“He was furious, of course.” Voss paused. “Ironic, isn’t it? My father was angry because the money he had stolen had been stolen from him. You could say the painting became his punishment. He avoided justice, but he became obsessed with the Rembrandt and with finding the key to a fortune hidden inside it.”

“Did he try again?”

“One more time,” Voss said. “In 1967, an Argentine diplomat agreed to go to Switzerland on my father’s behalf. Under their arrangement, half of any money recovered would be turned over to the Argentine treasury, with the diplomat taking a cut for himself.”

“What happened?”

“Shortly after the diplomat arrived in Switzerland, he sent word that he had met with my father’s banker and was confident of a successful outcome. Two days later, his body was found floating in Lake Zurich. The Swiss inquest found he had slipped from the end of a jetty while sightseeing. My father didn’t believe it. He was convinced the man had been murdered.”

“Who was the diplomat?”

“His name was Carlos Weber.”

“And you, Herr Voss?” Gabriel asked after a long pause. “Did you ever look for the money?”

“To be honest, I considered it. I thought it might be a way to return some money to my father’s victims. To atone. But in the end, I knew it was a fool’s errand. The gnomes of Zurich guard their secret treasures very carefully, Mr. Allon. Their banks might look clean and tidy, but the truth is, they’re dirty. After the war, the bankers of Switzerland turned away deserving people who had the temerity to come looking for their deposits, not because the banks didn’t have the money but because they didn’t want to give it up. What chance did the son of a murderer have?”

“Do you know the name of your father’s banker?”

“Yes,” Voss said without hesitation. “It was Walter Landesmann.”

“Landesmann? Why is that name familiar?”

Peter Voss smiled. “Because his son is one of the most powerful financiers in Europe. In fact, he was just in the news the other day. Something about a new program to combat hunger in Africa. His name is—”

“Martin Landesmann?”

Peter Voss nodded. “How’s that for a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences, Herr Voss.”

Voss lifted his wine toward the sun. “Neither do I, Mr. Allon. Neither do I.”

CHAPTER 33

33

MENDOZA, ARGENTINA

Gabriel and Chiara drove out of the vineyard, trailed by a cumulus cloud of butterflies, and returned to Mendoza. That evening they had dinner at a small outdoor restaurant opposite their hotel in the Plaza Italia.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” asked Chiara.

“Voss?” Gabriel nodded slowly. “More than I wanted to.”

“The question is, do you believe him?”