“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.

CHAPTER 8

8

RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

The sign in the shop window read ANTIQUITÉS SCIENTIFIQUES. Beneath it stood row upon row of meticulously arranged antique microscopes, cameras, barometers, telescopes, surveyors, and spectacles. Usually, Maurice Durand would spend a moment or two inspecting the display for the slightest flaw before opening the shop. But not that morning. Durand’s well-ordered little world was beset by a problem, a crisis of profound magnitude for a man whose every waking moment was devoted to avoiding them.