The Rembrandt Affair

cornea.'

'And when the doctor asks how the acetone got in my eyes?'

'Your doctor wouldn't dare ask.'

Monjean opened the door of the small fridge in the galley and took out two bottles of Kronenbourg.

'It's a bit early for me, Rene.'

Monjean put one bottle back and shrugged—Northerners. Durand sat down at the small table.

'Was there really no other way to deal with the situation?'

'I suppose I could have let him escape so he could telephone the police. But that didn't seem like such a good idea.' He paused, then added, 'For either one of us.'

'Couldn't you have just disabled him a little?'

'I'm surprised I actually managed to hit him. I really couldn't see much at all when I pulled the trigger.' Monjean pried the top from the bottle of beer. 'You've never—'

'Shot someone?' Durand shook his head. 'I've never even carried a gun.'

'The world has changed, Maurice.' Monjean looked at the attache case. 'You have something in there for me?'

Durand popped open the locks and removed several bundles of hundred-euro notes.

'Your turn, Rene.'

Monjean opened an overhead locker and removed a cardboard tube, roughly five inches in diameter and three feet in length. He pried off the aluminum top and shook the tube several times until three inches of canvas was protruding from the end.

'Be careful, Rene. You'll damage it.'

'I'm afraid it's a bit late to worry about that.'

Monjean unfurled the painting across the tabletop. Durand stared in horror. Just above the right eye of the woman was a perforation that looked as if it could have been made by a pencil. Her silk wrap was stained with something dark, as were her breasts.

'Tell me that isn't blood.'

'I could,' Monjean said, 'but it wouldn't be the truth.'

'Who did it belong to?'

'Who do you think?' Monjean took a long pull at his beer and explained.

'Too bad you didn't take more careful aim,' Durand said. 'You might have actually hit her right between the eyes.'

He probed at the hole, then licked the tip of his finger and scrubbed at the surface of the painting until he smeared a small patch of the blood.

'Looks like it will come right off,' Monjean said.

'It should.'

'What about the bullet hole?'

'I know a man in Paris who might be able to repair it.'

'What kind of man?'

'The kind who produces forgeries.'

'You need a restorer, Maurice. A very good one.'

'At the core of every good restorer lies a forger.'

Monjean didn't appear convinced. 'May I give you a piece of advice, Maurice?'

'You just shot a Rembrandt worth forty-five million dollars. But please, Rene, feel free.'

'This painting is trouble. Burn it and forget about it. Besides, we can always steal another one.'

'I'm tempted.'

'But?'

'I have a client waiting. And my clients expect me to deliver. Besides, Rene, I didn't get into this business to destroy paintings. Especially not one as beautiful as this.'

14 AMSTERDAM

In the cutthroat world of the art trade, there was one principle that was supposed to be sacrosanct. Provenance, the written record of a painting's chain of ownership, was everything. Theoretically, dealers did not sell paintings without a proper provenance, collectors did not buy them, and no decent restorer would ever lay hands on a picture without knowing where it had been and under what conditions it had hung. But after many years of conducting provenance research, Gabriel had learned never to be shocked by the secret lives led by some of the world's most sought-after works of art. He knew that paintings, like people, sometimes lied about their pasts. And he knew that, often, those lies revealed more than the so-called truths contained in their printed pedigrees. All of which explained his interest in De Vries Fine Arts, purveyors of quality Dutch and Flemish Old Master paintings since 1882.

Occupying a stately if somewhat sullen building overlooking Amsterdam's Herengracht canal, the gallery had always presented itself as the very picture of stability and good manners, though a brief glimpse into the darkest chambers of its past would tell a markedly different story. Regrettably, none was darker than its conduct during the Second World War. Within weeks of Holland's capitulation, Amsterdam was inundated by a wave of Germans looking for Dutch paintings. Prices soared so quickly that ordinary citizens were soon scouring their closets for anything that might be regarded as an Old Master. The De Vries gallery welcomed the Germans with open arms. Its best customer was none other than Hermann Goring, who purchased more than a dozen paintings from the gallery between 1940 and 1942. The staff found Goring to be a shrewd negotiator and secretly enjoyed his roguish charm. For his part, Goring would tell colleagues in Berlin that no shopping spree in Amsterdam was complete without a stop at the exquisite gallery along the Herengracht.

The gallery had also played a prominent role in the history of Rembrandt's Portrait of a Young Woman. Of the three known times that the painting changed hands in the twentieth century, two of the sales had been conducted under the auspices of De Vries Fine Arts. The first sale had occurred in 1919, the second in 1936. Both had been private, meaning that the identity of buyer and seller were known only to the gallery itself. Under the rules of the art trade, such transactions were to remain confidential for all eternity. But in some circumstances—with the passage of enough time or for the right amount of money—a dealer could be cajoled into opening his books.

Gabriel entrusted that delicate task to Julian Isherwood, who had always enjoyed a cordial professional relationship with the De Vries gallery despite its questionable past. It took several hours of heated telephone negotiations, but Isherwood finally convinced Geert de Vries, great-grandson of the founder, to surrender the records. Isherwood would never tell Gabriel the exact price he had paid for the documents, only that it had been steep. 'Remember one thing about art dealers,' he said. 'They are the lowest of God's creatures. And economic times like these bring out the worst in them.'

Gabriel and Chiara monitored the final stages of the negotiations from a charming suite at the Ambassade Hotel. After receiving word that the deal had been finalized, they left the hotel a few minutes apart and made the short walk along the Herengracht to the gallery, Chiara on one side of the canal, Gabriel on the other. Geert de Vries had left photocopies of the records at the front desk in a buff envelope marked ROSSI. Gabriel slipped it into his bag and bade the receptionist a pleasant afternoon in Italian-accented English. Stepping outside, he saw Chiara leaning against a lamppost on the opposite bank of the canal. Her scarf was knotted in a way that meant she had not noticed surveillance of any sort. She followed him to a cafe in the Bloemenmarkt and drank hot chocolate while he worked his way laboriously through the documents.

'There's a reason why the Dutch speak so many languages. Their own is impenetrable.'

'Can you make it out?'

'Most of it. The person who bought the painting in 1919 was a banker named Andries van Gelder. He must have been hit hard by the Great Depression. When he sold it in 1936, he did so at a considerable loss.'