The Rembrandt Affair

Gabriel, but you look like hell.”
    “I can’t sleep on airplanes, Uzi.”
    Navot smiled. “It’s good to know some things never change.”

38
    RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
    B y the afternoon of Gabriel Allon’s unheralded return to Jerusalem, Maurice Durand was thoroughly regretting that he had ever heard the name Rembrandt van Rijn or laid eyes on the portrait of his delectable young mistress. Durand’s predicament was now twofold. He was in possession of a bloodstained painting too badly damaged to deliver to his client, along with a very old list of names and numbers that had been gnawing at the edges of his conscience from the moment he saw it. He decided to confront his problems sequentially. Methodical in all things, he knew no other way.
    He dealt with the first problem by dispatching a brief e-mail to an address at yahoo.com. It stated that, much to the regret of Antiquités Scientifiques, the item requested by the client had not arrived as scheduled. Sadly, Durand added, it never would, for it had been involved in a tragic warehouse fire and now was little more than a worthless pile of ash. Given the fact that the item was a one-of-a-kind and therefore irreplaceable, Antiquités Scientifiques had no choice but to immediately refund the client’s deposit—two million euros, a figure not included in the communiqué—and to offer its deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused by the unforeseen turn of events.
    Having dealt with his first dilemma, Durand turned his attention to the troubling three pages of decaying onionskin paper he had found inside the painting. This time he chose a more archaic solution, a box of wooden matches from Fouquet’s. Striking one, he lifted it toward the bottom right corner of the first page. For the next several seconds, he tried to close the three-inch gap between fuel and flame. The names, however, would not allow it.
    Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld …
    The match extinguished itself in a puff of smoke. Durand tried a second time, but with the same result. He didn’t bother to make a third attempt. Instead, he carefully returned the document to its wax paper sheath and placed it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. A woman answered after the first ring.
    “Is your husband there?”
    “No.”
    “I need to see you.”
    “Hurry, Maurice.”

    A NGÉLIQUE B ROSSARD was a good deal like the glass figurines lining the display cases of her shop—small, delicate, and pleasing to look at provided one’s gaze did not linger too long or in too critical a manner. Durand had known her for nearly ten years. Their liaison fell under the heading of what Parisians politely refer to as a cinq à sept, a reference to the two hours in late afternoon traditionally reserved for the commission of adultery. Unlike Durand’s other relationships, it was relatively uncomplicated. Pleasure was given, pleasure was demanded in return, and the word love was never spoken. That is not to say their attachment lacked affection or commitment. A thoughtless word or forgotten birthday could send Angélique into a fury. As for Durand, he had long ago given up on the idea of marriage. Angélique Brossard was the closest thing to a wife he would ever have.
    Invariably, their encounters took place on the couch in Angélique’s office. It was not large enough for proper lovemaking, but through many years of regular use they had trained themselves to utilize its limited geography to its full potential. On that afternoon, however, Durand was in no mood for romance. Clearly disappointed, Angélique lit a Gitane and looked at the cardboard tube in Durand’s hand.
    “You brought me a present, Maurice?”
    “Actually, I was wondering whether you could do something for me.”
    She gave him a wicked smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
    “It’s not that. I need you to keep this for me.”
    She glanced at the tube again. “What’s inside?”
    “It’s better you don’t know. Just keep it someplace where no one will find it. Someplace where the temperature and humidity are relatively stable.”
    “What is it, Maurice? A bomb?”
    “Don’t be silly, Angélique.”
    She picked a fleck of tobacco thoughtfully from the tip of her tongue. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Maurice?”
    “Never.”
    “So what’s inside the package?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
    “Try me.”
    “It’s a