Daniel Silva - The Rembrandt Affair

"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."

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 Metro to the rue de Miromesnil and made the two-minute walk to Antiquites 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 assume 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 Metro 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."

Lavon was able to secure an economy-class seat on the 8:50 Air France flight to Heathrow and by eleven that night was making his way wearily up the walkway of the Highgate safe house. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of the entire team engaged in a tumultuous celebration. He looked at Gabriel and asked, "Would someone like to tell me what's going on?"

"Valves, pipes, vacuum pumps, bellows, autoclaves, feed and withdrawal systems, frequency converters, motor housings, molecular pumps, rotors, magnets."

"He's selling them centrifuges?"

"Not just centrifuges," Gabriel said. "Saint Martin Landesmann is selling the Iranians everything they need to build their uranium enrichment plants."

"And I thought I had a good day."

"What have you got?"

"Nothing much." Lavon held up the wax paper sheath. "Just Kurt Voss's list of Zurich bank accounts."