"The Rembrandt Affair" - читать интересную книгу автора (Silva Daniel)

7 GUNWALLOE COVE, CORNWALL

The envelope contained ten photographs in all—one depiction of the entire canvas along with nine close-up detail images. Gabriel laid them out in a row on the kitchen counter and examined each with a magnifying glass.

"What are you looking at?" Chiara asked.

"The way he loaded his brush."

"And?"

"Julian was right. He painted it very quickly and with great passion. But I doubt he was working alla prima. I can see places where he laid the shadows in first and allowed them to dry."

"So it's definitely a Rembrandt?"

"Without question."

"How can you be so certain just by looking at a photograph?"

"I've been around paintings for a hundred thousand years. I know it when I see it. This is not only a Rembrandt but a great Rembrandt. And it's two and a half centuries ahead of its time."

"How so?"

"Look at the brushwork. Rembrandt was an Impressionist before anyone had ever heard the term. It's proof of his genius."

Chiara picked up one of the photos, a detail image of the woman's face.

"Pretty girl. Rembrandt's mistress?"

Gabriel raised one eyebrow in surprise.

"I grew up in Venice and have a master's degree in the history of the Roman Empire. I do know something about art." Chiara looked at the photograph again and shook her head slowly. "He treated her shabbily. He should have married her."

"You sound like Julian."

"Julian is right."

"Rembrandt's life was complicated."

"Where have I heard that one before?"

Chiara gave a puckish smile and returned the photograph to its place on the counter. The Cornish winter had softened the tone of her olive skin while the moist sea air had added curls and ringlets to her hair. It was held in place by a clasp at the nape of her neck and hung between her shoulder blades in a great cloud of auburn and copper highlights. She was taller than Gabriel by an inch and blessed with the square shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs of a natural athlete. Had she been raised somewhere other than Venice, she might very well have become a star swimmer or tennis player. But like most Venetians, Chiara regarded sporting contests as something to be viewed over coffee or a good meal. When one required exercise, one made love or strolled down to the Zattere for a gelato. Only the Americans exercised with compulsion, she argued, and look what it had wrought—an epidemic of heart disease and children prone to obesity. The descendant of Spanish Jews who fled to Venice in the fifteenth century, Chiara believed there was no malady that could not be cured by a bit of mineral water or a glass of good red wine.

She opened the stainless steel door of the oven and from inside removed a large orange pot. As she lifted the lid there arose a warm rush of steam that filled the entire room with the savor of roasting veal, shallots, fennel, and sweet Tuscan dessert wine. She inhaled deeply, poked at the surface of the meat with her fingertip, and gave a contented smile. Chiara's disdain for physical exertion was matched only by her passion for cooking. And now that she was officially retired from the Office, she had little to do other than read books and prepare extravagant meals. All that was expected of Gabriel was an appropriate display of appreciation and undivided attention. Chiara believed that food hastily consumed was food wasted. She ate in the same manner in which she made love, slowly and by the flickering glow of candles. Now she licked the tip of her finger and replaced the cover on the pot. Closing the door, she turned and noticed Gabriel staring at her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just looking."

"Is there a problem?"

He smiled. "None at all."

She furrowed her brow. "You need something else to occupy your thoughts other than my body."

"Easier said than done. How long before dinner?"

"Not long enough for that, Gabriel."

"I wasn't suggesting that."

"You weren't?" She pouted playfully. "I'm disappointed."

She opened a bottle of Chianti, poured two glasses, and pushed one toward Gabriel. "Who steals paintings?"

"Thieves steal paintings, Chiara."

"I guess you don't want any of the veal."

"Allow me to rephrase. What I was trying to say is that it really doesn't matter who steals paintings. The simple truth is, they're stolen every day. Literally. And the losses are huge. According to Interpol, between four and six billion dollars a year. After drug trafficking, money laundering, and arms dealing, art theft is the most lucrative criminal enterprise. The Museum of the Missing is one of the greatest in the world. Everyone is there—Titian, Rubens, Leonardo, Caravaggio, Raphael, Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir, Degas. Everyone. Thieves have pillaged some of man's most beautiful creations. And for the most part, we've done nothing to stop it."

"And the thieves themselves?"

