*  *  *

The work in question, a streetscape of Barcelona, was painted by Pablo Picasso during the three-year phase of his career that would come to be known as the Blue Period. Ricard expressed surprise at Madame Rolfe’s reaction to the painting. He was under the impression, he said, that she had no interest in the Spaniard’s work.

“Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

“Your art adviser.”

Anna gave Lovegrove a withering look. “An oversight on his part, I assure you.”

“There are more than a thousand Picassos stored here at the Freeport,” explained Ricard. “I know of at least a hundred that are currently on the market.”

“I’d like to see every one of them.”

Ricard showed them three more Picassos after lunch and four others the following Tuesday. Two of the canvases were from the Rose Period, two were Cubist works painted during the First World War, and two were later works executed by Picasso shortly before his death. The last canvas they viewed was a surrealist work—a woman seated before a window—painted by Picasso in 1936 while he was living on the rue la Boétie in Paris. Anna told the Swiss art dealer that it was her favorite of the lot.

“The Cubist pieces are quite fine as well,” the dealer pointed out.

“But this one is special.”

“They are not easy to come by, Madame Rolfe. I know of one other similar work here in the Freeport, but it’s unlikely the owner will agree to part with it.”

“Is there any way he might allow us to at least see it?”

“The Freeport is not an art gallery. Collectors keep their paintings here for a reason.”

They were back again three days later, but the canvases Ricard showed them were all from the postwar period. They broke for the weekend—Anna and Ingrid spent it in Zermatt, Lovegrove at his weekend home in Tunbridge Wells—and the following Wednesday they viewed fourteen stunning Picassos. None were surrealist works from the thirties, leaving Anna predictably underwhelmed.

“What about the other surrealist canvas you mentioned?” she asked.

“I spoke with the owner’s representative last evening.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure I can convince him to sell it. But if I can, he will drive an extremely hard bargain.”

“I have a gift card worth three hundred and twenty-five million dollars that was left to me by my father. Needless to say, money is no object.”

They were the four most dangerous words to utter in front of an art dealer, especially a dealer who plied his trade inside the Geneva Freeport. “If you have a few minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch, “we can have a look at it now.”

“I’d love nothing more,” replied Anna.

The painting was stored in a crowded vault in Building 3, Corridor 6. The markings on the metal shipping crate contained no clue as to the contents—a portrait of a woman, oil on canvas, painted by Picasso in his studio on the rue la Boétie in 1937. They all four gazed at the painting for a long moment in silence.

“Dimensions?” asked Lovegrove at last, as though it were the least of his concerns.

“Ninety-four by sixty-six centimeters,” replied Ricard.

Lovegrove looked at Anna. “What do you think?”

“Give him whatever he wants,” she said, and walked out.

*  *  *

The negotiations commenced late the following morning after Lovegrove had settled into his office in Cork Street. As promised, the owner of the Picasso—Ricard claimed not to know his identity, or even whether the owner was an individual or a consortium of investors—played hard to get.

“He wants the Modigliani, the Van Gogh, the Cézanne, and the Monet.”

“For a single Picasso? I’m sure he does,” replied Lovegrove. “But he’s not going to get them.”

“Perhaps you should put the offer to your client before you say no.”

“I won’t allow her to make a foolish deal, no matter how badly she wants that painting.”

Forty-eight hours passed before Lovegrove heard from Ricard again. It seemed the owner of the painting had refused to move off his opening position. The ball, said Ricard, was on Lovegrove’s side of the net.

“The Modigliani and the Van Gogh,” he said.

“There’s no way he’ll go for it.”

“Who won’t go for it, Monsieur Ricard?”

“The man at the other end of the line. Never mind who he is.”

“Put the offer to him. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

The Swiss dealer waited until five thirty the following afternoon to ring Lovegrove with the response. “The owner still wants all four paintings, but I think he might do it for the Modigliani, the Van Gogh, and the Cézanne.”

“Why wouldn’t he? It’s the deal of a lifetime.”

“Is that a yes, Monsieur Lovegrove?”

He indicated, grudgingly, that it was. By ten o’clock the next morning they had an agreement in principle.

“That leaves the Monet, the Renoir, and the Toulouse-Lautrec,” said Ricard. “How does Madame Rolfe wish to spend the balance of her so-called gift card?”

“The Pollock.”

“Done.”

Lovegrove immediately rang Gabriel with the news. “We have a deal, Allon.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How?”

Gabriel rang off without answering. Lovegrove, after having a celebratory martini with Sarah Bancroft at Wiltons, walked over to Regent Street and bought himself a new phone.

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