“Yes, it is,” said Ricard, cutting her off. “The owner has placed it on consignment with me. It can be yours for two hundred and fifty million, if you’re interested.”

He led them through a second exhibition room and into his office. The desk was black and spotless save for a modern lamp and a laptop computer. Two bottles of mineral water, one sparkling, one still, stood in the center of a small conference table. Anna, after taking her seat, declined Ricard’s offer of refreshment and likewise fended off several attempts by the dealer to engage her in small talk.

Ricard finally turned to Lovegrove. “You mentioned something about six paintings.”

Lovegrove opened his attaché case and removed a manila folder. Inside were six large photographs, which he laid on the table before Ricard. The dealer examined each image at length, then looked up at Anna without expression.

“I take it these paintings belonged to your father.”

“They did, Monsieur Ricard.”

“It is my understanding that his estate relinquished all the Impressionist and Postimpressionist paintings that he acquired during the war.”

“That is true. But my father purchased these paintings several years after the war.”

Lovegrove laid the six provenances on the table, and Ricard turned deliberately through the pages. “They are far from pristine,” he said at the conclusion of his review. “But I’ve seen worse.”

“I ran them through the relevant Holocaust databases,” said Lovegrove. “There are no claims against any of the six paintings.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. But it doesn’t change the fact that they were in the hands of a rather notorious collector.” Ricard turned to Anna. “Forgive my candor, Madame Rolfe, but your father’s connection to the paintings will significantly reduce their value on the open market.”

“Not if you conceal my identity from the buyers, Monsieur Ricard.”

The art dealer did not dispute the point. “Where are the paintings now?”

“Not in Switzerland,” replied Anna.

“Does the Swiss government know you have them?”

“It does not.”

“May I ask why not?”

“I didn’t know about the existence of the paintings until several years after my father’s death. As you might imagine, I had no wish to relive the drama of the Rolfe affair.”

“Still, the fact that you have failed to declare the paintings is a complicating factor. You see, Madame Rolfe, if I sell them on your behalf, you will have to explain the windfall profit to the cantonal tax authorities in Zurich, which will alert them to your previous misconduct.” Ricard lowered his voice. “Unless, of course, we were to conceal the sale as well.”

“How?”

“By structuring the transaction in a way that it takes place offshore and anonymously. Here in the Geneva Freeport, such sales are, as the Americans like to say, par for the course.” Ricard smiled at Lovegrove. “But then your art adviser already knows this. Which is why you both are here today.”

Lovegrove interceded on his client’s behalf. “And what if Madame Rolfe were interested in a transaction that didn’t involve an overseas bank account or shell company?”

“What sort of transaction?”

“A trade of her father’s paintings for something a bit more, how shall I say, pristine in provenance.”

“A trade will not solve your client’s tax problems.”

“It will if the new paintings remain here at the Freeport.”

“Also par for the course,” said Ricard. “Many of my clients leave their paintings here for years in order to avoid taxation and duty. And oftentimes when they elect to sell a painting, the shipping process involves nothing more than moving a crate from one storage vault to another. The Freeport contains the greatest art collection in the world, much of which is for sale. I’m sure we can find something of interest to Madame Rolfe.”

“She prefers contemporary works,” said Lovegrove.

“Does she like de Kooning?”

“Madame Rolfe would like to carefully consider her options before making a decision.”

“Of course,” said Ricard. “In the meantime, however, there is the small question of the gallery’s commission.”

“Because Madame Rolfe cannot write you a check to cover the cost of your fee, you will have to structure the deal in such a way that takes your own interests into consideration.”

It was an invitation to weight the transaction in the gallery’s favor. Ricard quite obviously found the suggestion to his liking. “That leaves the six paintings,” he said, glancing down at the photographs. “We need to move them from their current location here to the Freeport. And we have to do it in a way that involves a transaction. After all, the Freeport is not a public storage facility. All of the paintings and other valuables locked away here are technically in transit.”

“It has to be done in a way that protects Madame Rolfe’s identity.”

“Not a problem,” said Ricard with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do it all the time. Galerie Ricard will be the buyer of record. Once the paintings are admitted into the Freeport, I will place them in a vault controlled solely by Madame Rolfe. Her name, however, will appear nowhere in my files, and the Freeport authorities will know nothing of our connection.”

“It all sounds a bit like my father’s bank,” said Anna.

“With one important exception, Madame Rolfe. The Freeport never gives up its secrets.” Ricard’s pen was hovering over his notebook. “You were about to tell me where to send the shippers to collect the six paintings.”

Anna recited the address of her villa on the Costa de Prata.

“How does Tuesday sound?”

It was Ingrid, keeper of the schedule, who answered. She did so while looking down at her phone. “Tuesday would be fine, Monsieur Ricard.”

22

Geneva Freeport

Anna and Ingrid traveled from Zurich to the Costa de Prata to supervise the ritual crating of the six paintings. The works arrived in Geneva the following Thursday and were cleared into the Freeport early Friday morning. “One of the greatest finds in living memory,” declared Edmond Ricard during a midday phone call to Nicholas Lovegrove in London. The Swiss dealer nevertheless wanted his experts to give the canvases a thorough going-over before moving forward. Gabriel spent five anxious days in Venice awaiting their verdict, which was favorable. Ricard set the valuation at an astonishing $325 million, and Lovegrove provided the dealer with a list of stratospherically expensive artists that were of interest to his client. It did not include the name Pablo Picasso.

Another forty-eight hours would go by before Ricard, with apologies for the delay, sent Lovegrove a list of paintings for his client’s consideration. Included were the Pollock and de Kooning that had been on display in Ricard’s gallery, along with works by Gustav Klimt, Mark Rothko, André Derain, Georges Braque, Fernand Léger, Wassily Kandinsky, Andy Warhol, Robert Motherwell, and Cy Twombly. Lovegrove called it a promising start, and three days later he was back in the Geneva Freeport with his client and her assistant in tow. For two hours they roamed the corridors and vaults of the facility, with Gabriel monitoring the proceedings from Venice via Ingrid’s phone. Lovegrove’s client was on her best behavior, but far from dazzled.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” asked Ricard when they were back in his office.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” said Anna.

“The de Kooning would be a fine investment, Madame Rolfe. The Pollock as well. I’m prepared to take your six works in trade for both canvases and call it a day.”

“Put it in writing,” interjected Lovegrove. “In the meantime, we’d like to see what else is on the market.”

The next viewing took place the following week. It included additional canvases by Pollock and Rothko, yet another de Kooning, a Basquiat, a Bacon, and a Jasper Johns—none of which Lovegrove’s client found to her liking. Frustrated, Ricard suggested they have a look at one final painting—an extraordinary opportunity, or so he claimed, that had just come onto the market. It was stored in Building 2, Corridor 4, Vault 39. When Ricard opened the locked metal shipping container, Madame Rolfe drew a sharp intake of breath. A photograph of the painting, snapped by her assistant, appeared instantly on Gabriel’s computer screen in Venice.

They were getting warmer.