“And then?”

“Find the Picasso, of course.”

“In the Geneva Freeport?” asked Gabriel. “One of the world’s most heavily guarded storage facilities for art and other valuable objects? Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’m not suggesting that you break into the Freeport and go vault to vault. You have no choice but to go into business with this Ricard fellow. Not you personally, of course. You’re far too famous for that now. You’ll need a cutout.”

“A collector?”

Chiara nodded. “But you can’t invent one out of whole cloth. Ricard is far too crafty. You’ll need a real person. Someone with a considerable fortune and, preferably, a whiff of scandal in her past.”

“Her?”

Chiara allowed a moment to pass before answering. “Don’t make me say that woman’s name aloud. I’ve had enough unpleasantness for one evening.”

“What makes you think she’ll do it?”

“Because she’s still madly in love with you.”

She was perfect, of course. She was enormously rich, she was an international celebrity, and she was the keeper of a substantial collection of paintings that had belonged to her disgraced father. Still, Gabriel could not shake himself of the nagging fear that his wife was trying to get rid of him for a few days.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

He decided a change of subject was in order. “Is she buying or selling?”

“Your girlfriend? Selling, I imagine.”

“I thought so, too. But that means she’s going to need paintings.”

“Dirty paintings,” said Chiara. “The dirtier the better.”

“How many?”

“Enough to move the needle.”

Gabriel made a show of thought. “Six feels about right.”

“Estimated market value?”

“How does a hundred million sound?”

“Not as sweet as two hundred,” replied Chiara. “Or two fifty, for that matter.”

“In that case, I’ll need a couple of heavy hitters.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A Modigliani would be nice.” Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe a Van Gogh.”

“How about a Renoir?”

“Why not?”

“Cézanne?”

“A fine idea.”

“You should probably give your girlfriend a Monet, too. Nothing moves the needle quite like a Monet.”

“Especially a Monet with a murky provenance.”

“Yes,” agreed Chiara. “The murkier the better.”

*  *  *

For the next ten days, Gabriel was the first member of the restoration team to arrive at the church each morning and the last to leave. Typically, he granted himself two brief intermezzi, both of which he took at Bar al Ponte. Bartolomeo, on a windblown Wednesday, quite unexpectedly raised the subject of Gennaro Castelli, the much beloved counterman at Bar Cupido.

“He’s wondering why you haven’t been stopping there lately. He’s concerned you might be angry with him.”

“Why would I be angry at a barman?”

“He didn’t go into specifics.”

“And anyway,” said Gabriel, “how does he even know who I am? I’ve never told him my name.”

“Venice is a small town, Signore Allon. Everyone knows who you are.” Bartolomeo indicated a platter of tramezzini. “Tomato and cheese or tuna and egg?”

Gabriel returned to the church to find that Adrianna Zinetti had rearranged his work trolley and stolen his copy of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden string quartet, a piece she loathed. She surrendered the CD that evening during the vaporetto ride from Murano to the Fondamente Nove. As they walked past Bar Cupido, she smiled at Gennaro Castelli through the glass.

“Friend of yours?” asked Gabriel.

“I should be so lucky. He’s quite luscious.”

“Signore Luscious has a thing for my wife.”

“Yes, I know. He told me.”

“And you, of course, told Chiara.”

“I might have,” Adrianna admitted. “She found it quite amusing.”

“What are young Gennaro’s intentions?”

“Harmless, I’m sure. He’s terrified of you.”

“He should be.”