The Heist

MONTMARTRE, PARIS (#ulink_6b9c68f6-4dd1-528a-837b-f486d0ec1204)

YVES MOREL LIVED IN AN apartment building on the rue Ravignon. When Durand pressed the intercom button, there was no answer.

“He’s probably in the Place du Tertre.”

“Doing what?”

“Selling copies of famous Impressionist paintings to the tourists so the French tax authorities think he has a legitimate income.”

They walked to the square, a jumble of outdoor cafés and street artists near the basilica, but Morel wasn’t in his usual spot. Then they went to his favorite bar in the rue Norvins, but there was no sign of him there, either. A call to his mobile phone went unanswered.

“Merde,” said Durand softly, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket.

“What now?”

“I have a key to his apartment.”

“Why?”

“Occasionally, he leaves things in his studio for me to collect.”

“Sounds like a trusting soul.”

“Contrary to popular myth,” said Durand, “there is indeed honor among thieves.”

They walked back to the apartment house and rang the intercom a second time. When there was no response, Durand fished a ring of keys from his pocket and used one to unlock the door. He used the same key to unlock the door of Morel’s apartment. Darkness greeted them. Durand flipped a light switch on the wall, illuminating a large open room that doubled as a studio and living space. Gabriel walked over to an easel, on which was propped an unfinished copy of a landscape by Pierre Bonnard.

“Does he intend to sell this one to the tourists in the Place du Tertre?”

“That one’s for me.”

“What’s it for?”

“Use your imagination.”

Gabriel examined the painting more closely. “If I had to guess,” he said, “you intend to hang it in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nice.”

“You have a good eye.”

Gabriel turned away from the easel and walked over to the large rectangular worktable that stood in the center of the studio. Draped over it was a paint-spotted tarpaulin. Beneath it was an object approximately six feet in length and two feet across.

“Is Morel a sculptor?”

“No.”

“So what’s underneath the tarp?”

“I don’t know, but you’d better have a look.”

Gabriel lifted the edge of the tarpaulin and peered beneath it.

“Well?” asked Durand.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else to finish the Bonnard, Maurice.”

“Let me see him.”

Gabriel drew back the top of the tarpaulin.

“Merde,” said Durand softly.

PART TWO (#ulink_57b63b72-dc36-565a-b70a-7f0768c4c1fd)

13 (#ulink_dfe44100-8efd-5bfd-88b0-4fb019aae92d)

SAN REMO, ITALY (#ulink_dfe44100-8efd-5bfd-88b0-4fb019aae92d)

GENERAL FERRARI WAITED NEAR THE walls of the old fortress in San Remo at half past two the following afternoon. He wore a business suit, a woolen overcoat, and dark glasses that shielded his all-seeing prosthetic eye from view. Gabriel, dressed in denim and leather, looked like the troubled younger sibling, the one who had made all the wrong choices in life and was once again in need of money. As they walked along the grimy waterfront, he briefed the general on his findings, though he was careful not to divulge his sources. The general didn’t seem surprised by anything he was hearing.

“You left out one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Jack Bradshaw wasn’t a diplomat. He was a spy.”

“How did you know?”

“Everyone in the trade knew about Bradshaw’s past. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. But don’t worry,” the general added. “I’m not going to make things difficult for you with your friends in London. All I want is my Caravaggio.”

They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.

“You misled me,” he said.

“Not at all,” replied the general.

“How would you describe it?”

“I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”

“Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”

“I’d heard rumors to that effect.”

“Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”

The general nodded.

“Who is it?”