The Rembrandt Affair (Gabriel Allon)
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Gabriel Allon must travel the world to track down a painting worth killing for in this #1 New York Times bestseller.
Having retreated to the windswept cliffs of Cornwall with his beautiful wife, Gabriel Allon's seclusion is interrupted by an eccentric London art dealer with a problem. An art restorer has been brutally murdered and a portrait by Rembrandt stolen—and only Gabriel can find it. But as he pursues the masterpiece across the globe, Gabriel discovers there are deadly secrets connected to the painting—and even deadlier men who will do anything to keep them.
answer. But what to do? Run after him? Demand it back? Couldn’t possibly do that. Higher Authority had spoken. Higher Authority had instructed Harkness to give the angel a wide berth. And so he stood there, trap shut, eyes on the ground, wondering what the angel had hidden in that damn glove. 11 SOMERSET, ENGLAND Gabriel peered at the tip of his left forefinger. “What is it?” asked Chiara. “Lead white, vermilion, and perhaps a touch of natural azurite.” “Flakes of paint?” “And I
have no choice but to immediately seek a buyer—or, more likely, shut the paper down. In the meantime, newsroom expenditures would once again have to be slashed to the bone. No more costly lunches with sources. No more unapproved travel. And no more paid subscriptions to other publications. From this moment forward, Journal reporters could consume their news just like everyone else in the world—on the Internet for free. The bearer of this gloomy report was Jason Turnbury, the Journal’s editor in
“What about the stain?” “Use your imagination, Yves.” Morel leaned close to the canvas and rubbed gently at the surface. “The blood is no problem.” “And the bullet hole?” “I’ll have to adhere a new patch of canvas to the original, then retouch a portion of the forehead. When I’m finished, I’ll cover it with a coat of tinted varnish to match the rest of the painting.” Morel shrugged. “Dutch Old Masters aren’t exactly my strong suit, but I think I can pull it off.” “How long will it take?” “A
facility to the International Atomic Energy Agency, nuclear watchdog of the United Nations? But there was a nagging problem with Qom, she reminded them. It was designed to house just three thousand centrifuges. And if those centrifuges were Iranian-made IR-1s, Qom could only manu facture enough highly enriched uranium to produce one bomb every two years, not enough for Iran to become a full-fledged nuclear power. “Which should mean Qom is worthless,” Rimona said. “Unless, of course, there are
foot soldiers of Zentrum Security. Brunner motioned for the driver to go around. Seeing the approaching Maybach, the guards stepped aside and allowed it to pass unchecked through the gate. Directly ahead, at the apex of a long, tree-lined drive, Villa Elma glowed like a wedding cake. Another line of limousines stretched from the entrance, tailpipes gently smoking. This time, Brunner ordered the driver to join the queue. Then he looked over his shoulder at Zoe. “When you’re ready to leave, Ms.