“Personal assistants to world-famous musicians don’t carry bump keys, Mr. Allon.”
Gabriel drew a pair of lockpick tools from the breast pocket of his coat. “I suppose these will have to do.”
Ingrid shielded the view from the security camera while Gabriel inserted the tools into the barrel of the lock. Anna was beside herself. “What happens if the alarm goes off?” she whispered.
“A global icon will be arrested for breaking into an art gallery in the Geneva Freeport.”
“Along with her assistant,” murmured Ingrid.
Gabriel moved the lockpick in and out of the barrel, expertly manipulating the pins.
“How much longer is it going to take you?” asked Anna.
“That depends on how many more times you interrupt me.”
He turned the lock to the right and the latch gave way.
“Not bad,” said Ingrid.
“You should see him with a gun,” replied Anna.
“I have, actually.”
Gabriel opened the door. There was no audible alarm.
“Perhaps there’s hope for us yet,” said Anna.
“Unless the alarm is silent,” Ingrid pointed out. “Then we’re totally busted.”
Gabriel followed the two women into the gallery’s vestibule and allowed the door to close behind them. Anna cheerfully called out Ricard’s name and received only silence in reply.
“Perhaps you should play him a partita instead,” remarked Gabriel, and entered the first exhibition room. The same four paintings were on display, including the Pollock, which in Gabriel’s hurried opinion was authentic. Two of his six forgeries, the Van Gogh and the Modigliani, were propped on the baize-covered easels in the second room. The other four works—the Renoir, the Cézanne, the Monet, and the Toulouse-Lautrec—were leaning against the walls. There was no sign of an untitled portrait of a woman in the surrealist style, oil on canvas, 94 by 66 centimeters, by Pablo Picasso.
Ingrid tried the latch on the door to Ricard’s office.
“Don’t tell me it’s locked,” said Gabriel.
“It appears so,” she replied, and moved aside.
Gabriel went to work, and the lock surrendered in less than thirty seconds. His hand hovered motionless over the latch.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Anna.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
Gabriel turned the latch and slowly opened the door. The familiar odor hit him at once, metallic and rusty, the smell of blood. It had spilled from the bullet holes in the man slumped behind the sleek black desk. Lying before him was a blood-soaked sales agreement bearing the name of the world’s most famous violinist, and on the carpeted floor was an empty frame. Gabriel didn’t bother taking the measurements. Any fool could see that the dimensions of the missing painting were 94 by 66 centimeters.
“Your Picasso?” asked Anna.
“No,” answered Gabriel. “It was my Picasso.”
“I suppose this means we’re busted.”
“Totally.”
Part Two
The Heist
24
Place de Cornavin
The headquarters of the NDB, Switzerland’s small but capable internal security and foreign intelligence service, were located at Papiermühlestrasse 20 in the tranquil Swiss capital city of Bern. Christoph Bittel, the NDB’s newly appointed director-general, was presiding over a meeting of his division chiefs when, at 4:12 p.m., he received a call on his personal mobile phone. After seeing the name displayed on the screen, he excused himself to conduct the conversation in the privacy of his office. Later he was glad he had.
“This might come as a surprise,” he said, “but I’m inclined to hang up and return to my meeting.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Bittel.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The explanation was less than thirty seconds in length and involved a missing painting, a dead art dealer, and perhaps the most famous woman in Switzerland. Bittel was nevertheless certain he was getting only a small part of the story.
“Don’t even think about leaving that gallery. I’ll get over to Geneva as quickly as I can.”
Criminal matters were not the province of the NDB—not unless they involved espionage or a threat to the Confederation’s security, which this incident, at least for the moment, did not. It did, however, represent a potential threat to Swiss business interests, if for no other reason than the crime had occurred inside the Geneva Freeport. The facility had already been the source of several embarrassing scandals, including one involving a notorious Italian dealer of looted antiquities. If the truth be told, Bittel was not fond of the Freeport or the global superrich who hid their treasures there. Still, it was in his interests, and Switzerland’s, to contain any damage.
And so Christoph Bittel rang the chief of the Police Cantonale de Genève and to the best of his ability explained the situation. And the chief, who was justifiably dubious as to the accuracy of what she was being told, agreed that discretion was called for. She immediately rang the head of the sûreté, the criminal division of the force, and at 4:27 p.m. the first detectives entered the stubby office block at the southern end of the Freeport. On their way to the lift, they instructed the security guard on duty in the lobby to lock all of the building’s doors and remain at his post until further notice. They did not bother to tell him where they were going or why they were there.