"Some are bumblers and adventurers looking for a thrill. Some are ordinary criminals trying to make a name for themselves by stealing something extraordinary. But unfortunately a few are real pros. And from their perspective, the risk-reward ratio is weighted heavily in their favor."

"High rewards, low risks?"

"Extremely low risks," Gabriel said. "A security guard might shoot a thief during a bank robbery, but to the best of my knowledge no one has ever been shot trying to steal a painting. In fact, we make it rather easy for them."

"Easy?"

"In 1998, a thief walked into Room Sixty-seven of the Louvre, sliced Corot's Le Chemin de Sevres from its frame, and walked out again. An hour elapsed before anyone even realized the painting was missing. And why was that? Because Room Sixty-seven had no security camera. The official postmortem proved more embarrassing. Louvre officials couldn't produce a complete list of employees or even an accurate accounting of the museum's inventory. The official review concluded that it would be harder for a thief to rob the average Paris department store than the most famous museum on earth."

Chiara shook her head in amazement. "What happens to the art after it's stolen?"

"That depends on the motive. Some thieves are just out to make a quick score. And the quickest way to convert a painting into cash is by handing it over in exchange for a reward. In reality, it's ransom. But since it's almost always a small fraction of the painting's true value, the museums and the insurance companies are only too happy to play the game. And the thieves know it."

"And if it's not a ransom job?"

"There's a debate within the art world and law enforcement over that. Some paintings end up being used as a sort of underworld currency. A Vermeer stolen from a museum in Amsterdam, for example, might fall into the hands of a drug gang in Belgium or France, which in turn might use it as collateral or a down payment on a shipment of heroin from Turkey. A single painting might circulate for years in this manner, passing from one criminal to the next, until someone decides to cash in. Meanwhile, the painting itself suffers terribly. Four-hundred-year-old Vermeers are delicate objects. They don't like being stuffed into suitcases or buried in holes."

"Do you accept that theory?"

"In some cases, it's indisputable. In others..." Gabriel shrugged. "Let's just say I've never met a drug dealer who preferred a painting to cold hard cash."

"So what's the other theory?"

"That stolen paintings end up hanging on the walls of very rich men."

"Do they?"

Gabriel peered thoughtfully into his wineglass. "About ten years ago, Julian was putting the finishing touches on a deal with a Japanese billionaire at his mansion outside Tokyo. At one point during the meeting, the collector excused himself to take a call. Julian being Julian, he got out of his seat and had a look around. At the far end of a hallway he saw a painting that looked shockingly familiar. To this day, he swears it was Chez Tortoni."

"The Manet stolen in the Gardner heist? Why would a billionaire take such a risk?"

"Because you can't buy what's not for sale. Remember, the vast majority of the world's masterpieces will never come on the market. And for some collectors—men used to always getting what they want—the unobtainable can become an obsession."

"And if someone like that has Julian's Rembrandt? What are the chances of finding it?"

"One in ten, at best. And the odds of recovery drop precipitously if it isn't recovered quickly. People have been searching for that Manet for two decades."

"Maybe they should try looking in Japan."

"That's not a bad idea. Any others?"

"Not an idea," Chiara said carefully. "Just a suggestion."

"What's that?"

"Your friend Julian needs you, Gabriel." Chiara pointed to the photographs spread along the countertop. "And so does she."

Gabriel was silent. Chiara picked up the photograph showing the canvas in full.

"When did he paint it?"

"Sixteen fifty-four."

"The same year Hendrickje gave birth to Cornelia?"

Gabriel nodded.

"I think she looks pregnant."

"It's possible."

Chiara scrutinized the image carefully for a moment. "Do you know what else I think? She's keeping a secret. She knows she's pregnant but hasn't worked up the courage to tell him." Chiara glanced up at Gabriel. "Does that sound familiar to you?"

"I think you would have made a good art historian, Chiara."

"I grew up in Venice. I am an art historian." She looked down at the photo again. "I can't leave a pregnant woman buried in a hole, Gabriel. And neither can you."

Gabriel flipped open his mobile phone. As he entered Isherwood's number, he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself. Chiara always sang when she was happy. It was the first time Gabriel had heard her sing in more than a year.