"I can't think of anything else."

"What about this . . . situation with Pieter Boegart, my dear departed cousin, and your . . . um, dad?"

Finn spoke stiffly. "He's not my dad and I'm not sure that the 'situation,' as you call it, has any relevance."

"Maybe they were after you, not the painting."

"If they wanted to kill me, they didn't have to do it in front of the Courtauld Inst.i.tute. Knocking me off in Crouch End would have been a little more discreet, don't you think?"

"And they could have done the same to me on dear old Flush any time they wanted," agreed Billy.

Finn nodded. "Which brings me back to the beginning. The painting. The last time a small Rembrandt was auctioned it went for nineteen million pounds. Thirty-six million U.S. That's enough to kill for."

"A thought occurs to me," said Billy, leaning forward and pushing his plate out of the way. He lined up the saltshaker, the pepper grinder, and the sugar bowl. "Pieter Boegart's instructions to Sir James. The letter had two objectives-to bring us together and to give us three items: the painting, the house, and the Batavia Queen. They're all tied together."

"Clues?"

"No, more like a game of hare and hounds. Do you have that in America?"

"A paper chase," said Finn.

"Exactly."

"So Pieter Boegart is the hare and we're the hounds, is that it?"

"The painting is a lure, and so is the house." "To what end?"

"Catching the hare."

"In other words, finding Pieter Boegart," said Finn.

Billy nodded. "Or whatever he was looking for."

11.

They made two telephone calls from the Oude Taveerne: one to the lawyer in Amsterdam who Tulkinghorn had told them was handling the house, and the other to Dr. Shneegarten at the Courtauld. The strange old man from Somerset House was apparently off doing research at the Reading Room of the British Museum, but the lawyer, a man named Guido Derlagen, was in his office and could see them immediately.

Derlagen's office turned out be in a modern block on the Rokin, a wide, boulevarded avenue just off the Dam, Amsterdam's town square, about ten minutes from the main train station and the docks. The addresses on the Rokin that weren't shops and cafe's were banks, stockbrokers, and lawyers. This was Amsterdam's Wall Street. The sidewalks were crammed with tourists and both sides of the boulevard thick with traffic when they arrived. The whole city gave off a sense of healthy bustle.

Middle-aged and well-dressed, Derlagen had a somewhat lumpy but perfectly shaved head. He spoke excellent English. He was, it seemed, one of a score of lawyers who worked for the Boegart shipping business in the Netherlands. Derlagen was one of the team of advocaats who handled an a.s.sortment of personal trusts held by individual Boegart family members, in this case Pieter Boegart. Derlagen had a moderate-sized office with a window that looked down into the busy street. Finn could see a yellow tram-train squeaking down the tracks embedded in the old brick. Through the fluttering leaves of the trees that ran down the boulevard she could see the garish yellow and red sign of a Chinese restaurant.

The furniture in Derlagen's office was spa.r.s.e and modern. His desk was a heavy slab of tempered gla.s.s on chrome legs. The desk had a flatscreen computer angled to one side on it and nothing else. There was a striped rug, a row of filing cabinets, and a pair of chairs across from the desk. The chairs were black leather. The walls were blank and art gallery white with no decoration at all.

Finn and Billy sat down.

"You're here about the house on the Herengracht," said the lawyer. His accent in English sounded heavily South African, which wasn't surprising since the first Boer settlers were from Holland. He tapped some keys and glanced at his computer screen. "We here at the firm were surprised when we heard of this transaction, yes? Because, you see, the house has been owned by members of the Van Boegart family since it was built in 1685."

"I'm a member of the family," said Billy. "Pieter Boegart is my cousin or something."

"Yes, or something, that is correct, Lord Pilgrim."

"Just Billy if you don't mind, or Mr. Pilgrim if you like."

"Certainly, Lord Pilgrim." The man turned to Finn. "Your relationship to Meneer Boegart, however, is less clear."

"Yes, it is." She didn't like the man's officious and slightly condescending manner of speech. "But from what we understood from Sir James everything is in order, isn't it?"

