The Rembrandt Affair

waste of time when he had none to spare. But it was also possible he had just been granted the first piece of good fortune since Julian Isherwood had appeared on the cliffs of Cornwall to ask him to find a missing portrait by Rembrandt. Someone would have to check it out. But given the demands of Operation Masterpiece, it would have to be someone other than Gabriel. All of which explains why Eli Lavon, surveillance artist, archaeologist, and tracker of missing Holocaust assets, returned to Paris early the next morning. And why, shortly after one that afternoon, he was walking along the rue des Rosiers, twenty paces behind a memory militant named Hannah Weinberg.

54
    THE MARAIS, PARIS
    S he rounded the corner into rue Pavée and disappeared into the apartment house at No. 24. Lavon walked the length of the street twice, searching for evidence of surveillance, before presenting himself at the doorway. The directory identified the resident of apartment 4B as MME. BERTRAND . Lavon pressed the call button and peered benignly into the security camera.
    “Oui?”
    “I’m here to see Madame Weinberg, please.”
    A silence, then, “Who are you, monsieur?”
    “My name is Eli Lavon. I’m—”
    “I know who you are, Monsieur Lavon. Just a moment.”
    The entry buzzer moaned. Lavon crossed the damp interior courtyard, entered the foyer, and headed up the stairs. Waiting on the fourth-floor landing, arms folded, was Hannah Weinberg. She admitted Lavon into her apartment and quietly closed the door. Then she smiled and formally extended her hand.
    “It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur Lavon. As you might expect, you have many admirers at the Weinberg Center.”
    “The honor is mine,” Lavon said humbly. “I’ve been watching you from a distance. Your center is doing marvelous work here in Paris. Under increasingly difficult conditions, I might add.”
    “We do what we can, but I’m afraid it’s probably not enough.” A sadness crept into her gaze. “I’m so sorry about what happened in Vienna, Monsieur Lavon. The bombing affected all of us very deeply.”
    “These are emotional issues,” Lavon said.
    “On both sides.” She managed a smile. “I was just making some coffee.”
    “I’d love some.”
    She led Lavon into the sitting room and disappeared into the kitchen. Lavon looked around at the stately old furnishings. He had worked on the operation that had drawn Hannah Weinberg into the gravitational pull of the Office and knew her family history well. He also knew that in a room located at the end of the hall hung a painting by Vincent van Gogh called Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. The blood-soaked operation involving the little-known work was one of many Gabriel Allon productions Lavon had tried hard to forget. He tamped down the memory now as Hannah Weinberg returned carrying two cups of café au lait. She handed one to Lavon and sat.
    “I assume this isn’t a courtesy call, Monsieur Lavon.”
    “No, Madame Weinberg.”
    “You’re here because of the documents?”
    Lavon nodded and sipped his coffee.
    “I didn’t realize you were connected to…” Her voice trailed off.
    “To what?” Lavon asked.
    “Israeli intelligence,” she said sotto voce.
    “Me? Do I really look cut out for that sort of work?”
    She examined him carefully. “I suppose not.”
    “After the bombing in Vienna, I returned to my first love, which is archaeology. I’m on the faculty of Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but I still have many contacts in the Holocaust restitution field.”
    “So how did you hear about the documents?”
    “When you called the embassy here in Paris, they immediately contacted a friend of mine who works at Yad Vashem. He knew I was coming to Paris on other business and asked whether I would be willing to look into it for him.”
    “And what sort of business brought you to Paris?”
    “An academic conference.”
    “I see.” She drank some of her coffee.
    “Are the documents here, Madame Weinberg?”
    She nodded.
    “May I see them, please?”
    She peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup as if judging the veracity of his words, then rose and entered the library. When she returned, she was holding a discolored sheath in her hand. Lavon felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.
    “Is that wax paper?” he asked as casually as possible.
    She nodded. “That’s how it came to me.”
    “And the documents?”
    “They’re inside.” She handed the sheath to Lavon and