“Where?”
“An art gallery in the Geneva Freeport. He asked the world’s leading expert on the wartime French art market, a woman named Naomi Wallach, to prove that it was his grandfather’s Picasso.”
“Isn’t Naomi Wallach working for the Louvre now?”
“Which is why she told Cohen she couldn’t take the case. She did, however, suggest an alternative.”
“Not Charlotte Blake?”
Gabriel nodded.
“But she was murdered by the Chopper.”
“She was murdered with a hatchet,” said Gabriel. “Whether it was wielded by the Chopper is unclear. In fact, there are inconsistencies with the previous killings.”
“Do you think she was murdered because of the Picasso?”
“I do now.”
“Any suspects?”
“A person of interest.”
“The Geneva art dealer?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Which is why you paid a thousand euros for a stolen iPhone.”
“And five hundred euros for two fake handbags.”
Sarah rubbed her swollen eyes. “You’re right. I really should have come with you to Paris.”
* * *
During a recent and wholly unplanned visit to Tel Aviv, Gabriel’s old service had issued him a new laptop computer containing the latest version of Proteus, the world’s most formidable cell phone hacking malware. Ordinarily, Proteus attacked its target remotely over the owner’s preferred cellular network. But because Gabriel had the target phone in his possession, it was as simple as connecting the device to his laptop. Proteus instantly seized control of the phone’s operating system and, with a click of Gabriel’s trackpad, began exporting every bit of data stored in its memory.
The process took several minutes, leaving Sarah sufficient time to undo the damage of the previous evening’s ill-considered outing with Julian and Oliver Dimbleby. When she returned to the kitchen, she was wearing black trousers and a black cashmere pullover. Gabriel handed her a thumb drive, and she inserted it into her computer.
“Where should we begin?”
“The end,” said Gabriel, and opened a directory of every voice call the device had initiated or received. The last entry was an incoming call, the call Dr. Cohen had received as he was approaching the summit of the rue Chappe.
“Perhaps we should dial it,” suggested Sarah.
“What good would that do?”
“The owner might answer.”
“And what exactly would we say to him? Besides, when was the last time you answered a call from a number you didn’t recognize?”
“Just yesterday. I enjoy torturing the person at the other end.”
“You must have a lot of time on your hands.”
“I manage an Old Master art gallery, darling.”
Gabriel turned his attention to the geolocation data that Proteus had extracted from Dr. Cohen’s phone. It allowed him to track Cohen’s every move, including a visit he had made to Geneva six months before his death. He had traveled from Paris by train, arriving at the Gare Cornavin at half past one. The taxi ride to the Ports Francs et Entrepôts de Genève, otherwise known as the Geneva Freeport, was sixteen minutes in duration. He made a single telephone call along the way.
“It’s a Geneva number,” said Gabriel. “I’m betting it’s the gallery.”
He copied the number into his search engine and added the words art and Geneva. There were more than six million results, but only the first seven were relevant. They were for an art gallery based in the Freeport called Galerie Edmond Ricard SA.
“Monsieur Ricard is a major player at the Freeport,” said Sarah. “And slippery as an eel, or so they say.”
“You’ve never done business with him?”
“Not me. But we know someone who probably has.”
“Call him. See if he’s free.”
Sarah took up her phone and dialed. “Hello, Nicky. I know it’s a Saturday, but I was wondering if you had a spare minute or two . . . A boozy lunch at Claridge’s? What a marvelous idea. How does one o’clock sound to you?”
Sarah rang off. “We’re on,” she said.
“I gathered that.”
She checked the time. “We have two and a half hours to kill before lunch. What shall we do?”
