The Rembrandt Affair

by Daniel Silva

  There can be an obvious drawback to receiving such a vast amount of intelligence—the possibility that a vital piece of the puzzle might be swamped by a tsunami of useless information. Gabriel sought to avoid this pitfall by making certain that at least half the team remained focused on the true prize of the Paris operation, Martin’s laptop. The haul was not limited to the material contained on the computer the night of the operation in Paris. Indeed, through a clever feat of engineering, the computer automatically sent an update each time data was added or subtracted. It meant that whenever Martin opened a document, Gabriel’s team opened it, too. They even instructed the computer to transmit video from its built-in camera in thirty-minute loops. Most of the video was silent and black. But for an hour or so each day, whenever Martin was at task, he seemed to be peering directly into the Highgate safe house, watching Gabriel’s team as it rummaged through the secrets of his life.

  The contents of Martin’s computer were encrypted, but the barriers quickly crumbled under the assault led by the two MIT-educated geniuses from Technical. Once they had penetrated the outer walls, the computer quickly belched forth thousands of documents that laid bare the inner workings of the Landesmann empire. Though the information was potentially worth millions to Martin’s many competitors, it had little value to Gabriel, for it provided no additional intelligence on GVI’s links to Keppler Werk GmbH or precisely what Keppler was secretly selling to the Iranians. Gabriel had learned from experience not to focus on what was visible in a computer’s memory but on what was no longer there—the temporary files that floated like ghosts across the hard drive, the discarded documents that had lived there briefly before being tossed into the trash. Files are never truly deleted from a computer. Like radioactive waste, they can live on forever. Gabriel directed the technicians to focus their efforts on Martin’s recycle bin, especially on a ghost folder lurking there that had been impervious to all attempts at retrieval.

  Gabriel’s team did not toil in isolation. Indeed, because Masterpiece was an international endeavor, dissemination of its hard-earned product was international as well. The Americans received a feed over a secure link from Highgate to Grosvenor Square, while the British, after much internal bickering, decided that MI6 was the logical first recipient since Iran was its responsibility. Graham Seymour managed to retain overall operational ascendancy, however, and Thames House remained the nightly meeting point for the principals. The atmosphere remained largely collegial, despite the fact each side brought to the table different assumptions about Iranian intentions, different styles of analysis, and different national priorities. For the Americans and the British, a nuclear Iran represented a regional challenge; for Israel, an existential threat. Gabriel didn’t dwell on such issues at the conference table. But then he didn’t need to.

  His final stop at Thames House each night was the windowless cell of Nigel Whitcombe, who been handed control of the Zoe Reed watch. Despite the potential hazards involved in surveilling a British journalist, Whitcombe accepted the assignment without reservation. Like nearly everyone involved in Masterpiece, he had developed a bit of a schoolboy crush on Zoe and relished the opportunity to admire her for a few more days, even if from afar. The daily watch reports revealed no transgressions on her part and no evidence that she had broken discipline in any way. Each time Martin made contact with her, she duly reported it. She even forwarded to MI5 a brief message he had left on her home machine.

  “What did it say?” asked Gabriel.

  “The usual. I so enjoyed our time together, darling. Can’t wait to see you in Geneva next week, darling. Something about a dress. I didn’t understand that part.” Whitcombe straightened the papers on his little headmasterly desk. “At some point, we’re going to decide whether she has to attend Martin’s little soirée or whether she should come down with a sudden case of swine flu instead.”

  “I’m aware of that, Nigel.”

  “May I offer an opinion?”

  “If you must.”

  “Swine flu.”

  “And what if her absence makes Martin suspicious?”

  “Better a suspicious Martin Landesmann than a dead British investigative reporter. That might not be good for my career.”

  It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel returned to the Highgate safe house. He found his team hard at work and an intriguing message from King Saul Boulevard waiting in his encrypted in-box. It seemed an old acquaintance from Paris wanted a word. Reading the message a second time, Gabriel ordered himself to be calm. Yes, it was possible this was what they were looking for, but it was probably nothing. A mistake, he thought. A 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

  She 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 said, “Be careful. The paper is quite fragile.”

  Lavon lifted the covering and carefully removed three pages of brittle onionskin paper. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, fingers trembling slightly, and read the names.

  Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld…

  Herzfeld…

  He stared at the name a moment longer, then lifted his eyes slowly to Hannah Weinberg.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I promised the person complete confidentiality.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not a promise you should have made.”

  She noticed the change in Lavon’s tone. “You obviously seem to know something about this document.”

  “I do. And I also know that many people have died because of it. Whoever gave you this is in very serious danger, Madame Weinberg. And so are you.”

  “I’m used to that.” She regarded him silently. “Were you telling me the truth when you said a friend from Yad Vashem asked you to come here?”

  Lavon hesitated. “No, Madame Weinberg, I wasn’t.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “A mutual friend.” Lavon held up the list. “And he needs to know the name of the person who gave you this.”

  “Maurice Durand.”

  “And what does Monsieur Durand do for a living?”

  “He owns a small shop that sells antique scientific instruments. He says he found the documents while doing some repair work on a telescope.”

  “Did he?” Lavon asked skeptically. “How well do you know him?”

  “I’ve done a great deal of business with him over the years.” She nodded toward a circular wooden table arrayed with several dozen antique lorgnettes. “They’re something of a passion of mine.”

  “Where’s his shop?”

  “In the eighth.”

  “I need to see him right away.”

  Hannah Weinberg rose. “I’ll take you.”

