climbed into the Range Rover and departed Gunwalloe Cove. The traffic was moderate; the weather, volatile: brilliant sun one minute, biblical rain the next. They reached Truro by ten, Exeter by eleven, and by noon were approaching Glastonbury’s southwestern flank. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a prosperous and slightly dull English market town. Only when they reached Magdalene Street did the true character of modern Glastonbury reveal itself.
    “Where in God’s name are we?” asked Chiara.
    “Venus,” said Gabriel.
    He eased into Henley Close and switched off the engine. Waiting outside the house at No. 8 was Detective Inspector Ronald Harkness of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s Criminal Investigation Department. He had a ruddy, outdoor complexion and wore a blazer that had seen better days. Judging by his expression, he was not pleased to be there, which was understandable. Higher Authority had conspired against Harkness. It had instructed him to open his active crime scene to a pair of art investigators named Rossi. Higher Authority had also ordered Harkness to cooperate fully, to answer all questions to the best of his ability, and to give the art investigators a wide berth. What’s more, it had been suggested to Harkness that he might recognize Mr. Rossi. And if that turned out to be the case, Harkness was to keep his trap shut and his eyes on the ground.
    After a round of judicious handshakes, Harkness gave them each a pair of gloves and shoe covers and led them across the unkempt garden. Attached to the front door was a lime green notice forbidding all unauthorized visitors. Gabriel searched the jamb in vain for evidence of forcible entry, then, stepping into the foyer, was greeted by a vague scent he recognized as acetone. Harkness closed the door. Gabriel looked at the security keypad mounted on the wall.
    “It’s a high-quality system,” Harkness said, taking note of Gabriel’s interest. “The last activity occurred at six fifty-three p.m. the evening of the murder. We