“Do you realize,” she asked afterward, “this is the first time we’ve made love since we found out I was pregnant?”
“Is it really?”
“When someone of your intelligence plays dumb, Gabriel, it isn’t terribly effective.”
He slowly twirled a lock of her hair around his fingertip but said nothing. Her chin was resting against his breastbone. The glow of the Paris streetlamps had turned her skin to gold.
“Why haven’t you made love to me until now? And don’t tell me you’ve been busy,” she added quickly, “because that never stopped you before.”
He released her hair but made no reply.
“You were afraid something might go wrong with the pregnancy again? Is that why?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I suppose it was.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I spent a few moments with an old woman on the island of Corsica.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That no harm would ever come to you and the children.”
“And you believe her?”
“She warmed up by telling me several things she couldn’t possibly have known. Then she told me that you’d left Venice.”
“Did she tell you I was in Paris?”
“Not in so many words.”
“I was hoping to surprise you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“How do you think?”
“You called King Saul Boulevard.”
“Actually, King Saul Boulevard called me.”
“Why?”
“Because Uzi wanted to know why you were keeping company with a man like Maurice Durand. Obviously, I leapt at the opportunity.”
“How did you get away from the general’s bodyguard?”
“Matteo? He was easy.”
“I never realized you two were on a first-name basis.”
“He was very helpful in your absence. And he never once asked me how I was feeling.”
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
Chiara kissed Gabriel’s lips and asked him why he had renewed his relationship with the world’s most successful art thief. Gabriel told her everything.
“Now I understand why General Ferrari was so eager for you to look into Bradshaw’s death.”
“He knew all along that Bradshaw was dirty,” said Gabriel. “And he’d also heard rumors that his fingerprints were on the Caravaggio.”
“I suppose that might explain something peculiar I found in the billing records of the Meridian Global Consulting Group.”
“What’s that?”
“During the past twelve months, Meridian has done a great deal of work for something called LXR Investments of Luxembourg.”
“Who are they?”
“Hard to say. LXR is a rather opaque company, to say the least.”
Gabriel gathered up another lock of Chiara’s hair and asked what else she had discovered in the electronic debris of Jack Bradshaw.
“During the final few weeks of his life, he sent several e-mails to a Gmail account with an auto-generated user name.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Weddings, parties, the weather—all the usual things people discuss when they’re actually talking about something else.”
“Any idea where his pen pal is based?”
“Internet cafés in Brussels, Antwerp, and Amsterdam.”
“But of course.”
Chiara rolled onto her back. Gabriel laid his hand upon her abdomen as the rain beat softly against the window.
“What are you thinking?” she asked after a moment.
“I was wondering whether it was real or just my imagination.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
She let it drop. “I suppose I’m going to have to say something to Uzi.”
“I suppose you are.”
“What should I tell him?”
“The truth,” replied Gabriel. “Tell him I’m going to steal a painting worth two hundred million dollars and see if I can sell it to Mr. Big.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“I have to go to London to start a nasty rumor.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to Marseilles to make the nasty rumor come true.”
G
ABRIEL RANG
I
SHERWOOD
F
INE
A
RTS
the following morning while crossing Leicester Square. He asked to see Isherwood away from the gallery and the usual art world watering holes in St. James’s. Isherwood suggested the Lido Café Bar in Hyde Park. No one from the art world, he said, would be caught dead there.
He arrived a few minutes after one o’clock, dressed for the country in a tweed jacket and waterproof shoes. He looked far less hungover than he usually did in the early afternoon.
“Far be it from me to complain,” said Gabriel, shaking Isherwood’s hand, “but your secretary left me on hold for nearly ten minutes before finally putting me through to you.”
“Consider yourself lucky.”
“When are you going to fire her, Julian?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s possible I’m still in love with her.”
“She’s abusive.”
“I know.” Isherwood smiled. “If only we were sleeping together. Then it would be perfect.”
They sat at a table overlooking the Serpentine. Isherwood frowned at the menu.
“Not exactly Wilton’s, is it?”
“You’ll survive, Julian.”
