The Heist

  “Call me old-fashioned,” said Gabriel, “but I really don’t like it when people stand me up.”

  “I never promised you anything.”

  “I could have stayed in Paris.”

  “That would have been a shame. Geneva is lovely this time of year. And you would have missed your chance to have a look inside the Freeport.”

  “How much longer do you intend to keep me waiting?”

  “We can do it now, if you like.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Turn around.”

  Gabriel did as he was told. “Bastard.”

  His name was Christoph Bittel—at least, that was the name he had used on the occasion of their one and only previous meeting. He worked, or so he had said at the time, for the counterterrorism division of the NDB, Switzerland’s dependable intelligence and internal security service. He was thin and pale, with a large forehead that gave him the appearance, not unwarranted, of high intelligence. His bloodless hand, when offered over the stick shift of a sporty German sedan, felt as though it had been recently purged of bacteria.

  “Welcome back to Geneva,” Bittel said as he eased the car into the traffic. “It was good of you to make a reservation for a change.”

  “The days of my unauthorized operations in Switzerland are over. We’re partners now, remember, Bittel?”

  “Let’s not get carried away, Allon. We wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.”

  Bittel slipped on a pair of wraparound dark glasses, which lent a mantis-like quality to his features. He drove well but cautiously, as though he had contraband in the trunk and was trying to avoid contact with the authorities.

  “As you might expect,” he said after a moment, “your confession has provided hours of interesting listening for our officers and senior ministers.”

  “It wasn’t a confession.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “I gave you a thorough debriefing about my activities on Swiss soil,” said Gabriel. “In exchange, you agreed not to throw me in prison for the rest of my life.”

  “Which you deserved.” Bittel shook his head slowly as he drove. “Assassinations, robberies, kidnappings, a counterterrorism operation in Canton Uri that left several members of al-Qaeda dead. Have I left anything out?”

  “I once blackmailed one of your most prominent businessmen in order to gain access to Iran’s nuclear supply chain.”

  “Ah, yes. How could I forget Martin Landesmann?”

  “That was one of my better ones.”

  “And now you want to gain access to a storage facility in the Geneva Freeport without a court order?”

  “Surely you have a friend in the Freeport who’s willing to let you have an extrajudicial peek at the merchandise every now and again.”

  “Surely,” agreed Bittel. “But I generally like to know what I’m going to find before I break open the lock.”

  “Paintings, Bittel. We’re going to find paintings.”

  “Stolen paintings?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “And what happens if the owner discovers we’ve been inside?”

  “The owner is dead. He won’t complain.”

  “The storage rooms in the Freeport are registered under the name of Bradshaw’s company. And the company lives on.”

  “The company is a sham.”

  “This is Switzerland, Allon. Sham companies are what keep us in business.”

  Ahead a traffic signal changed from green to amber. Bittel had more than enough time to slip through the intersection. Instead, he eased off the throttle and brought the car gently to a stop.

  “You still haven’t told me what this is all about,” he said, picking at the grip of his stick shift.

  “With good reason.”

  “And if I’m able to get you inside? What do I get in return?”

  “If I’m right,” replied Gabriel, “you and your friends at the NDB will one day be able to announce the recovery of several long-missing works of art.”

  “Stolen art in the Geneva Freeport. Not exactly a public relations coup for the Confederation.”

  “You can’t have everything, Bittel.”

  The light changed. Bittel lifted his foot off the brake and accelerated slowly, as though he were trying to conserve fuel.

  “We go in, we look around, and then we leave. And everything in the vault stays in the vault. Are we clear?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Bittel drove silently, smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Gabriel.

  “I think I like the new Allon.”

  “I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Bittel. But can you drive a little faster? I’d like to reach the Freeport before morning.”

  They glimpsed it a few minutes later, a row of featureless white buildings topped by a red sign that read PORTS FRANCS. In the nineteenth century it had been little more than a granary where agricultural goods were stored on their way to market. Now it was a secure tax-free repository where the global superrich stashed away treasures of every kind: gold bars, jewelry, vintage wine, automobiles, and, of course, art. No one knew exactly how much of the world’s great art resided within the vaults of the Geneva Freeport, but it was thought to be enough to create several great museums. Much of it would never again see the light of day; and if it ever changed hands, it would do so in private. It was not art to be viewed and cherished. It was art as a commodity, art as a hedge against uncertain times.

  Despite the vast wealth contained within the Freeport, security was conducted with Swiss discretion. The fence surrounding the port was more a discouragement than a barrier, and the gate through which Bittel drove his car was slow in closing. Video cameras sprouted from every building, though, and within seconds of their arrival a customs official emerged from a doorway holding a clipboard in one hand and a radio in the other. Bittel climbed out of the car and spoke a few words to the officer in fluent French. The customs man returned to his office, and a moment later there appeared a shapely brunette in a snug skirt and blouse. She handed Bittel a key and pointed toward the far end of the complex.

