The Rembrandt Affair

professional assassin might refer to that one as the control shot.'

Gabriel ignored the remark and asked whether any of the neighbors had reported hearing gunshots. Harkness shook his head.

'So the gunman used a suppressor?'

'That would appear to be the case.'

Gabriel crouched and, tilting his head to one side, examined the surface of the landing. Just beneath the bullet hole in the wall were several tiny flakes of plaster. And something else as well...He remained on his haunches a moment longer, imagining Liddell's death as though it had been painted by the hand of Rembrandt, then announced he had seen enough. The detective switched off the crime-scene lamp, at which point Gabriel reached down and carefully dragged the tip of his gloved finger across the landing. Five minutes later, when he climbed into the Rover with Chiara, the glove was safely in his coat pocket, inside out.

'You've just committed a very serious crime,' Chiara said as Gabriel started the engine.

'I'm sure it won't be the last.'

'I hope it was worth it.'

'It was.'

HARKNESS STOOD on the doorstep like a soldier at ease, hands clasped behind his back, eyes following the Rover as it proceeded out of Henley Close at an altogether unacceptable rate of speed. Rossi...Harkness had known it was a lie the instant the angel descended from his chariot. It was the eyes that had given him away, those restless green torches that always seemed to be looking right through you. And that walk...Walked as though he were leaving the scene of a crime, thought Harkness, or as if he were about to commit one. But what on earth was the angel doing in Glastonbury? And why was he inquiring into the whereabouts of a missing painting? Higher Authority had decreed there would be no such questions. But at least Harkness could wonder. And perhaps one day he might tell his colleagues that he had actually shaken the hand of the legend. He even had a souvenir of the occasion, the gloves worn by the angel and his beautiful wife.

Harkness removed them now from his coat pocket. Strange, but there were only three. Where was the fourth? By the time the taillights of the Rover disappeared around the corner, Harkness had his answer. But what to do? Run after him? Demand it back? Couldn't possibly do that. Higher Authority had spoken. Higher Authority had instructed Harkness to give the angel a wide berth. And so he stood there, trap shut, eyes on the ground, wondering what the angel had hidden in that damn glove.

11 SOMERSET, ENGLAND

Gabriel peered at the tip of his left forefinger.

'What is it?' asked Chiara.

'Lead white, vermilion, and perhaps a touch of natural azurite.'

'Flakes of paint?'

'And I can see fabric fibers as well.'

'What kind of fabric?'

'Ticking, the kind of heavy cotton or linen that was used for mattress covers and sails in seventeenth- century Holland. Rembrandt used it to fashion his canvases.'

'What does the presence of paint flakes and fibers on the landing mean?'

'If I'm correct, it means we're looking for a Rembrandt with a bullet hole in it.'

Gabriel blew the material from his fingertip. They were heading westward along a two-lane road through the Polden Hills. Directly ahead, a bright orange sun hung low above the horizon suspended between two thin strata of cloud.

'You're suggesting Liddell fought back?'

Gabriel nodded. 'The evidence was all there in his studio.'

'Such as?'

'The broken glass and chemical residue, for starters.'

'You think it was spilled during a physical struggle?'

'Unlikely. Liddell was smart enough to know not to get into a wrestling match with a well-armed thief. I think he used his solvent as a weapon.'

'How?'

'Based on the residue on the floor, I'm guessing Liddell threw it in the thief's face. It would have burned his eyes badly and left him blinded for several seconds—enough time for Liddell to run. But he made one mistake. He took her with him.'

'The Rembrandt?'

Gabriel nodded. 'It's too big to hold with one hand, which means he would have had to grasp it by both vertical lengths of the stretcher.' Gabriel demonstrated by gripping the steering wheel at the three o'clock and nine o'clock positions. 'It must have been awkward trying to carry it down that narrow staircase, but Liddell almost made it. He was just a couple of steps from the landing when the first shot hit him. That shot exited the front of Liddell's neck and, if I'm correct, pierced the painting before entering the wall. Judging from the composition and color tone of the paint flakes, I'd say the bullet passed through the right side of her face.'

'Can a bullet hole be repaired?'

'No problem. You'd be surprised at the idiotic things people do to paintings.' Gabriel paused. 'Or for paintings.'

'What does that mean?'

'Christopher was a romantic. When we were in Venice together, he was always falling in love. And invariably he would end up with a broken heart.'

'What does that have to do with the Rembrandt?'

'It's all in his restoration notes,' Gabriel said. 'They're a love letter. Christopher had finally fallen for a woman who wouldn't hurt him. He was obsessed with the girl in that painting. And I believe he died because he wouldn't let her go.'

'There's just one thing I don't understand,' Chiara said. 'Why didn't the thief take any of the other paintings, like the Monet or the Cezanne?'

'Because he was a professional. He came there for the Rembrandt. And he left with it.'

'So what do we do now?'

'Sometimes the best way to find a painting is to discover where it's been.'

'Where do we start?'

'At the beginning,' said Gabriel. 'In Amsterdam.'

12 MARSEILLES

If Maurice Durand were inclined toward introspection, which he was not, he might have concluded that the course of his life was determined the day he first heard the story of Vincenzo Peruggia.

A carpenter from northern Italy, Peruggia entered the Louvre on the afternoon of Sunday, August 20, 1911, and concealed himself in a storage closet. He emerged early the following morning dressed in a workman's white smock and strode into the Salon Carre. He knew the room well; several months earlier, he had helped to construct a special protective case over its most famous attraction, the Mona Lisa. Because it was a Monday, the day the Louvre was closed to the public, he had the salon to himself, and it took only a few seconds to lift Leonardo's small panel from the wall and carry it to a nearby stairwell. A few moments later, with the