"How much did Shamron tell you?"

"Enough to know that you and Chiara have every right to lock yourselves away in that cottage and never come out again." Isherwood was silent for a moment. "Is it true she was pregnant when she was taken from that road in Umbria?"

Gabriel closed his eyes and nodded. "Ivan's kidnappers gave her several doses of sedative while they were moving her from Italy to Russia. She lost the baby while she was in captivity."

"How is she now?"

"Like a newly restored painting. On the surface, she looks wonderful. But underneath..." Gabriel's voice trailed off. "She has losses, Julian."

"How extensive?"

"There are good days and bad."

"I read about Ivan's murder in the newspapers. The French police seem convinced he was killed on orders from the Kremlin or by an angry business rival. But it was you, wasn't it, Gabriel? You were the one who killed Ivan outside that posh restaurant in Saint-Tropez."

"Just because I'm officially retired now doesn't mean the rules have changed, Julian."

Isherwood replenished his teacup and picked reflectively at the corner of his napkin. "You did the world a favor by killing him," he said quietly. "Now you have to do one for yourself and that gorgeous wife of yours. It's time for you and Chiara to rejoin the living."

"We are living, Julian. Quite well, actually."

"No, you're not. You're in mourning. You're sitting an extended shivah for the child you lost in Russia. But you can walk the cliffs from here to Land's End, Gabriel, and it will never bring that baby back. Chiara knows it. And it's time for you to start thinking about something other than a Russian oligarch named Ivan Kharkov."

"Something like a painting?"

"Exactly."

Gabriel exhaled heavily. "Who's the artist?"

"Rembrandt."

"What condition is it in?"

"Hard to say."

"Why is that?"

"Because at the moment, it's missing."

"How can I restore a missing painting?"

"Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. I don't need you to restore a painting, Gabriel. I need you to find one."

They walked along the cliffs toward Lizard Light, a study in contrasts, figures from different paintings. Isherwood's hands were shoved into the pockets of his tweed country coat, the ends of his woolen scarf fluttering like warning flags in the raw wind. Paradoxically, he was speaking of summer—a sultry afternoon in July when he had visited a chateau in the Loire Valley to pick over the collection of its deceased owner, one of the more ghoulish aspects of an art dealer's dubious existence.

"There were one or two paintings that were mildly interesting, but the rest was complete crap. As I was leaving, my mobile rang. It was none other than David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and a rather shady character, to put it mildly."

"What did he want?"

"He had a proposition for me. The kind that couldn't be discussed over the phone. Insisted I come see him right away. He was staying at a borrowed villa on Sardinia. That's Cavendish's way. He's a houseguest of a man. Never pays for anything. But he promised the trip would be well worth my time. He also hinted that the house was filled with pretty girls and a great deal of excellent wine."

"So you caught the next plane?"

"What choice did I have?"

"And the proposition?"

"He had a client who wanted to dispose of a major portrait. A Rembrandt. Quite a prize. Never been seen in public. Said his client was disinclined to use one of the big auction houses. Wanted the matter handled privately. He also said the client wished to see the painting hanging in a museum. Cavendish tried to portray him as some sort of humanitarian. More likely, he just couldn't bear the thought of it hanging on the wall of another collector."

"Why you?"

"Because by the rather low standards of the art world, I'm considered a paragon of virtue. And despite my many stumbles over the years, I've somehow managed to maintain an excellent reputation among the museums."

"If they only knew." Gabriel shook his head slowly. "Did Cavendish ever tell you the seller's name?"

"He spun some nonsense about faded nobility from an Eastern land, but I didn't believe a word of it."

"Why a private sale?"

"Haven't you heard? In these uncertain times, they're all the rage. First and foremost, they ensure the seller total anonymity. Remember, darling, one normally doesn't part with a Rembrandt because one is tired of looking at it. One parts with it because one needs money. And the last thing a rich person wants is to tell the world that he's not so rich anymore. Besides, taking a painting to auction is always risky. Doubly so in a climate like this."

"So you agreed to handle the sale."

"Obviously."

"What was your take?"

"Ten percent commission, split down the middle with Cavendish."

"That's not terribly ethical, Julian."

"We do what we have to do. My phone stopped ringing the day the Dow went below seven thousand. And I'm not alone. Every dealer in St. James's is feeling the pinch. Everyone but Giles Pittaway, of course. Somehow, Giles always manages to weather all storms."

"I assume you got a second opinion on the canvas before taking it to market?"

"Immediately," said Isherwood. "After all, I had to make sure the painting in question was actually a Rembrandt and not a Studio of Rembrandt, a School of Rembrandt, a Follower of Rembrandt, or, heaven forbid, in the Manner of Rembrandt."

"Who did the authentication for you?"

"Who do you think?"

"Van Berkel?"

"But of course."

Dr. Gustaaf van Berkel was widely acknowledged to be the world's foremost authority on Rembrandt. He also served as director and chief inquisitor of the Rembrandt Committee, a group of art historians, scientists, and researchers whose lifework was ensuring that every painting attributed to Rembrandt was in fact a Rembrandt.

"Van Berkel was predictably dubious," Isherwood said. "But after looking at my photographs, he agreed to drop everything and come to London to see the painting himself. The flushed expression on his face told me everything I needed to know. But I still had to wait two agonizing weeks for Van Berkel and his star chamber to hand down their verdict. They decreed that the painting was authentic and could be sold as such. I swore Van Berkel to secrecy. Even made him sign a confidentiality agreement. Then I boarded the next plane to Washington."

"Why Washington?"

"Because the National Gallery was in the final stages of assembling a major Rembrandt exhibit. A number of prominent American and European museums had agreed to lend their own Rembrandts, but I'd heard rumors about a pot of money that had been set aside for a new acquisition. I'd also heard they wanted something that could generate a few headlines. Something sexy that could turn out a crowd."

"And your newly discovered Rembrandt fit that description."

"Like one of my tailor-made suits, petal. In fact, we were able to reach a deal very quickly. I was to deliver the painting to Washington, fully restored, in six months' time. Then the director of the National Gallery would unveil his prize to the world."

"You didn't mention the sale price."

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking."

"Forty-five million. I initialed a draft agreement of the deal in Washington and treated myself to a few days with a special friend at the Eden Rock Hotel in Saint Barths. Then I returned to London and started looking for a restorer. I needed someone good. Someone with a bit of natural discretion. Which is why I went to Paris to see Shamron."

Isherwood looked to Gabriel for a response. Greeted by silence, he slowed to a stop and watched the waves crashing against the rocks at Lizard Point.