  “I take it that’s your friend,” Gabriel said when Bittel returned to the car.

  “Our relationship is strictly professional.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Addresses in the Freeport were a combination of the building, the corridor, and the door of the vault. Bittel parked outside Building 4 and led Gabriel inside. From the entrance foyer stretched a seemingly endless corridor of doors. One was open. Glancing inside, Gabriel saw a small bespectacled man seated behind a lacquered Chinese table, a telephone to his ear. The vault had been turned into an art gallery.

  “Several Geneva businesses have moved into the Freeport in recent years,” Bittel explained. “The rent is cheaper than the rue du Rhône, and the clients seem to like the Freeport’s reputation for intrigue.”

  “It’s well deserved.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  They entered a stairwell and climbed to the third floor. Bradshaw’s vault was located on Corridor 12, behind a gray metal door that bore the number 24. Bittel hesitated before inserting the key.

  “It’s not going to explode, is it?”

  “Good question.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Bittel opened the door, threw the light switch, and swore softly. There were paintings everywhere—paintings in frames, paintings on stretchers, paintings rolled like carpets in a Persian bazaar. Gabriel unfurled one onto the floor for Bittel to see. It showed a cottage standing atop a sea cliff ablaze with wildflowers.

  “Monet?” asked Bittel.

  Gabriel nodded. “It was stolen from a museum in Poland about twenty years ago.”

  He unrolled another canvas: a woman holding a fan.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” said Bittel, “that’s a Modigliani.”

  “You’re not. It was one of the paintings taken from the
Museum of Modern Art in Paris in 2010.”

  “The heist of the century. I remember it.”

  Bittel followed Gabriel through a doorway into the inner room of the vault. It contained two large easels, a halogen lamp, flasks of solvent and medium, containers of pigment, brushes, a well-used palette, and a Christie’s catalogue from the 2004 London Old Master auction. It was open to a crucifixion attributed to a follower of Guido Reni, competently executed but uninspired, not quite worth the seller’s premium.

  Gabriel closed the catalogue and looked around the vault. It was the secret workshop of a master forger, he thought, in the art gallery of the missing. But it was obvious that Yves Morel had done more in this room than forge paintings; he had also done a bit of restoration work. Gabriel picked up the palette and ran his fingertip over the swatches of paint that remained on the surface. Ocher, gold, and crimson: the colors of the Nativity.

  “What is it?” asked Bittel.

  “Proof of life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was here,” said Gabriel. “It exists.”

  There were one hundred and forty-seven paintings in the two rooms of the vault—Impressionist, Modern, Old Master—but not one of them was a Caravaggio. Gabriel photographed each canvas using the camera on his mobile phone. The only other items in the vault were a desk and a small floor safe—too small, thought Gabriel, to contain an Italian altarpiece measuring seven by eight feet. He searched the desk drawers but found they were empty. Then he crouched before the safe and twirled the tumbler between his thumb and forefinger. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Bittel.

  “I’m wondering how long it would take you to get a locksmith in here.”

  Bittel smiled sadly. “Maybe next time.”

  Yes, thought Gabriel. Next time.

  They headed back to the train station through what passed for Geneva’s evening rush. Crossing the Pont du Mont-Blanc, Bittel pressed Gabriel for a fuller account of the case. And when his questions failed to elicit a response, he insisted on advance notification should Gabriel’s itinerary include another visit to Switzerland. Gabriel readily agreed, though both men realized it was a promise in name only.

  “At some point,” said Bittel, “we’re going to have to clean out that vault and return those paintings to their rightful owners.”

  “At some point,” Gabriel agreed.

  “When?”

  “It’s not in my power to tell you that.”

  “I say you have a month. After that, I’ll have to refer the matter to the Federal Police.”

  “If you do that,” said Gabriel, “it will blow up in the press, and Switzerland will get yet another black eye.”

  “We’re used to it.”

  “So are we.”

  They arrived at the station in time for Gabriel to make the four thirty train back to Paris. It was dark when he arrived; he climbed into a waiting taxi and gave the driver an address a short distance from the safe flat. But as the car pulled into the street, Gabriel felt his mobile phone vibrate. He answered the call, listened in silence for a moment, and then severed the connection.

  “Change in plan,” he said to the driver.

  “Where to?”

  “The rue de Miromesnil.”

  “As you wish.”

  Gabriel slipped the phone into his pocket and smiled. They were in play, he thought. They were definitely in play.

  21

  RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

  AT FIRST, MAURICE DURAND TRIED to claim executive privilege regarding the identity of the caller. Under pressure, though, he admitted it was Jonas Fischer, a wealthy industrialist and well-known collector from Munich who regularly utilized Monsieur Durand’s unique services. Herr Fischer made it clear from the outset he was not interested in the van Gogh himself, that he was interceding on behalf of an acquaintance and fellow collector who, for obvious reasons, he could not name. It seemed the second collector had already dispatched a representative to Paris, based on certain rumors swirling around the art world. Herr Fischer was wondering whether Durand could point the representative in the right direction.

