The Rembrandt Affair

apartment house on the Île Saint-Louis.
    For Gabriel Allon, standing in the window of the safe flat directly across the river Seine, the arrival of Martin Landesmann was a momentous occasion since it represented the first time he saw his quarry in the flesh. Martin emerged from the back of his car, a smart leather computer bag in one hand, and slipped unaccompanied through the entrance of the building. Martin the man of the people, thought Gabriel. Martin who was a few hours away from being an open book. Like nearly all his public appearances, it had been brief, though the impression it left was indelible. Even Gabriel could not help but feel a certain professional admiration for the completeness of Martin’s cover.
    Gabriel raised his night-vision binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the battlefield. Yaakov was in a Peugeot sedan parked along the river, Oded was in a Renault hatchback wedged into the narrow street at the side of Martin’s building, and Mordecai was in a Ford van parked near the foot of the Pont Marie. All three would maintain a sleepless vigil for the duration of the evening, as would the three men in the black S-Class Mercedes parked outside 21 Quai de Bourbon. One was Henri Cassin, Martin’s usual driver in Paris. The other two were officially licensed bodyguards employed by Zentrum Security. Just then, Gabriel heard a sharp crackle of static. Lowering his binoculars, he turned to Chiara, who was hunched over a laptop computer monitoring the live audio stream from Zoe’s mobile phone.
    “Is there a problem?”
    Chiara shook her head. “It just sounds like the train is passing through a tunnel.”
    “Where is she?”
    “Less than a kilometer north of the station.”
    Gabriel turned toward the window again and raised his binoculars. Martin was now standing at the edge of his rooftop terrace, his gaze fixed on the river, his Nokia phone pressed to his ear. A few seconds later, Gabriel heard a two-note ring emanating from Chiara’s computer, followed by Zoe’s voice.
    “Hello, darling.”
    “Where are you?”
    “The train’s pulling into the station.”
    “How was the trip?”
    “Not bad.”
    “And your day?”
    “Indescribably dreadful.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Lawyers, darling. The bloody lawyers are what’s wrong.”
    “Anything I can do to help?”
    “I certainly hope so.”
    “See you in a few.”
    The connection went dead. Chiara looked up from the computer screen and said, “She’s good.”
    “Yes, she is. But it’s easy to lie on the telephone. Much harder when you’re face-to-face.”
    Gabriel returned to his post at the window. Martin was talking on his mobile phone again, but this time Gabriel could not hear the conversation.
    “Is Zoe off the train yet?”
    “She’s stepping onto the platform right now.”
    “Is she heading in the right direction?”
    “At considerable speed.”
    “Wise girl. Now let’s hope she makes it to her car before anyone can steal her bag.”

    I T HAD always been a mystery to Zoe why the London-to-Paris Eurostar, arguably the most glamorous rail link in the world, terminated in a dump like the Gare du Nord. It was an inhospitable place in the light of day, but at 10:17 on a cold winter’s night it was positively appalling. Paper cups and food wrappers spilled from overflowing rubbish bins, dazed drug addicts wandered aimlessly about, and weary migrant workers dozed on their battered luggage waiting for trains to nowhere. Stepping outside into the darkness of the Place Napoléon III, Zoe was immediately set upon by no fewer than three panhandlers. Lowering her head, she slipped past without a word and climbed into a black sedan with the name REED in the window.
    As the car lurched forward, Zoe felt her heart banging against the side of her rib cage. For an instant, she considered ordering the driver to take her back to the station. Then she peered out the window and saw the comforting sight of a motorcycle ridden by a single helmeted figure. Zoe recognized the shoes. They belonged to the lanky operative with blond hair and gray eyes who spoke with a Russian accent.
    Zoe looked straight ahead and politely fended off the driver’s attempt to engage in conversation. She didn’t want to make small talk with a stranger. Not now. She had more important things on her mind. The two tasks that were the reason for her recruitment. The two tasks that would turn Martin’s life into an open book. She rehearsed one final time, then