Gabriel nodded. “A well-known collector with a taste for looted art.”
Lovegrove turned his attention to the six provenances. “They’re full of holes. No reputable dealer would ever touch them.”
“But you’re not offering them to a reputable dealer. You’re offering them to Edmond Ricard.”
Lovegrove reached for his phone and dialed. “Bonjour, Monsieur Ricard. Listen, I have a very special client with six incredible paintings to sell, and yours is the first name that popped into my mind. Is there any chance we can stop by the gallery Thursday afternoon? . . . Two o’clock? See you then.”
Lovegrove rang off and looked at Gabriel. “When do I get to meet this very special client of mine?”
“You’re having dinner with her Wednesday evening at her home in Zurich. But don’t worry, I’ll be joining you.”
“Is she as difficult as they say?”
“Anna?” Gabriel frowned. “Evidently not.”
* * *
Next morning Nicholas Lovegrove received an email from Anna Rolfe’s personal assistant, a certain Ingrid Johansen, with an itinerary for his trip to Switzerland. She had taken the liberty, she explained, of booking his air travel—first class, of course—and hotel accommodations at Zurich’s exclusive Dolder Grand. Ground transportation would be handled by Anna’s longtime personal chauffeur. “If there’s anything else you require,” she wrote in conclusion, “please feel free to contact me.”
The chauffeur, as promised, was waiting in the arrivals hall of Zurich’s Kloten Airport when Lovegrove’s flight arrived late Wednesday afternoon. It was a drive of twenty minutes to the Rolfe family’s imposing granite-colored villa, which stood atop the wooded hill known as the Zürichberg. Lovegrove climbed the steep front steps to the portico, where a startlingly pretty woman in her mid-thirties waited to receive him.
“You must be Ms. Johansen.”
“I must be,” she said with an enchanting smile.
Lovegrove stepped into the soaring entrance hall. From somewhere deep within the grand house came the liquid sound of a violin. “Is that really her?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, of course.” The woman relieved Lovegrove of his overcoat. “Mr. Allon arrived a few moments ago. He’s anxious to see you.”
Lovegrove followed the woman into a formally furnished drawing room. The paintings adorning the walls included an arresting portrait of a handsome young Florentine nobleman. Gabriel was standing before the canvas, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.
“Manner of Raphael?” asked Lovegrove.
“No,” replied Gabriel. “Raphael Raphael.”
Lovegrove indicated the painting hanging next to it. “Rembrandt?”
Gabriel nodded. “Her Frans Hals is in the next room, along with a Rubens and a couple of pictures by Lucas Cranach the Elder.”
Lovegrove lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. “I can’t believe that’s actually her,” he said, sotto voce.
“You don’t have to whisper, Nicky. She can’t hear a thing when she’s practicing.”
“So I’ve read. But is it really true that her mother—”
“Yes,” interjected Gabriel.
“In this very house?”
Gabriel nodded toward a row of French doors. “Outside in the garden. Anna was the one who found her.”
“And her father?” asked Lovegrove.
“You’re standing on the spot where it happened.”
Lovegrove took two steps to the left and listened to the silken sound of Anna’s violin. “You never told me how you know her.”
“Julian arranged for me to clean a painting for her father.”
“Which one?”
Gabriel pointed toward the Raphael. “That one.”
* * *
Anna insisted on preparing dinner, so they gathered around her in the kitchen and held their collective breath while she attacked a large yellow onion with a razor-sharp knife.
“What are we having?” asked Gabriel warily.
“Boeuf bourguignon. It’s a French country stew beloved by peasants like you.”
“Perhaps I should handle the parts involving Swiss-made weaponry.”
“Absolutely not!” She looked him straight in the eye as the knife reduced a carrot to perfect orange disks. “A man of your talent should never handle sharp objects.”
“Anna, please.”
“Shit!” she whispered and thrust her left forefinger into her mouth. “Look what you’ve done.”
