Upstairs, they knocked on the glass door of Galerie Ricard and were admitted by a man of medium height and build dressed mostly in black. He was accompanied by two women, one the detectives recognized instantly and one they did not. The victim was in his office along with an empty frame. In one of the gallery’s two exhibition rooms were six paintings by six of the most famous artists who had ever lived, or so it appeared to the detectives. Curiously, all six of the works had been cut to ribbons.
In short order they established that the gentleman clad largely in black was in fact the legendary former intelligence operative Gabriel Allon, that the older of the two women was indeed the renowned violinist Anna Rolfe, and that the second woman, a Danish citizen named Ingrid Johansen, was Madame Rolfe’s assistant. Subsequent questioning revealed that they had arrived at the gallery at 4:00 p.m. to conclude a transaction involving several valuable works of art, including a 1937 surrealist painting by Pablo Picasso. The former intelligence operative had gained entry to the gallery by picking the lock, whereupon he discovered that Monsieur Ricard had been slain and the Picasso stolen.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“I’m betting it was the person who arrived at the gallery a couple of hours before we did. The security guard downstairs undoubtedly got a good look at him. In fact, if I had to guess, he might even have some video.”
One of the detectives headed down to the lobby to have a word with the guard. Yes, Galerie Ricard had had a visitor earlier that afternoon, a sturdy German in his late thirties. He had arrived at 2:17 p.m. and was carrying an art transport case. He was carrying the same case when he left the building approximately ten minutes later.
“Name?”
“Andreas Hoffmann.”
“Did you have a look at his ID?”
The guard shook his head.
“Where do I get the video?”
“The central security office.”
It was located in the Freeport’s main administration building. But as it turned out there were no images of a sturdy German to be found there. Someone, it seemed, had hacked into the Freeport’s computer network and erased six months’ worth of saved video. At which point the murder of Edmond Ricard, gallerist at the Geneva Freeport, became a matter for Christoph Bittel and the NDB.
* * *
It was approaching 8:00 p.m. when the Swiss intelligence chief finally arrived in Geneva. He headed not for the Freeport but the headquarters of the Police Cantonale in the Place de Cornavin. The world-renowned violinist and her assistant were in the staff canteen, surrounded by several admiring officers. The former intelligence operative was in an interview room, where he had been questioned at length by the head of the sûreté. Because the session was recorded, the subject had been less than truthful. But the version of the story he gave Christoph Bittel, a trusted friend and partner from his previous life, was for the most part accurate.
“Do you know how many crimes you committed?”
“None, actually.”
“The shipment of those six paintings from Portugal to the Freeport was a violation of Swiss law.”
“The paintings weren’t genuine, though.”
“Yet another crime on your part,” said Bittel. He was tall and bald and bespectacled, with the cold demeanor of a Zurich private banker. “Needless to say, it is illegal to traffic in forged paintings here in Switzerland.”
“But I made no effort to profit from my work. Therefore, I engaged in no unlawful activity.”
“What about the sales agreement on Monsieur Ricard’s desk?”
“I was never going to allow Anna to sign it. The transaction was a ruse on my part to find the Picasso.”
“Which is now missing again.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“You should have come to me in the beginning,” said Bittel.
“And what would you have done?”
“I would have referred the matter to an investigating magistrate here in Geneva, and the magistrate would have conducted a thorough probe.”
“Which would have taken years, allowing the owner of the Picasso plenty of time to move it elsewhere.”
“We have laws, Allon.”
“And those laws make it next to impossible for the rightful owners of looted Holocaust art to reclaim their property.”
Bittel did not offer a retort, for there was none. He did, however, suggest that this case might have been different.
“Why?” asked Gabriel.
“Our tax and customs authorities have been concerned about the scale and legitimacy of Monsieur Ricard’s activities for some time now. Regrettably, there was little appetite to do anything about it.”
“I’m shocked to hear that.”
Bittel shrugged his shoulders to indicate dismay or resignation or something in between. “This is the business of Switzerland, Allon. We cater to the needs of the global superrich. The Geneva Freeport alone brings billions of dollars of wealth to our little landlocked country each year.”
“Which is why you and your friends from the Police Cantonale are desperately trying to find a way to cover up the fact that someone hacked into the Freeport’s computer network and stole a painting worth more than a hundred million dollars. Otherwise, the global superrich might decide to store their paintings and gold bars in Singapore or Delaware instead of Switzerland.”
“An all too real possibility.”
“How are you going to handle it?”
“The same way I’ve dealt with every other mess you’ve made in Switzerland.”
“I wasn’t there?”