"Yes, it appears to be," the man murmured, checking his screen again.

"So if that's the case," continued Finn, "why don't we just get on with it unless you've got some objection... Guido?" She p.r.o.nounced his name with a heavy Italian accent.

The man reddened. "It is not p.r.o.nounced that way. It is more the way you would p.r.o.nounce 'van Gogh,' the artist."

"Van Hhok," Finn said with the proper guttural effect. It made it sound as though you were getting ready to spit on the sidewalk.

"Yes," the lawyer said primly.

"Which would make your name Hogweedo, yes?" Billy added, overdoing it with an innocent smile.

Derlagen reddened even more as he realized they were teasing him. "The p.r.o.nouncing of my name is of no importance," he said a little angrily.

"That's right. It's not important at all, any more than my relationship to Pieter Boegart, so why don't you just go and fetch whatever papers we have to sign and we'll get out of your hair, okay?" Finn said.

"Quite so," said Derlagen. He got up from behind the desk and left the office.

"Pinched," said Billy. "I used to have professors at Oxford like that. Always with that pinched look one gets when one's bowels aren't moving as they should."

"In other words, he's got a pickle up his a.s.s," said Finn.

"Exactly," said Billy.

Derlagen returned with a file folder full of doc.u.ments and a small leather-covered box. They signed the doc.u.ments, which made them the only two stockholders of an already formed Dutch royalty conduit nonresident corporation called Vleigende Draeack LLC-the Flying Dragon Company. The only a.s.sets of Flying Dragon were the painting, which they had already received; the Amsterdam house on the Herengracht; a very elderly freighter due to be sc.r.a.pped; and a tract of utterly unapproachable snake-infested jungle somewhere in the middle of an unnamed island in the Sulu Sea at approximately 7 degrees north by 118 degrees south. By signing the doc.u.ments, Finn and Billy were legally agreeing to physically take possession of these a.s.sets within a limited period of time. Failure to do so would result in the forfeiture of all the a.s.sets, including those already taken into their possession.

"So we have to actually go to this so-called snake-infested unapproachable tract of land on the unnamed island or we lose everything. Is that what you're saying?" Finn asked.

"Precisely," said Derlagen, smiling for the first time. It was not a friendly smile.

"Well," said Billy airily, "I'm not doing anything else at the moment, Miss Ryan, how about you?"

"I'm game if you are, Billy."

The lawyer's lips pursed as though he'd just sucked a lemon. "As you wish," he said.

They signed. Derlagen went away again to get copies of the signed agreements and their stock certificates.

"Can't be very high up the food chain," Finn commented. "He doesn't even have a secretary."

"I'm feeling very much the CEO. Perhaps I'll buy lunch," said Billy.

"We just had breakfast, and how come you're the CEO?"

"All right, you be the CEO, and I'll be the stuffy old chairman of the board hired on merely for my escutcheon on the creamy linen letterhead and my portrait in the boardroom."

"You," said Finn, "are a very silly man."

Derlagen came back with the papers. He placed them in a manila envelope, which he handed to Billy, who in turn handed it on to Finn. "She's the CEO," he explained blandly. "I'm just chairman of the board."

Derlagen looked a little perplexed. He frowned and opened up the box. Inside was a key, something that looked like a fat guitar pick, and a delicate, half-inch-high figure of a man mounted on a horse. It was obviously very old. Just as obviously, it was made of solid gold.

"It is from Mali," explained Derlagen. "Experts at the Rijksmuseum say it is from the reign of Mansa Musa, who was apparently the king of Timbuktu."

"It's beautiful," said Finn, turning it over in her hand. "But what does this have to do with us?"

