The Rembrandt Affair by Daniel Silva Page A

system, had never married, and, as it turned out, lived just around the corner from her old family home. It was a small street with a leafy green park on one side and a terrace of gabled houses on the other. Hers was a narrow little house with a narrow black door at street level. Gabriel reached for the bell but hesitated. She became very agitated and angry...After that, we never saw her again. Perhaps it was better to leave her undisturbed, he thought. He knew from personal experience that coaxing memory from a survivor could be a bit like crossing a frozen lake. One wrong step and the entire surface could crack with disastrous results.
    "What's wrong?" Chiara asked.
    "I don't want to put her through it. Besides, she probably doesn't remember."
    "She was nine when the Germans came. She remembers."
    Gabriel made no movement. Chiara pressed the bell for him.
    "Why did you do that?"
    "She came to that conference for a reason. She wants to talk."
    "Then why did she get so upset when they asked her about the war?"
    "They probably didn't ask her the right way."
    "And you think I can?"
    "I know you can."
    Chiara reached for the bell again but stopped at the sound of footfalls in the entrance hall. An exterior light came on, and the door retreated a few inches, revealing a small, spare woman dressed entirely in black. Her pewter-colored hair was carefully brushed, and her blue eyes appeared clear and alert. She regarded the two visitors curiously, then, sensing they were not Dutch, addressed them in flawless English.
    "May I help you?"
    "We're looking for Lena Herzfeld," said Gabriel.
    "I'm Lena Herzfeld," she replied calmly.
    "We were wondering whether we might speak with you."
    "About?"
    "Your father." Gabriel paused, then added, "And about the war."
    She was silent for a moment. "My father has been dead for more than sixty years," she said firmly. "As for the war, there is nothing to discuss."
    Gabriel shot a glance at Chiara, who ignored him and quietly asked, "Will you tell us about the painting, then?"
    Lena Herzfeld seemed startled but quickly regained her composure. "What painting is that?"
    "The Rembrandt your father owned before the war."
    "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My father never owned a Rembrandt."
    "But that's not true," Gabriel interjected. "Your father did indeed own a Rembrandt. He purchased it from De Vries Fine Arts on the Herengracht in 1936. I have a copy of the bill of sale if you would like to see it."
    "I have no wish to see it. Now if you'll excuse me, I--"
    "Then will you at least have a look at this?"
    Without waiting for an answer, Gabriel pressed a photograph of the painting into her hands. For several seconds, Lena Herzfeld's face betrayed no emotion other than mild curiosity. Then, bit by bit, the ice began to crack, and tears spilled down both cheeks.
    "Do you remember it now, Miss Herzfeld?"
    "It's been a very long time, but, yes, I remember." She brushed a tear from her cheek. "Where did you get this?"
    "Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside."
    "How did you find me?" she asked fearfully, her gaze still fixed on the photograph. "Who betrayed me?"
    Gabriel felt as if a stone had been laid over his heart.
    "No one betrayed you, Miss Herzfeld," he said softly. "We're friends. You can trust us."
    "I learned when I was a child to trust no one." She looked up from the photograph. "What do you want from me?"
    "Only your memory."
    "It was a long time ago."
    "Someone died because of this painting, Miss Herzfeld."
    "Yes," she said. "I know."
    She returned the photograph to Gabriel's hand. For an instant, he feared he had pushed too far. Then the door opened a few inches wider and Lena Herzfeld stepped to one side.
    Treat her gently, Gabriel reminded himself. She's fragile. They're all a bit fragile.

17
    AMSTERDAM
    G abriel knew the instant he entered Lena Herzfeld's house that she was suffering from a kind of madness. It was neat, orderly, and sterile, but a madness