“That’s correct, Mr. Allon. It was concealed between Rembrandt’s original canvas and a second canvas adhered to the back.”

“How long was the list?”

“Three sheets of onionskin, written in my father’s own hand.”

“And how was it protected?”

“It was sealed inside a sheath of wax paper.”

“Who did the work for him?”

“During my father’s time in Paris and Amsterdam, he came in contact with a number of people involved in Special Operation Linz, Hitler’s art looters. One of them was a restorer. He was the one who devised the method of concealment. And when he’d finished the job, my father repaid the favor by killing him.”

“And the painting?”

“During his escape from Europe, my father made a brief stop in Zurich to meet with his banker. He left it in a safe-deposit box. Only one other person knew the account number and password.”

“Your mother?”

Peter Voss nodded.

“Why didn’t your father simply transfer the money to Argentina at that time?”

“Because it wasn’t possible. The Allies were keeping a close watch on financial transactions carried out by Swiss banks. A large transfer of cash and other assets from Zurich to Buenos Aires would have raised a red flag. As for the list, my father didn’t dare attempt to carry it with him during his escape. If he’d been arrested on his way to Italy, the list would have guaranteed him a death sentence. He had no choice but to leave the money and the list behind and wait until the dust had settled.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Six years.”

“The year you and your mother left Europe?”

“That’s correct,” Voss said. “When my father was finally able to send for us, he instructed my mother to make a stop in Zurich. The plan was for her to collect the painting, the list, and the money. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but I remember waiting in the street while my mother went into the bank. Ten minutes later, when she came out, I could see she’d been crying. When I asked what was wrong, she snapped at me to be quiet. After that, we climbed onto a streetcar and rode aimlessly in circles through the city center. My mother was staring out the window. She was saying the same words over and over again. ‘What am I going to tell your father? What am I going to tell your father?’”

“The painting was gone?”

Voss nodded. “The painting was gone. The list was gone. The money was gone. The banker told my mother that the accounts never existed. ‘You must be mistaken, Frau Voss,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps a different bank.’”

“How did your father react?”