Isherwood didn’t appear convinced. He ordered a prawn sandwich and a glass of white wine for his blood pressure. Gabriel ordered tea and a scone. When they were alone again, he told Isherwood everything that had transpired since he had left Venice. Then he told him what he planned to do next.
“Naughty boy,” said Isherwood softly. “Naughty, naughty boy.”
“It was the general’s idea.”
“He’s a devious bastard, isn’t he?”
“That’s why he’s so good at his job.”
“He has to be. But as the director of the Committee to Protect Art,” Isherwood added with a tone of formality, “I would be remiss if I didn’t object to one aspect of your rather clever operation.”
“There’s no other way, Julian.”
“And if the painting is damaged during the theft?”
“I’m sure I can find someone to fix it.”
“Don’t be so glib, my boy. It doesn’t suit you.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
“It’ll be worth it if I can get that Caravaggio back,” Gabriel said finally.
“
If
,” replied Isherwood skeptically. He let out a long breath. “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in all this. And to think none of it would have happened if it wasn’t for bloody Oliver Dimbleby.”
“Actually, I’ve devised a way for Oliver to atone for his sins.”
“You’re not thinking about using him in some way, are you?”
Gabriel nodded slowly. “But this time, Oliver will never know it.”
“Wise move,” replied Isherwood. “Because Oliver Dimbleby has one of the biggest mouths in the entire art world.”
“Exactly.”
“What are you thinking?”
Gabriel told him. Isherwood gave a mischievous smile.
“Naughty boy,” he said. “Naughty, naughty boy.”
By the time they finished lunch, Gabriel had managed to convince Isherwood of the efficacy of his plan. They worked out the final details as they crossed Hyde Park and then parted company on the crowded pavements of Piccadilly. Isherwood headed back to his gallery in Mason’s Yard; Gabriel, to St. Pancras Station, where he boarded a late-afternoon Eurostar to Paris. That evening, in the safe flat overlooking the Pont Marie, he made love to Chiara for the second time since learning she was pregnant with his children.
In the morning they ate breakfast at a café near the Louvre. Then, after walking Chiara back to the safe flat, Gabriel took a taxi to the Gare de Lyon. He boarded a Marseilles-bound train at nine and by 12:45 was coming down the steps of the Gare Saint-Charles. They deposited him at the foot of the boulevard d’Athènes, which he followed to La Canebière, the broad shopping street that ran from the city center down to the Old Port. The fishing boats had returned from their morning runs; sea creatures of every sort lay atop the metal tables along the port’s eastern flank. At one of the tables was a gray-haired man in a tattered wool sweater and a rubber apron. Gabriel paused there briefly to inspect the man’s catch. Then he walked around the corner to the southern edge of the port and climbed into the passenger seat of a battered Renault sedan. Seated behind the wheel, the stub of a cigarette burning between his fingertips, was Christopher Keller.
“Must you?” asked Gabriel wearily.
Keller crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
“I can’t believe we’re back here again.”
“Where?”
“Marseilles,” answered Keller. “This is where we started our search for the English girl.”
“And where you needlessly took a life,” added Gabriel darkly.
“Let’s not relitigate that one.”
“That’s a rather big word for an art thief, Christopher.”
“You don’t think it’s something of a coincidence that we’re sitting in the same car on the same side of the Old Port?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Marseilles is where the criminals are.”
“Like him.” Keller nodded toward the man in the tattered wool sweater standing at a fish table at the edge of the port.
“Know him?”
“Everyone in the business knows Pascal Rameau. He and his crew are the best thieves in the Côte d’Azur. They steal everything. There was a rumor they once tried to steal the Eiffel Tower.”
“What happened?”
“The buyer backed out—at least, that’s the way Pascal likes to tell the story.”
“Ever had any dealings with him?”
“He doesn’t need people like me.”
“Meaning?”
“Pascal runs a tight ship.” Keller exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. “So Maurice places an order and Pascal delivers the goods—is that the way it works?”
“Just like Amazon.”
“What’s Amazon?”
“You need to get out of your valley a little more often, Christopher. The world has changed since you died.”
