Gabriel hastened to his feet. “Let me see it.”

Smiling, Anna showed him the undamaged appendage. “Works every time.”

Gabriel relieved her of the knife and finished chopping the vegetables.

“Not bad,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

“I happen to be married to a world-class cook.”

“That was cruel.” Anna snatched a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “Even for you.”

Fortunately, Anna’s butcher had already cubed the beef. Thirty minutes later, browned and seasoned and drenched in a bottle of excellent burgundy, it was simmering in a 350-degree oven. They shared another bottle of the wine in the half-light of the drawing room while Anna led Nicholas Lovegrove on an hour-long guided tour of her family’s scandalous past. She omitted several episodes in which Gabriel had played a starring role.

“You can be sure that Monsieur Ricard is well aware of the many skeletons in my closet. I will do my best to convince him that I am just as unscrupulous as my father. It shouldn’t be difficult. As you might have heard, I can be quite unpleasant at times.” She looked at Gabriel. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll withhold my answer until after I’ve devoured at least two servings of that boeuf bourguignon.”

They ate at the table in the kitchen while listening to Radio Swiss Jazz on an old Bose. Anna was at her most charming, regaling them with uproarious tales of her untidy love life late into the evening. Lovegrove finally left around eleven and headed to the Dolder Grand. Ingrid saw to the dishes while Gabriel, in the drawing room, gave his asset a final operational briefing.

“And where will you be while we’re inside the Freeport?” she asked.

“Here in Zurich. But don’t worry, I’ll be able to hear everything.”

“How?”

He opened his laptop and tapped the trackpad. A moment later came the sound of water splashing in the basin. In the background was Franco Ambrosetti’s lovely version of “Flamenco Sketches.”

“What’s the source of the audio?” asked Anna.

“Your new assistant’s mobile phone.”

“Have you been listening in on me?”

“Every chance I get.”

Gabriel closed the computer. Anna allowed a silence to settle over the room before speaking. “Do you remember the night you found that photo in my father’s study?”

“There were two, as I recall.”

“But only one that mattered.” It was the photograph of Anna’s father standing next to Adolf Hitler and Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. “What does one do with such knowledge?” she asked. “How does one live one’s life?”

“One fills the world with music until she can no longer hold a bow.”

“That day is fast approaching. These young violinists run circles around me.”

“But none of them sound like you.”

Anna went to the French doors and peered into the garden. “That’s because they didn’t grow up in this house.”

21

Geneva Freeport

The ancient city of commerce and Calvinism known as Geneva lay at the western end of Lac Léman, three hours by motorcar from Zurich. Its most recognizable landmark was not its medieval cathedral or elegant Old Town but the Jet d’Eau, which burst suddenly to life as Anna’s Mercedes sped across the Pont du Mont-Blanc. She was seated behind her driver, with Ingrid at her side. Her art adviser had been relegated to the passenger seat. Having spent most of the drive on the phone to clients, he now extolled the geyser-like fountain’s virtues as though he were reading from a tourist guidebook.

“It’s quite an engineering marvel, if you think about it. The water leaves the nozzle at two hundred kilometers per hour and rises up to a hundred forty meters. At any given moment, more than seven thousand liters are airborne.”

Ingrid was unable to restrain herself. “And do you know how much electricity that ridiculous fountain uses each year? A megawatt. All of it wasted.”

“You’re concerned about global warming, I take it.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Oh, I suppose so. But what can we do about it at this point besides hope for the best?” Lovegrove checked the time. It was already two fifteen. “Perhaps I should ring Ricard and let him know we’re running late.”

“You will do no such thing,” declared Anna. Then she looked at Ingrid and said, “Unless our friend believes otherwise.”

Ingrid consulted her messages before answering. “He doesn’t, Madame Rolfe.”

“Great minds think alike.”

Ingrid returned the phone to her handbag as the Hôtel Métropole slid past her window. The elegant lobby bar, with its wealthy clientele, had once been one of her favorite hunting grounds. Her last visit had yielded an attaché case stuffed with more than a million dollars in cash. Ingrid, as was her custom, had given half of the money to charity. The rest she had entrusted to her account manager at Banca Privada d’Andorra.

She had experienced similar success at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, much beloved by grotesquely rich Gulf Arabs, and along the private bank–lined pavements of the rue du Rhône, a pickpocket’s paradise. She had never, however, had occasion to visit the infamous Geneva Freeport. The very thought of being inside the facility—repository of untold billions’ worth of paintings, gold bars, and other assorted treasures—had set her ablaze with the familiar craving. It had been building all day. Now she felt feverish with anticipation.

Anna’s voice was a welcome diversion. “Are you feeling all right, Ingrid?”

“I’m sorry, Madame Rolfe?”

“You look unwell.”

“I’m just a touch carsick, that’s all. But not to worry.” Ingrid pointed toward a row of featureless gray-and-red buildings looming before them. “We have arrived at our destination.”

The enormous facility was several hundred meters in length and surrounded by a screened fence topped with razor wire and security cameras. A stubby gray annex, home to numerous small firms doing business within the boundaries of the Freeport, jutted from the southernmost end. Edmond Ricard’s gallery was located on the third floor. Immaculately groomed and attired, he waited in the ill-lit corridor, visibly annoyed that Lovegrove and his mystery client had committed the unpardonable offense of arriving late for a business appointment in Switzerland. The dealer’s countenance changed the instant he recognized the client’s famous face. He nevertheless greeted her with Freeport discretion.

“Madame Rolfe,” he said quietly. “It is an honor to have you in my gallery.”

Anna nodded once but declined Ricard’s outstretched hand. Unnerved, he turned to Ingrid.

“And you are?”

“Madame Rolfe’s assistant.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Ricard, and led them into the gallery’s small foyer. Ingrid scarcely noticed the vibrant painting by Frank Stella hanging on the wall; she was far more interested in the lock on the outer door. It was Swiss-made, mechanical, and purportedly unpickable, which was not the case.

The next room they entered was windowless and white-carpeted and furnished with matching Barcelona chairs. A single painting hung on each wall—a Matisse, a Pollock, a Lichtenstein, and an enormous canvas by Willem de Kooning.

“Good heavens,” breathed Ingrid. “Isn’t that the painting that fetched—”