“The dirty law firm.”

“What about the pretty blond woman?”

“She used to be a professional thief.”

“And now?”

“Hard to say, really. She’s still a work in progress.”

The don held up the passport between two thick fingers. “Are you keeping this for any reason?”

“Sentimental value, mainly.”

“In that case, perhaps we should get rid of it.” Don Orsati carried the passport over to the large stone fireplace and dropped it on the stack of macchia wood burning on the grate. “And how can we at the Orsati Olive Oil Company be of service to you?”

“I require protection for the computer hacker.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough for me to pull a heist at the dirty law firm.”

“And if the heist goes sideways?”

“I’m confident it won’t.”

“Why?”

“The pretty blond woman.”

*  *  *

Gabriel told Anton Orsati the rest of the story outside on the terrace, over a bottle of pale Corsican rosé. He omitted none of the salient details, including the fact that he was working in collusion with two European police forces and the security and intelligence service of Switzerland. The don, who made his living in part by avoiding entanglements with law enforcement, was predictably appalled.

“And when the police ask their star witness, this Philippe Lambert fellow, where he went into hiding after the attempt on his life? What happens then?”

“It is my hope, Don Orsati, that it doesn’t come to that.”

“We have a proverb here on Corsica about hope.”

“And for nearly every other occasion as well,” added Gabriel.

“He who lives on hope,” said Don Orsati, undeterred, “dies on shit. And he who answers the door to the police lives to regret it. Especially if that person is in my line of work.”

“I’m quite certain that’s not an actual Corsican proverb.”

“Its sentiments are sacred and correct, all the same.”

“But he who sleeps,” said Gabriel, quoting a proverb of his own, “cannot catch fish. And he who seeks, finds.”

“And what exactly are you hoping to find at the law firm of Harris Weber & Company in Monaco?”

“Several million pages of incriminating documents.”

“Which will lead to the recovery of the missing Picasso?”

Gabriel nodded. “It will also lead to the prosecution of the firm’s founding partners, not to mention a great number of extremely wealthy people who have used unethical or in some cases illegal methods to conceal hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of their wealth in offshore tax havens.”

“This might come as a shock to you, Gabriel, but I believe that what a man does with his money is his business, not his government’s. That said, I will agree to look after Lambert until the threats to his life have been eliminated. I will, however, expect to be reimbursed for his room and board, not to mention the extra manpower costs for his security.”

“He has several million dollars at a bank in the British Virgin Islands.”

“A good start.” Orsati smiled. “The question is, where shall we put him?”

“For the time being, he can stay with me at Christopher’s place.”

“While you plan this heist of yours?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Does Christopher know what you’re up to?”

“He doesn’t have a clue.”

“It might be wise to include him.”

“Christopher is no longer an employee of the Orsati Olive Oil Company. He is an officer of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.”

“And?”

“One of the founding partners of Harris Weber is British, and the firm is incorporated in the British Virgin Islands, which is a British overseas territory.”

“Is that a problem?”

“As a general rule, Western intelligence services are forbidden to spy on their own people.”

“But you’re not spying on the firm. You’re simply going to steal its files.”

“It’s rather the same thing.”

“I don’t care how good your pretty friend is,” said Orsati. “You can’t send her into that office alone. You need at least one more person, preferably a professional.”

“Anyone come to mind?”

“What about the man who gave you a ride to Corsica?”

“Can you arrange it?”

“Consider it done.” Orsati lifted his gaze toward the darkening sky. “When storms roll in, dogs make beds.”