Daniel Silva - The Heist

“I might have forged a Cassatt once.”

“For a worthy cause, no doubt.”

They walked on, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

“And what about you, Maurice? Have you ever required the services of a forger?”

“We are getting into sensitive territory,” Durand cautioned.

“We crossed that border a long time ago, you and I.”

They came to the Place du Carrousel, turned to the right, and made for the river.

“Whenever possible,” Durand said, “I prefer to create the illusion that a stolen painting hasn’t actually been stolen.”

“You leave behind a copy.”

“We call them replacement jobs.”

“How many are hanging in museums and homes across Europe?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Go on, Maurice.”

“There’s one man who does all my work for me. He’s fast, reliable, and quite good.”

“Does the man have a name?”

Durand hesitated, then answered. The forger’s name was Yves Morel.

“Where did he train?”

“The École Nationale des Beaux-Arts in Lyon.”

“Very prestigious,” said Gabriel. “Why didn’t he become an artist?”

“He tried. It didn’t work out as planned.”

“So he took his revenge on the art world by becoming a forger?”

“Something like that.”

“How noble.”

“People in glass houses.”

“Is your relationship exclusive?”

“I wish it was, but I can’t give him enough work. On occasion he accepts commissions from other patrons. One of those patrons was a now-deceased fence named Jack Bradshaw.”

Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face Durand. “Which is why you know so much about Bradshaw’s operation,” he said. “You were sharing the services of the same forger.”

“It was all rather Caravaggesque,” replied Durand, nodding.

“Where did Morel do his work for Bradshaw?”

“In a room at the Geneva Freeport. Bradshaw had a rather unique art gallery there. Yves used to call it the gallery of the missing.”

“Where is he now?”

“Here in Paris.”

“Where, Maurice?”

Durand removed his hand from the pocket of his overcoat and indicated that the forger could be found somewhere near Sacré-Cœur. They entered the Métro, the art thief and the intelligence operative, and headed for Montmartre.

YVES MOREL LIVED IN AN apartment building on the rue Ravignon. When Durand pressed the intercom button, there was no answer.

“He’s probably in the Place du Tertre.”

“Doing what?”

“Selling copies of famous Impressionist paintings to the tourists so the French tax authorities think he has a legitimate income.”

They walked to the square, a jumble of outdoor cafés and street artists near the basilica, but Morel wasn’t in his usual spot. Then they went to his favorite bar in the rue Norvins, but there was no sign of him there, either. A call to his mobile phone went unanswered.

“Merde,” said Durand softly, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket.

“What now?”

“I have a key to his apartment.”

“Why?”

“Occasionally, he leaves things in his studio for me to collect.”

“Sounds like a trusting soul.”

“Contrary to popular myth,” said Durand, “there is indeed honor among thieves.”

They walked back to the apartment house and rang the intercom a second time. When there was no response, Durand fished a ring of keys from his pocket and used one to unlock the door. He used the same key to unlock the door of Morel’s apartment. Darkness greeted them. Durand flipped a light switch on the wall, illuminating a large open room that doubled as a studio and living space. Gabriel walked over to an easel, on which was propped an unfinished copy of a landscape by Pierre Bonnard.

“Does he intend to sell this one to the tourists in the Place du Tertre?”

“That one’s for me.”

“What’s it for?”

“Use your imagination.”

Gabriel examined the painting more closely. “If I had to guess,” he said, “you intend to hang it in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nice.”

“You have a good eye.”

Gabriel turned away from the easel and walked over to the large rectangular worktable that stood in the center of the studio. Draped over it was a paint-spotted tarpaulin. Beneath it was an object approximately six feet in length and two feet across.

“Is Morel a sculptor?”

“No.”

“So what’s underneath the tarp?”

“I don’t know, but you’d better have a look.”

Gabriel lifted the edge of the tarpaulin and peered beneath it.

“Well?” asked Durand.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else to finish the Bonnard, Maurice.”

“Let me see him.”

Gabriel drew back the top of the tarpaulin.

“Merde,” said Durand softly.

GENERAL FERRARI WAITED NEAR THE walls of the old fortress in San Remo at half past two the following afternoon. He wore a business suit, a woolen overcoat, and dark glasses that shielded his all-seeing prosthetic eye from view. Gabriel, dressed in denim and leather, looked like the troubled younger sibling, the one who had made all the wrong choices in life and was once again in need of money. As they walked along the grimy waterfront, he briefed the general on his findings, though he was careful not to divulge his sources. The general didn’t seem surprised by anything he was hearing.

“You left out one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Jack Bradshaw wasn’t a diplomat. He was a spy.”

“How did you know?”

“Everyone in the trade knew about Bradshaw’s past. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. But don’t worry,” the general added. “I’m not going to make things difficult for you with your friends in London. All I want is my Caravaggio.”

They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.

“You misled me,” he said.

“Not at all,” replied the general.

“How would you describe it?”

“I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”

“Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”

“I’d heard rumors to that effect.”

“Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”

The general nodded.

“Who is it?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Are you telling me the truth this time?”

The general placed his good hand over his heart. “I do not know the identity of the person who’s been buying every piece of stolen art he can lay his hands on. Nor do I know who’s behind the murder of Jack Bradshaw.” He paused, then added, “Though I suspect they’re one and the same.”

“Why was Bradshaw killed?”

“I suppose he’d outlived his usefulness.”

“Because he’d delivered the Caravaggio?”

The general gave a noncommittal nod.

“So why was he tortured first?”

“Perhaps his killers wanted a name.”

“Yves Morel?”

“Bradshaw must have used Morel to knock the painting into shape so it could be sold.” He looked at Gabriel gravely and asked, “How did they kill him?”

“They broke his neck. It looked like a complete transection of the spinal cord.”

The general grimaced. “Silent and bloodless.”

“And very professional.”

“What did you do with the poor devil?”