The Rembrandt Affair

Rembrandt portrait worth forty-five million dollars.”
    “Really? Is there anything else I should know?”
    “It has a bullet hole, and it’s covered in blood.”
    She blew a stream of smoke dismissively toward the ceiling. “What’s wrong, Maurice? You don’t seem yourself today.”
    “I’m just a bit distracted.”
    “Problems with your business?”
    “You might say that.”
    “My business is hurting, too. Everyone on the street is in trouble. I never thought I would say this, but the world was a much better place when the Americans were still rich.”
    “Yes,” Durand said absently.
    Angélique frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “I’m fine,” Durand assured her.
    “Are you ever going to tell me what’s really in the package?”
    “Trust me, Angélique. It’s nothing.”

39
    TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
    T o describe the influence of Ari Shamron on the defense and security of the State of Israel was tantamount to explaining the role played by water in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. In many respects, Ari Shamron was the State of Israel. After fighting in the war that led to Israel’s reconstitution, he had spent the subsequent sixty years protecting the country from a host of enemies bent on its destruction. His star had burned brightest in times of crisis. He had penetrated the courts of kings, stolen the secrets of tyrants, and killed countless foes, sometimes with his own hands, sometimes with the hands of men such as Gabriel. Yet for all of Shamron’s clandestine achievements, a single act had made him an icon. On a rainy night in May 1960, Shamron had leapt from the back of a car in Argentina and seized Adolf Eichmann, managing director of the Holocaust and immediate superior of SS-Hauptsturmführer Kurt Voss. In a way, all roads had been leading to Shamron from the moment Gabriel had entered Lena Herzfeld’s sitting room. But then all roads usually did.
    Shamron’s role in the affairs of state had been drastically reduced in recent years, as had the size of his domain. He was now master of little more than his honey-colored villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee, yet even there he served mainly as a minister without portfolio to Gilah, his long-suffering wife. Shamron was now the worst thing a once-powerful man could be—unwanted and unneeded. He was regarded as a pest and a nuisance, someone to be tolerated but largely ignored. In short, he was underfoot.
    Shamron’s mood improved dramatically, however, when Gabriel and Chiara telephoned from Jerusalem to invite themselves to dinner. He was waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, his pale blue eyes shimmering with an impish excitement. Despite his obvious curiosity over the reason for Gabriel’s sudden return to Israel, he managed to restrain himself at dinner. They spoke of Shamron’s children, of Gabriel’s new life in Cornwall, and, like everyone else these days, the dire state of the global economy. Twice Shamron tried to broach the subjects of Uzi Navot and King Saul Boulevard, and twice Gilah deftly steered him into less turbulent waters. During a stolen moment in the kitchen, Gabriel quietly asked her about the state of Shamron’s health. “Even I can’t remember all the things that are wrong with him,” she said. “But don’t worry, Gabriel. He’s not going anywhere. Shamron is eternal. Now go sit with him. You know how happy that makes him.”
    There is a familial quality to the intelligence services of Israel that few outsiders ever manage to grasp. More often then not, major operations are conceived and planned not in secure briefing rooms but in the homes of their participants. Few venues had played a more prominent role in the secret wars of Israel—or in Gabriel’s own life—than Shamron’s large terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee. It was now noteworthy in Shamron’s life as the only place where Gilah permitted him to smoke his wretched unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. He lit one over Gabriel’s objections and lowered himself into his favorite chair facing the looming black mass of the Golan Heights. Gabriel ignited a pair of gas patio heaters and sat next to him.
    “Chiara looks wonderful,” Shamron said. “But that’s hardly surprising. You’ve always had a knack for repairing beautiful objects.”
    Shamron gave a faint smile. He had been responsible for sending Gabriel to Venice to study the craft of restoration but had always been mystified by his prodigy’s