  “And what did you tell him?” asked Gabriel.

  “I told him I didn’t know the whereabouts of the van Gogh but that I would make a few phone calls.”

  “And if you’re able to be of service?”

  “I’m supposed to call the representative directly.”

  “I don’t suppose he has a name.”

  “Only a phone number,” replied Durand.

  “How professional.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  They were in the small office in the back of Durand’s shop. Gabriel was leaning in the doorway; Durand was seated at his Dickensian little desk. On the blotter before him was a brass microscope, late nineteenth century, by Vérick of Paris.

  “Is he the one we’re looking for?” asked Gabriel.

  “A man like Herr Fischer wouldn’t be involved with anyone other than a serious collector. He also intimated that his friend had made a number of important acquisitions of late.”

  “Was one of those acquisitions a Caravaggio?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “It’s probably better you didn’t.”

  “Probably,” agreed Durand.

  A silence fell between them.

  “Well?” asked the Frenchman.

  “Tell him to be standing in the forecourt of Saint-Germain-des-Prés at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, near the red door. Tell him to bring his phone, but no gun. Whatever you do, don’t engage him. Just tell him what to do, then hang up.”

  Durand lifted the receiver of his phone and dialed.

  They left the shop five minutes later, the art thief and the once and future operative of the Israeli secret intelligence service, and parted with scarcely a word or glance. The art thief headed to the brasserie across the street; the operative, to the Israeli embassy at 3 rue Rabelais. He entered the building through the back door, made his way down to the secure communications room, and rang the chief of Housekeeping, the division of the Office that managed safe properties. He said he needed something close to Paris but isolated, preferably to the north. It needn’t be anything grand, he added. He wasn’t planning on doing any entertaining.

  “Sorry,” said the chief of Housekeeping. “I can allow you to stay in an existing property, but I can’t acquire a new one without the approval of the top floor.”

  “Perhaps you weren’t listening when I said my name.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Uzi?”

  “Nothing, of course.”

  “How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  By nine the following morning, Housekeeping had closed the deal on a quaint holiday farmhouse in the Picardy region of France, just outside the village of Andeville. A towering hedgerow shielded the entrance from view, and from the edge of its pretty rear garden spread a patchwork quilt of flat farmland. Gabriel and Chiara arrived at noon and concealed the two van Goghs in the wine cellar. Then Gabriel immediately drove back to Paris. He left his car in a parking lot near the Odéon Métro station and walked along the boulevard to the Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés. In one corner of the busy square was a café called Le Bonaparte. Seated at a table facing the street was Christopher Keller. Gabriel greeted him in French and sat next to him. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was 1:55. He ordered a coffee and stared at the red door of the church.

  It wasn’t difficult to spot him; on that perfect spring afternoon, with the sun blazing in a cloudless sky and a soft wind chasing around the crowded streets, he was the only one who came to the church alone. He was average in height, about five ten, and sleek in build. His movements were fluid and assured—like those of a football player, thought Gabriel, or an elite soldier. He wore a lightweight tan sport coat, a white shirt, and gray gabardine trousers. A straw boater shaded his face; dark sunglasses concealed his eyes
. He walked over to the red door and pretended to consult a tourist guidebook. Two young girls, one in shorts, the other in a strapless sundress, were seated on the steps, their bare legs stretched before them. Clearly, there was something about the man that made them uncomfortable. They stayed another moment, then rose and headed across the square.

  “What do you think?” asked Keller.

  “I think that’s our boy.”

  The waiter delivered Gabriel’s coffee. He added sugar and stirred it thoughtfully while watching the man standing next to the red door of the church.

  “Aren’t you going to call him?”

  “It’s not two o’clock yet, Christopher.”

  “Close enough.”

  “It’s better not to appear too eager. Remember, we already have a buyer on the hook. Our friend over there raised his paddle very late in the bidding.”

  Gabriel remained at the table until the clock in the bell tower of the church read two minutes past the hour. Then he rose and walked into the interior of the café. It was deserted except for the staff. He moved close to the window, drew his phone from his coat pocket, and dialed. A few seconds later, the man standing in front of the church answered.

  “Bonjour.”

  “You don’t have to speak French just because we’re in Paris.”

  “I prefer French, if you don’t mind.”

  He might have preferred French, thought Gabriel, but it wasn’t his native language. He was no longer pretending to look at his guidebook. He was surveying the square, searching for a man with a mobile phone to his ear.

  “Did you come alone?” asked Gabriel.

  “Since you’re watching me right now, you know the answer is yes.”

  “I see a man standing where he’s supposed to be, but I don’t know whether he came alone.”

  “He did.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How should I refer to you?”

  “You can call me Sam.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yes, Sam.”