Free The Rembrandt Affair by Daniel Silva Page A

you the one who always told me that blood is bad for business, Pascal?”
    “That’s true. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.”
    “Where is he?”
    Rameau tilted his head to the right. Durand walked along the Quai de Rive Neuve toward the mouth of the harbor. About halfway down the marina was a motor yacht called Mistral. Seated on the aft deck, feet propped on the gunwale, eyes concealed by dark glasses, was a man with shoulder-length dark hair pulled into a stubby ponytail. His name was René Monjean, among the most gifted of Durand’s thieves and usually the most dependable.
    “What happened in England, René?”
    “There were complications.”
    “What kind of complications?”
    Monjean removed the sunglasses and stared at Durand with a pair of bloodred eyes.
    “Where’s my painting?”
    “Where’s my money?”
    Durand held up the attaché case. Monjean put on the glasses and got to his feet.

13
    MARSEILLES
    Y ou really should see a doctor, René. Acetone can cause permanent damage to the cornea.”
    “And when the doctor asks how the acetone got in my eyes?”
    “Your doctor wouldn’t dare ask.”
    Monjean opened the door of the small fridge in the galley and took out two bottles of Kronenbourg.
    “It’s a bit early for me, René.”
    Monjean put one bottle back and shrugged— Northerners . Durand sat down at the small table.
    “Was there really no other way to deal with the situation?”
    “I suppose I could have let him escape so he could telephone the police. But that didn’t seem like such a good idea.” He paused, then added, “For either one of us.”
    “Couldn’t you have just disabled him a little?”
    “I’m surprised I actually managed to hit him. I really couldn’t see much at all when I pulled the trigger.” Monjean pried the top from the bottle of beer. “You’ve never—”
    “Shot someone?” Durand shook his head. “I’ve never even carried a gun.”
    “The world has changed, Maurice.” Monjean looked at the attaché case. “You have something in there for me?”
    Durand popped open the locks and removed several bundles of hundred-euro notes.
    “Your turn, René.”
    Monjean opened an overhead locker and removed a cardboard tube, roughly five inches in diameter and three feet in length. He pried off the aluminum top and shook the tube several times until three inches of canvas was protruding from the end.
    “Be careful, René. You’ll damage it.”
    “I’m afraid it’s a bit late to worry about that.”
    Monjean unfurled the painting across the tabletop. Durand stared in horror. Just above the right eye of the woman was a perforation that looked as if it could have been made by a pencil. Her silk wrap was stained with something dark, as were her breasts.
    “Tell me that isn’t blood.”
    “I could,” Monjean said, “but it wouldn’t be the truth.”
    “Who did it belong to?”
    “Who do you think?” Monjean took a long pull at his beer and explained.
    “Too bad you didn’t take more careful aim,” Durand said. “You might have actually hit her right between the eyes.”
    He probed at the hole, then licked the tip of his finger and scrubbed at the surface of the painting until he smeared a small patch of the blood.
    “Looks like it will come right off,” Monjean said.
    “It should.”
    “What about the bullet hole?”
    “I know a man in Paris who might be able to repair it.”
    “What kind of man?”
    “The kind who produces forgeries.”
    “You need a restorer, Maurice. A very good one.”
    “At the core of every good restorer lies a forger.”
    Monjean didn’t appear convinced. “May I give you a piece of advice, Maurice?”
    “You just shot a Rembrandt worth forty-five million dollars. But please, René, feel free.”
    “This painting is trouble. Burn it and forget about it. Besides, we can always steal another one.”
    “I’m tempted.”
    “But?”
    “I have a client waiting. And my clients expect me to deliver. Besides, René, I