Daniel Silva - The Rembrandt Affair

Shamron's role in the affairs of state had been drastically reduced in recent years, as had the size of his domain. He was now master of little more than his honey-colored villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee, yet even there he served mainly as a minister without portfolio to Gilah, his long-suffering wife. Shamron was now the worst thing a once-powerful man could be—unwanted and unneeded. He was regarded as a pest and a nuisance, someone to be tolerated but largely ignored. In short, he was underfoot.

Shamron's mood improved dramatically, however, when Gabriel and Chiara telephoned from Jerusalem to invite themselves to dinner. He was waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived, his pale blue eyes shimmering with an impish excitement. Despite his obvious curiosity over the reason for Gabriel's sudden return to Israel, he managed to restrain himself at dinner. They spoke of Shamron's children, of Gabriel's new life in Cornwall, and, like everyone else these days, the dire state of the global economy. Twice Shamron tried to broach the subjects of Uzi Navot and King Saul Boulevard, and twice Gilah deftly steered him into less turbulent waters. During a stolen moment in the kitchen, Gabriel quietly asked her about the state of Shamron's health. "Even I can't remember all the things that are wrong with him," she said. "But don't worry, Gabriel. He's not going anywhere. Shamron is eternal. Now go sit with him. You know how happy that makes him."

There is a familial quality to the intelligence services of Israel that few outsiders ever manage to grasp. More often then not, major operations are conceived and planned not in secure briefing rooms but in the homes of their participants. Few venues had played a more prominent role in the secret wars of Israel—or in Gabriel's own life—than Shamron's large terrace overlooking the Sea of Galilee. It was now noteworthy in Shamron's life as the only place where Gilah permitted him to smoke his wretched unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. He lit one over Gabriel's objections and lowered himself into his favorite chair facing the looming black mass of the Golan Heights. Gabriel ignited a pair of gas patio heaters and sat next to him.

"Chiara looks wonderful," Shamron said. "But that's hardly surprising. You've always had a knack for repairing beautiful objects."

Shamron gave a faint smile. He had been responsible for sending Gabriel to Venice to study the craft of restoration but had always been mystified by his prodigy's ability to paint in the manner of the Old Masters. As far as Shamron was concerned, Gabriel's remarkable talent with a brush was akin to a parlor trick or a magician's sleight of hand. It was something to be exploited, like Gabriel's unique gift for languages and his ability to get a Beretta off his hip and into firing position in the time it takes most men to clap their hands.

"All you have to do now," Shamron added, "is have a baby."

Gabriel shook his head in amazement. "Is there no aspect of my life that you regard as private or out-of-bounds?"

"No," Shamron replied without hesitation.

"At least you're honest."

"Only when it suits my purposes." Shamron drew heavily on his cigarette. "So I hear Uzi is giving you a hard time."

"How do you know?"

"I still have plenty of sources at King Saul Boulevard, despite the fact that Uzi has decided to cast me into the wilderness."

"What did you expect? Did you think he was going to give you a big office on the top floor and reserve a place for you at the operational-planning table?"

"What I expected, my son, was to be treated with a certain amount of respect and dignity. I've earned it."

"You have, Ari. But may I speak bluntly?"

"Tread carefully." Shamron clamped his large hand around Gabriel's wrist and squeezed. "I'm not as frail as I look."

"You suck the oxygen out of any room you enter. Every time you set foot in King Saul Boulevard, the troops want to bask in your glow and touch the hem of your garment."

"Are you taking Uzi's side?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Wise boy."

"But you should at least consider the possibility that Uzi can run the Office without your constant input. After all, that's why you recommended him for the job in the first place."

"I recommended him because the man I really wanted wasn't available. But that's a topic for another conversation." Shamron tapped his cigarette against the side of his ashtray and gave Gabriel a sideways glance. "No regrets?"

"None whatsoever. Uzi Navot is the director of the Office, and he's going to be the director for a very long time. You'd better make peace with that fact. Otherwise, your final years on this earth are going to be filled with bitterness."

"You sound like Gilah."

"Gilah is a very wise woman."

"She is," Shamron agreed. "But if you're so pleased with the way Uzi is running things, then what are you doing here? Surely you didn't come all the way up to Tiberias for the pleasure of my company. You're here because you want something from Uzi and he won't give it to you. Try as I might, I haven't been able to figure out what it is. But I'm getting close."

"How much do you know?"

"I know that Julian Isherwood retained your services to track down a missing portrait by Rembrandt. I know that Eli Lavon is watching over an old woman in Amsterdam. And I know you've set your sights on one of the most successful businessmen in the world. What I don't quite yet understand is how these things are connected."

"It has something to do with an old acquaintance of yours."

"Who's that?"

"Eichmann."

Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. "You have my attention, Gabriel. Keep talking."

ARI SHAMRON, the only survivor of a large Jewish family from Poland, captor of Adolf Eichmann, knew much about the unfinished business of the Holocaust. But even Shamron appeared spellbound by the story Gabriel told him next. It was the story of a hidden child from Amsterdam, a murderer who had traded lives for property, and a painting stained with the blood of all those who had ever attempted to find it. Concealed inside the painting was a deadly secret—a list of names and numbers, proof that one of the most powerful business empires in the world had been built upon the looted assets of the dead.

"The boy king is right about one thing," Shamron said at the conclusion of Gabriel's briefing. "You should have told us about your travel plans. I could have arranged an escort for you in Argentina."

"I was looking for a missing painting, Ari. I didn't think I needed one."

"It's possible you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. After all, Alfonso Ramirez was one of the few people in the world with nearly as many enemies as you."

"It's possible," Gabriel conceded. "But I don't believe it." He paused, then said, "And neither do you, Ari."

"No, I don't." Shamron lit another cigarette. "You've managed to build an impressive case against Martin Landesmann in a short period of time. But there's just one problem. You'll never be able to prove it in a court of law."

"Who said anything about a court of law?"

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"That we find a way to convince Martin to make amends for the sins of his father."

"What do you need?"

"Enough money, resources, and personnel to mount an operation on European soil against one of the world's richest men."

"It sounds expensive."

"It will be. But if I'm successful, the operation will fund itself."

The concept seemed to appeal to Shamron, who still acted as though operational expenditures came from his own pocket. "I suppose the next thing you're going to request is your old team."

"I was getting to that."

Shamron studied Gabriel in silence for a moment. "What happened to the tired warrior who sat on this terrace not long ago and told me he wanted to run away with his wife and leave the Office for good?"