"Meneer Boegart left it in our vault for safekeeping. It was purchased from an antiquities dealer named Osterman in Labuan, just off the coast from the sultanate of Brunei, which was the last place Meneer Boegart was seen. According to this man Osterman the gold figure was to be given to you in the event that he . . . disappeared. The figurine is for you specifically, Vrouwe Ryan. The other two items are the key to the front door of the house and the device used to disarm the security system. The panel is on the right as you enter. Simply place the narrow end of the device in the appropriate spot and squeeze. The light should turn green. Everything else is automatic. There is a cleaning service we have hired, which comes every Wednesday morning for three hours. If there is anything else you need to know, I am, of course, at your service, day or night." It didn't sound like much of an invitation. Derlagen went on, voice droning and uninflected. "As the doc.u.ments describe you are not allowed to sell either the house or any of its contents for at least twelve months, and if you do the Boegart Family Trust has the right of first refusal, that is to say-"

"We know what it means," said Billy.

"Then if that is all . . . ?" answered Derlagen. He pushed away from his chair. They were being dismissed. Finn carefully put the little gold figure back into the box. She put the box into her bag.

"How do we find the house?" Finn asked.

"Nothing could be simpler," said Derlagen. "Walk back up to the Dam, turn left on the Raadhuistraat, cross one bridge, and turn right onto the Herengracht. It is the first block, before Driekonigenstraat, number 188. It cannot be missed. It is dark stone with a green door."

"Thanks," said Finn, holding out her hand. Derlagen ignored it.

"Geen dank," he responded, giving her a little bow.

A moment later, when they were back on the street, Billy said, "Not the friendliest type in the world, was he?"

"What did you expect?" said Finn. "He's a lawyer, and I don't think he understands any of this any more than we do."

"And there's nothing that makes a solicitor more unhappy than not knowing what's going on." Billy nodded. "I see one of those brown cafe's or what do you call them? Let's gird our loins with some coffee and then go see the house."

"Fine by me."

The coffee was excellent once again, and the walk was pleasant and just about as simple as Derlagen had described it. The weather was perfect and the streets were full of tourists, bicycles, and bright yellow tram cars. There was an enthusiasm in the air Finn hadn't felt in London, and after a few blocks, she thought she knew what it was. The people here, the ones in the sidewalk cafe's, or walking by, seemed less interested in business and money than they did in just enjoying themselves. Instead of being on cell phones or busily tapping away at laptops, they were actually reading books and talking to one another face-toface. The overall surroundings were less intrusive too; there was neon enough certainly, but even it was fairly restrained, and there wasn't much in the way of giant billboards or screaming megascreen TVs either. She knew a lot of her of friends back at NYU would call it retro or old-fashioned, but Finn thought it was refreshing.

The Herengracht was a ca.n.a.l side street of small trees and large houses. Cars were angle parked next to the ca.n.a.l and there were large houseboats lined up in the dark water. As usual there were more bicycles than automobiles on the street. In the air, there was a faint, heavy smell that Finn couldn't quite place-a hint of the sea but something else and slightly unpleasant, like old garbage gone sour.

"It's the sewage system," Billy offered, seeing her nose wrinkle. "Amsterdam's probably the last major city that dumps its raw sewage directly into the water table."

"Into the ca.n.a.ls?" Finn said, astounded. "Untreated?"

"They depend on the tide to wash the effluent away."

"I guess you learn something new every day," she said, slightly depressed by the information; walking the few short blocks from Derlagen's office, she'd begun to fall in love with the gentle, unpretentious city with its trams and its politically correct bicycles. Love might be blind, but it still had a sense of smell. She sighed.

"Here we go," said Billy. They were standing in front of number 188.

The house was three stories plus a ground floor that looked as though it might have once been for servants. It was a big place without being grandiose, absolutely symmetrical. There were four tall windows and a door on the main floor, and five windows on each of the next two floors with a pair of evenly s.p.a.ced single window dormers set into the steep roof angle and two identical chimneys jutting upward. There was a ma.s.sive stone portico and the Boegart crest with a "1685" carved beneath it.

"Honey, I'm home," said Finn. She took the key out of her bag and they climbed a short flight of steps to the imposing front door. She fitted the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and they stepped inside.

12.