Keller fell silent. Gabriel turned his gaze away from Pascal Rameau, toward the hilly quarter of Marseilles near the basilica. Images of the past flashed in his memory: the door of a stately apartment building on the boulevard Saint-Rémy, a man walking quickly through the cool shadows of morning, an Arab girl with pitiless brown eyes standing atop a flight of stone steps.
Excuse me, monsieur. Are you lost?
He blinked away the memory, reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone, but stopped himself. There was a security team outside the safe flat in Paris. No harm would come to her.
“Something wrong?” asked Keller.
“No,” replied Gabriel. “Everything’s fine.”
“You sure about that?”
Gabriel returned his gaze to Pascal Rameau. Keller smiled.
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”
“What’s that?”
“That a man such as yourself could be associated with an art thief.”
“Or a professional killer,” Gabriel added.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that life is complicated, Christopher.”
“Tell me about it.”
Keller crushed out his cigarette and started to light another.
“Please,” said Gabriel quietly.
Keller tapped the cigarette back into its packet. “How much longer do we have to wait?”
Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because his train gets into Saint-Charles at one thirty-four. The walk from the station to the port will take him twelve minutes.”
“What if he makes a stop along the way?”
“He won’t,” replied Gabriel. “Monsieur Durand is very reliable.”
“If he’s so reliable, why are we back in Marseilles again?”
“Because he’s got a million euros of the Carabinieri’s money, and I want to make sure it ends up in the right place.”
“In the pocket of Pascal Rameau.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”
“Life is complicated, Christopher.”
Keller lit a cigarette. “Tell me about it.”
It was 1: 45 when they saw him coming down the slope of La Canebière, which meant he was running a minute ahead of schedule. He wore a flint-gray worsted suit and a neat fedora, and in his right hand carried an attaché case containing one million euros in cash. He walked over to the fishmongers and worked his way slowly along the tables until he was standing in front of Pascal Rameau. Words were exchanged, product was diligently inspected for freshness, and finally a selection was made. Durand handed over a single banknote, collected a plastic bag filled with squid, and set out toward the southern side of the port. A moment later, he passed Gabriel and Keller without a glance.
“Where’s he going now?”
“A boat called
Mistral
.”
“Who owns the boat?”
“René Monjean.”
Keller raised an eyebrow. “How do you know Monjean?”
“Another story for another time.”
Durand was now walking along one of the floating docks between the rows of white pleasure craft. As Gabriel predicted, he boarded a motor yacht called
Mistral
and ducked into the cabin. He remained there for seventeen minutes precisely, and when he reappeared he was no longer in possession of the briefcase or the squid. He walked past Keller’s battered Renault and started back toward the train station.
“Congratulations, Christopher.”
“For what?”
“You are now the proud owner of a van Gogh masterpiece worth two hundred million dollars.”
“Not yet.”
“Maurice Durand is very reliable,” said Gabriel. “And so is René Monjean.”
F
OR THE NEXT NINE DAYS
, the art world spun smoothly on its gilded axis, blissfully unaware of the time bomb ticking in its midst. It lunched well, it drank late into the evening, it slid carelessly down the slopes of Aspen and St. Moritz on the last good snow of the season. Then, on the third Friday of April, it woke to the news that a calamity had struck the Rijksmuseum Vincent van Gogh in Amsterdam.
Sunflowers
, oil on canvas, 95 by 73 centimeters, was gone.
The technique employed by the thieves did not match the sublime beauty of their target. They chose the bludgeon over the rapier, speed over stealth. The chief of Amsterdam’s police department would later call it the finest display of “smash and grab” he had ever seen, though he was careful not to release too many details, lest he make it easier for the next band of thieves to make off with another iconic and irreplaceable work of art. He was grateful for only one thing: the thieves did not use a razor to remove the canvas from its frame. In fact, he said, they had treated the painting with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Many experts in the field of art security, however, saw the careful handling of the canvas as a troubling sign. For them, it suggested a commissioned theft carried out by highly competent professional criminals. One retired art sleuth from Scotland Yard was skeptical about the prospects for a successful recovery. In all likelihood, he said,
Sunflowers
was now hanging in the museum of the missing and would never be seen by the public again.