Daniel Silva - The Rembrandt Affair

"He met a woman in Amsterdam who's alive because her father gave Kurt Voss a Rembrandt." Gabriel paused, then asked, "The only question is, can you convince Uzi to change his mind?"

"Uzi?" Shamron waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about Uzi."

"How are you going to handle it?"

Shamron smiled. "Did I ever tell you that the prime minister's grandparents were from Hungary?"

Uzi Navot inherited many traditions from the eight men who had served as director before him, including a weekly private breakfast meeting with the prime minister at his Jerusalem office. Navot regarded the sessions as invaluable, for they provided an opportunity to brief his most important client on current operations without having to compete with the heads of Israel's other intelligence services. Usually, it was Navot who did most of the talking, but on the morning after Gabriel's pilgrimage to Tiberias the prime minister was curiously expansive. Just forty-eight hours earlier, he had been in Washington for his first summit with the new American president, a former academic and U.S. senator who hailed from the liberal wing of the Democratic Party. As predicted, the encounter had not gone well. Indeed, behind the frozen smiles and posed handshakes a palpable tension had crackled between the two men. It was now clear the close relationship the prime minister had enjoyed with the last occupant of the Oval Office would not be duplicated in the new administration. Change had definitely come to Washington.

"But none of this comes as a surprise to you, does it, Uzi?"

"I'm afraid we saw it coming even during the transition," Navot said. "It was obvious that the special operational bond we had forged with the CIA after 9/11 wasn't going to carry over."

"Special operational bond?" The prime minister treated Navot to a campaign-poster smile. "Spare me the Officespeak, Uzi. Gabriel Allon practically had an office at Langley during the last administration."

Navot made no response. He was used to toiling in Gabriel's long shadow. But now that he had reached the pinnacle of Israel's intelligence community, he didn't enjoy being reminded of his rival's many exploits.

"I hear Allon's in town." The prime minister paused, then added, "I also hear he got into a bit of trouble in Argentina."

Navot steepled his forefingers and pressed them tightly to his lips. A trained interrogator would have recognized the gesture as a transparent attempt to conceal discomfort. The prime minister recognized it, too. He also was clearly relishing the fact that he had managed to surprise the chief of his foreign intelligence service.

"Why didn't you tell me about Buenos Aires?" the prime minister asked.

"I didn't feel it was necessary to burden you with the details."

"I like details, Uzi, especially when they involve a national hero."

"I'll keep that in mind, Prime Minister."

Navot's tone displayed a transparent lack of enthusiasm, and his temper was now at a slow simmer. The prime minister had obviously been talking to Shamron. Navot had been expecting something like this from the old man for some time. But how to proceed? With care, he decided.

"Is there something you wish to say to me, Prime Minister?"

The prime minister refilled his coffee cup and contemplatively added a few drops of cream. Clearly, there was something he wished to say, but he seemed in no hurry to come to the point. Instead, he launched into a lengthy homily on the burdens of leadership in a complex and dangerous world. Sometimes, he said, decisions were influenced by national security, other times by political expediency. Occasionally, though, it boiled down to a simple question of right and wrong. He allowed this last statement to hang in the air for a moment before lifting his white linen napkin from his lap and folding it deliberately.

"My father's family came from Hungary. Did you know that, Uzi?"

"I suspect the entire country knows that."

The prime minister gave a fleeting smile. "They lived in a dreadful little village outside Budapest. My grandfather was a tailor. They had nothing to their name other than a pair of silver Shabbat candlesticks and a kiddush cup. And do you know what Kurt Voss and Adolf Eichmann did before putting them on a train to Auschwitz? They stole everything they had. And then they gave them a receipt. I have it to this day. I keep it as a reminder of the importance of the enterprise we call Israel." He paused. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Uzi?"

"I believe I do, Prime Minister."

"Keep me informed, Uzi. And remember, I like details."

NAVOT STEPPED into the anteroom and was immediately accosted by several members of the Knesset waiting to see the prime minister. Claiming an unspecified problem requiring his urgent attention, he shook a few of the more influential hands and patted a few of the more important backs before beating a hasty retreat to the elevators. His armored limousine was waiting outside, surrounded by his security detail. Fittingly, the heavy gray skies were pouring with rain. He slipped into the back and tossed his briefcase onto the floor. As the car lurched forward, the driver sought Navot's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Where to, boss? King Saul Boulevard?"

"Not yet," Navot said. "We have to make one stop first."

THE EUCALYPTUS TREE perfumed the entire western end of Narkiss Street. Navot lowered his window and peered up at the open French doors on the third floor of the limestone apartment house. From inside came the faint strains of an aria. Tosca? La Traviata? Navot didn't know. Nor did he much care. At this moment, he was loathing opera and anyone who listened to it with an unreasonable passion. For a mad instant, he considered returning to the prime minister's office and tendering his immediate resignation. Instead, he opened his secure cell phone and dialed. The aria went silent. Gabriel answered.

"You had no right going behind my back," Navot said.

"I didn't do a thing."

"You didn't have to. Shamron did it for you."

"You left me no choice."

Navot gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm down in the street."

"I know."

"How long do you need?"

"Five minutes."

"I'll wait."

The volume of the aria rose to a crescendo. Navot closed his window and luxuriated in the deep silence of his car. God, but he hated opera.

The one name not spoken that morning in Jerusalem was the name of the man who had started it all: Julian Isherwood, owner and sole proprietor of Isherwood Fine Arts, 7-8 Mason's Yard, St. James's, London. Of Gabriel's many discoveries and travails, Isherwood knew nothing. Indeed, since securing a set of yellowed sales records in Amsterdam, his role in the affair had been reduced to that of a worried and helpless bystander. He filled the empty hours of his days by following the British end of the investigation. The police had managed to keep the theft out of the papers but had no leads on the painting's whereabouts or the identity of Christopher Liddell's killer. This was not an amateur looking for a quick score, the detectives muttered in their own defense. This was the real thing.

As with all condemned men, Isherwood's world shrank. He attended the odd auction, showed the odd painting, and tried in vain to distract himself by flirting with his latest young receptionist. But most of his time was devoted to planning his own professional funeral. He rehearsed the speech he would give to the hated David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and even produced a rough draft of a mea culpa he would eventually have to send to the National Gallery of Art in Washington. Images of flight and exile also filled his thoughts. Perhaps a little villa in the hills of Provence or a shack on the beach in Costa Rica. And the gallery? In his worst moments, Isherwood imagined having to drop it in Oliver Dimbleby's lap. Oliver had always coveted the gallery. Now, thanks to Portrait of a Young Woman, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, Oliver could have it at no cost other than cleaning up Julian's mess.