“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—”
“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.”