There was a Chubb keypad on the wall just as Derlagen had described it. Finn fitted the guitar pick's narrow end into a little slot, and the red pulsing light turned green. A message appeared in an LED panel: REPEAT TO ARM.

"Close the door," she said to Billy. He did and she squeezed the guitar pick again. The panel light pulsed red and the LED said: ARMED. "Okay, let's look around."

"I feel like I'm trespa.s.sing," said Billy.

Finn nodded. Billy was right; there was something a little unsettling about wandering around in a stranger's house, even if she did now own it. There was a mustiness in the air. No one had been here in quite a while. She had an urge to run around opening windows.

Directly in front of them was a long hallway with rooms on either side. The hallway walls were hung with a number of paintings, all modern. The walls were painted flat white. The overall effect was a kind of studied blankness as though Pieter Boegart didn't want to reveal anything about himself through his taste in decor.

There were two front rooms, like large parlors, flooded with light. The one on the right was laid out like an office. Behind the parlors were a large rectangular living room with an ornate fireplace and an equally large dining room on the right. A narrow staircase led upstairs and an even narrower one led down. At the far end of the hallway was a moderate-sized room that looked out onto a tiny garden. It might have served as a breakfast room or an old-fashioned music room.

"No kitchen," said Finn.

"If it's anything like England, in a house this old the kitchen would be in the bas.e.m.e.nt," answered Billy.

"Somehow this isn't what I expected," said Finn.

"Nor I," agreed Billy. "I thought it would be all stuffy and Victorian. Uncomfortable couches filled with horsehair. Pictures of the ancestors lining the walls, that sort of thing."

It was quite the opposite. There wasn't a sc.r.a.p of wallpaper to be seen. Like the hallway, the rooms were painted a uniform white and hung with large framed photographs from exotic locales and modern, nonfigurative paintings in splashy primary colors. The furniture looked as though it came from some sort of upscale Dutch version of Ikea. The floors were narrow, pegged, highly polished rosewood.

They went back to the stairs and up to the second floor. There were four bedrooms and a single bathroom with a separate toilet cubicle. Only one of the bedrooms, the one above the front parlor, appeared to be in use. More white, more modern furniture. There was a freestanding wardrobe filled with expensive suits and a second wardrobe full of more casual clothes. A pile of books on the bedside table, most in Dutch, mostly history from the look of the covers. One in English: The Land Below the Wind by a woman named Agnes Newton Keith. Finn picked up the book and flipped it open. A British edition published by Michael Joseph Ltd. in 1939.

"Adventures in Sandakan." She flipped to a map just after the t.i.tle page. "Looks like a province in North Borneo."

"Do I begin to see a pattern here?" Billy asked.

Finn flipped through the pages. "It looks like cousin Pieter underlined a lot of things and made notes in the margins," she said.

"Hang on to it," replied Billy. Finn slipped the book into her bag. They went up to the third floor. There were a half dozen small rooms, empty except for the dust on the windowsills. "Servants' quarters," said Billy. There were two large storerooms in the dormer garret, also bare except for pieces of furniture, most of it old but not antique. They poked through it, but the only thing of interest was the fact that there was absolutely nothing in the way of personal material-no old sc.r.a.pbooks, papers, letters, pictures, or memorabilia.

"It's as though he never lived here at all," said Finn.

"Now there's a thought," said Billy. "What if this is just some sort of, how would you describe it?" He paused and then went on. "A pied-a'-terre where he hung his hat while he was in Amsterdam? Maybe he actually lived somewhere else."

"We never checked his flat in London," agreed Finn. They wound their way back downstairs, even inspecting the bas.e.m.e.nt kitchen. Fully stocked, but the big refrigerator was completely empty except for a six-pack of something called NALU. It was a faint green color and came in a screw-top bottle. Finn opened one and took a sip.

"Not bad, mango... sort of," she said.

They took their bottles of NALU and went back up to the main floor. Billy looked around, frowning. "What's the matter?" asked Finn.

"Just figuring the angles." Billy went to the front rooms, then came back to the hall. He stood with Finn at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. "It's not here," he said finally.