The Rembrandt Affair

with his banker. He left it in a safe-deposit box. Only one other person knew the account number and password.”
    “Your mother?”
    Peter Voss nodded.
    “Why didn’t your father simply transfer the money to Argentina at that time?”
    “Because it wasn’t possible. The Allies were keeping a close watch on financial transactions carried out by Swiss banks. A large transfer of cash and other assets from Zurich to Buenos Aires would have raised a red flag. As for the list, my father didn’t dare attempt to carry it with him during his escape. If he’d been arrested on his way to Italy, the list would have guaranteed him a death sentence. He had no choice but to leave the money and the list behind and wait until the dust had settled.”
    “How long did he wait?”
    “Six years.”
    “The year you and your mother left Europe?”
    “That’s correct,” Voss said. “When my father was finally able to send for us, he instructed my mother to make a stop in Zurich. The plan was for her to collect the painting, the list, and the money. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but I remember waiting in the street while my mother went into the bank. Ten minutes later, when she came out, I could see she’d been crying. When I asked what was wrong, she snapped at me to be quiet. After that, we climbed onto a streetcar and rode aimlessly in circles through the city center. My mother was staring out the window. She was saying the same words over and over again. ‘What am I going to tell your father? What am I going to tell your father?’”
    “The painting was gone?”
    Voss nodded. “The painting was gone. The list was gone. The money was gone. The banker told my mother that the accounts never existed. ‘You must be mistaken, Frau Voss,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps a different bank.’”
    “How did your father react?”
    “He was furious, of course.” Voss paused. “Ironic, isn’t it? My father was angry because the money he had stolen had been stolen from him. You could say the painting became his punishment. He avoided justice, but he became obsessed with the Rembrandt and with finding the key to a fortune hidden inside it.”
    “Did he try again?”
    “One more time,” Voss said. “In 1967, an Argentine diplomat agreed to go to Switzerland on my father’s behalf. Under their arrangement, half of any money recovered would be turned over to the Argentine treasury, with the diplomat taking a cut for himself.”
    “What happened?”
    “Shortly after the diplomat arrived in Switzerland, he sent word that he had met with my father’s banker and was confident of a successful outcome. Two days later, his body was found floating in Lake Zurich. The Swiss inquest found he had slipped from the end of a jetty while sightseeing. My father didn’t believe it. He was convinced the man had been murdered.”
    “Who was the diplomat?”
    “His name was Carlos Weber.”
    “And you, Herr Voss?” Gabriel asked after a long pause. “Did you ever look for the money?”
    “To be honest, I considered it. I thought it might be a way to return some money to my father’s victims. To atone. But in the end, I knew it was a fool’s errand. The gnomes of Zurich guard their secret treasures very carefully, Mr. Allon. Their banks might look clean and tidy, but the truth is, they’re dirty. After the war, the bankers of Switzerland turned away deserving people who had the temerity to come looking for their deposits, not because the banks didn’t have the money but because they didn’t want to give it up. What chance did the son of a murderer have?”
    “Do you know the name of your father’s banker?”
    “Yes,” Voss said without hesitation. “It was Walter Landesmann.”
    “Landesmann? Why is that name familiar?”
    Peter Voss smiled. “Because his son is one of the most powerful financiers in Europe. In fact, he was just in the news the other day. Something about a new program to combat hunger in Africa. His name is—”
    “Martin Landesmann?”
    Peter Voss nodded. “How’s that for a coincidence?”
    “I don’t believe in coincidences, Herr Voss.”
    Voss lifted his wine toward the sun. “Neither do I, Mr. Allon. Neither do I.”

33
    MENDOZA, ARGENTINA
    G abriel and Chiara drove out of the vineyard, trailed by a cumulus cloud of butterflies, and returned to Mendoza. That evening they had dinner at a small outdoor restaurant opposite their hotel in the Plaza Italia.
    “You liked him,