  55

  RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

  The Weinberg Center was located just around the corner on rue des Rosiers. Hannah and Lavon stopped there long enough to make several copies of the list and lock them away. Then, with the original tucked safely inside Lavon’s leather satchel, they rode the Métro to the rue de Miromesnil and made the two-minute walk to Antiquités Scientifiques. The sign in the door read OUVERT. Lavon spent a moment admiring the window display before trying the latch. It was locked. Hannah rang the bell, and they were admitted without delay.

  The man waiting to receive them was equal to Lavon in height and weight, though in every other respect was his precise opposite. Where Lavon was shoddily attired in several layers of crumpled clothing, Maurice Durand wore an elegant blue suit and a wide necktie the color of Beaujolais nouveau. And where Lavon’s hair was wispy and unkempt, Durand’s monkish tonsure was cropped short and combed close to the scalp. He kissed Hannah Weinberg formally on both cheeks and offered Lavon a surprisingly strong hand. As Lavon accepted it, he had the uncomfortable feeling he was being eyed by a professional. And unless Lavon was mistaken, Maurice Durand felt exactly the same way.

  “You have a beautiful shop, Monsieur Durand.”

  “Thank you,” the Frenchman replied. “I consider it my shelter against the storm.”

  “What storm is that, monsieur?”

  “Modernity,” Durand replied instantly.

  Lavon gave an empathetic smile. “I’m afraid I feel the same way.”

  “Really? And what is your field, monsieur?”

  “Archaeology.”

  “How fascinating,” Durand said. “When I was young, I was very interested in archaeology. In fact, I considered studying it.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Dirt.”

  Lavon raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid I don’t like to get my hands dirty,” Durand explained.

  “That would be a liability.”

  “A rather large one, I think,” Durand said. “And what is your area of expertise, monsieur?”

  “Biblical archaeology. I do most of my work in Israel.”

  Durand’s eyes widened. “The Holy Land?”

  Lavon hesitated, then nodded.

  “I’ve always wanted to see it for myself. Where are you working now?”

  “The Galilee.”

  Durand seemed genuinely moved.

  “You are a believer, Monsieur Durand?”

  “Devout.” He looked at Lavon carefully. “And you, monsieur?”

  “At times,” said Lavon.

  Durand looked at Hannah Weinberg. “That shipment of lorgnettes has finally arrived. I set aside the best pieces for you. Would you like to see them now?”

  “Actually, my friend has something he needs to discuss with you.”

  Durand’s gaze returned to Lavon. It betrayed nothing but a mild curiosity, though Lavon once again had the feeling Durand was taking his measure.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Would it be possible to speak in private?”

  “But of course.”

  Durand gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop. Lavon entered the office first and heard the door close behind him. When he turned around, the expression on Maurice Durand’s face was far less amiable than it had been a moment earlier.

  “Now what is this all about?”

  Lavon removed the wax paper sheath from the satchel. “This.”

  Durand’s eyes didn’t move from Lavon’s face. “I gave that document to Madame Weinberg on the condition she keep my name out of it.”

  “She tried. But I convinced her to change her mind.”

  “You must be very persuasive.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t hard. All I had to do was explain how many people have been killed because of these three pieces of paper.”

  Durand’s expression remained unchanged.

  “Most people would be a bit uncomfortable after hearing something like that,” Lavon said.

  “Perhaps I’m not easily frightened, monsieur.”

  Lavon returned the sheath to his satchel. “I understand you found the document inside a telescope.”

  “It was a piece from the late eighteenth century. Brass and wood. Dollond of London.”

  “That’s odd,” Lavon said. “Because I know for a fact that very recently it was hidden inside a painting by Rembrandt called Portrait of a Young Woman. I also know that the painting was stolen and that a man was killed during the robbery. But that’s not why I’m here. I don’t know how you got these documents, but you should know there are people looking for them who are very dangerous. And they ass
ume these papers are still inside the painting.” Lavon paused. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Monsieur Durand?”

  “I believe I do,” Durand said carefully. “But I know nothing at all about a painting by Rembrandt—or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “You’re sure, monsieur?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But perhaps you hear things from time to time. Or perhaps you have friends in the business who hear things. Friends who might know the whereabouts of this painting.”

  “I don’t make a habit of associating with people from the art business. They tend to look down their noses at people like me.”

  Lavon handed Durand a business card. “But if you do happen to hear anything about the Rembrandt—anything at all, monsieur—please call this number. I can guarantee you complete confidentiality. Rest assured recovery of the painting is our only concern. And do be careful. I wouldn’t want anything unpleasant to happen to you.”

  Durand slipped the card into his pocket, obviously anxious to end the conversation. “I wish I could be of help, monsieur, but I’m afraid I can’t. Unless there’s something else you require, I really should be getting back to the shop.”

  “No, nothing. Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all.”

  Durand opened the door. Lavon started to leave, then stopped and turned.

  “Actually, Monsieur Durand, there is one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just remember that God is watching you. Please don’t disappoint Him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Monsieur Lavon.”

  ELI LAVON and Hannah Weinberg parted at dusk in the Place de la Concorde. Hannah took the Métro back to the Marais, while Lavon made the short walk to 3 rue Rabelais, location of the Israeli Embassy. There, by the power vested in him by Operation Masterpiece, he instructed the Office station chief to put a security detail on Hannah Weinberg and a team of watchers on Maurice Durand. Then he requisitioned a car and driver to run him out to Charles de Gaulle Airport. “And make sure the driver has a gun in his pocket,” Lavon said. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to explain why.”