The Heist (17 page)

“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.”

“Are you carrying a gun, Sam?”

“No.”

“Take off your blazer.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if there’s anything underneath it that’s not supposed to be there.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Do you want to see the painting or not?”

The man placed the guidebook and phone on the steps, removed his blazer, and draped it over his arm. Then he picked up the phone again and said, “Satisfied?”

“Turn around and face the church.”

The man rotated about forty-five degrees.

“More.”

Another forty-five.

“Very good.”

The man returned to his original orientation and asked, “What now?”

“You take a walk.”

“I don’t feel like walking.”

“Don’t worry, Sam. It won’t be a long walk.”

“Where do you want me to go?”

“Down the boulevard toward the Latin Quarter. Do you know the way to the Latin Quarter, Sam?”

“Of course.”

“You’re familiar with Paris?”

“Very.”

“Don’t look over your shoulder or make any stops. And don’t use your phone, either. You might miss my next call.”

Gabriel severed the connection and rejoined Keller.

“Well?” asked the Englishman.

“I think we just found Samir. And I think he’s a professional.”

“Are we in play?”

“We’ll know in a minute.”

On the other side of the square, Sam was pulling on his sport coat. He slipped the mobile phone into his breast pocket, dropped the guidebook into a rubbish bin, and then made his way to the boulevard Saint-Germain. A right turn would take him in the direction of Les Invalides; a left, to the Latin Quarter. He hesitated for a moment and then turned to the left. Gabriel counted slowly to twenty before rising to his feet and following after him.

If nothing else, he was capable of following instructions. He walked a straight line down the boulevard, past the shops and crowded cafés, never once pausing or glancing over his shoulder. This allowed Gabriel to focus on his primary task, which was countersurveillance. He saw nothing to suggest that Sam was working with an accomplice. Nor did it appear as though he were being followed by the French police. He was clean, thought Gabriel. As clean as a buyer of stolen art could be.

After ten minutes of steady walking, Sam was nearing the point where the boulevard met the Seine. Gabriel, a half-block in his wake, drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed. Again Sam answered immediately, with the same cordial “Bonjour.”

“Turn left into the rue du Cardinal Lemoine and follow it to the Seine. Cross the bridge to the Île Saint-Louis and then keep walking straight until you hear from me again.”

“How much farther?”

“Not far, Sam. You’re almost there.”

Sam made the turn as instructed and crossed the Pont de la Tournelle to the small island in the middle of the Seine. A series of picturesque quays ran along the perimeter of the island, but only a single street, the rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, stretched the length of it. With a phone call, Gabriel instructed Sam to turn to the left again.

“How much farther?”

“Just a little more, Sam. And don’t look over your shoulder.”

It was a narrow street, with tourists wandering aimlessly past shop windows. At the western end was an ice cream parlor, and next to the parlor was a brasserie with a fine view of Notre Dame. Gabriel called Sam and issued his final instructions.

“How long do you intend to keep me waiting?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for lunch, Sam. I’m just the hired help.”

Gabriel severed the connection without another word and watched Sam enter the brasserie. A waiter greeted him, then gestured toward a sidewalk table occupied by an Englishman with blond hair and blue-tinted glasses. The Englishman rose and, smiling, extended his hand. “I’m Reg,” Gabriel heard him say as he rounded the corner. “Reg Bartholomew. And you must be Sam.”

I
WOULD LIKE TO BEGIN THIS
conversation, Mr. Bartholomew, by offering you my congratulations. That was an impressive transaction you and your men carried out in Amsterdam.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t do it alone?”

“It’s not the sort of thing one generally does alone. You surely had help,” Sam added. “Like your friend who was on the phone with me. He speaks French very well, but he isn’t French, is he?”

“What difference does it make?”

“One likes to have a sense of who one is doing business with.” “This isn’t Harrods, luv.”

Sam surveyed the street with the languor of a tourist who’d visited too many museums in too brief a time. “He’s out there somewhere, is he not?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And there are others?”

“Several.”

“And yet I was required to come alone.”

“It’s a seller’s market.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Sam resumed his study of the street. He was still wearing his boater and his sunglasses, which left only the lower half of his face visible. It was closely shaven and judiciously fragranced. The cheekbones were high and prominent, the chin was notched, the teeth were even and very white. His hands had no scars or tattoos. He wore no rings on his fingers or bracelets on his wrists, only a large gold Rolex to indicate he was a man of means. He had the polished mannerisms of a well-born Arab but with a harder edge.

“One hears other things as well,” Sam continued after a moment. “Those who’ve seen the merchandise say you managed to get it out of Amsterdam with minimal damage.”

“None, actually.”

“One also hears there are Polaroids.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Sam smiled unpleasantly. “This is going to take much longer than necessary if you insist on playing these games, Mr. Bartholomew.” “One likes to have a sense of who one is doing business with,” Keller said pointedly.

“Are you asking me for information about the man I represent, Mr. Bartholomew?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

There was a silence.

“My client is a businessman,” Sam said finally. “Quite successful, very wealthy. He is also a lover of the arts. He collects widely, but like many serious collectors he has grown frustrated by the fact there are very few good pictures for sale any longer. He has been interested in acquiring a van Gogh for many years. You are now in possession of a very good one. My client would like it.”

“So would a lot of other people.”

Sam appeared untroubled by this. “And what about you?” he asked after a moment. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“I steal things for a living.”

“You’re English?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ve always been fond of the English.”

“I won’t hold that against you.”

A waiter appeared and handed them each a menu. Sam ordered a bottle of mineral water; Keller, a glass of wine he had no intention of drinking.

“Let me make one thing clear from the outset,” he said when they were alone again. “I’m not interested in drugs, or guns, or girls, or a condominium in Boca Raton, Florida. This is a cash-only proposition.”

“How much cash are we talking about, Mr. Bartholomew?”

“I have an offer of twenty million on the table.”

“What flavor?”

“Euros.”

“Is it a firm offer?”

“I delayed the sale to meet with you.”

“How flattering. Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I hear your client, whoever he is, is a man of deep pockets.”

“Very deep.” Another smile, only slightly more pleasant than the first. “So how shall we proceed, Mr. Bartholomew?”

“I need to know whether you’re interested in beating the offer on the table.”

“I am.”

“By how much?”

“I suppose I could offer you something trivial, like an additional five hundred thousand, but my client doesn’t like auctions.” He paused, then asked, “Would twenty-five million be sufficient to take the painting off the table?”

“It would indeed, Sam.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Perhaps now would be a good time for you to show me the Polaroids.”

The Polaroids were in the glove box of a rented Mercedes parked along a quiet street behind Notre Dame. Keller and Sam walked there together and climbed inside, Keller behind the wheel, Sam in the passenger seat. Keller subjected him to a quick but thorough search before popping the hatch of the glove box and fishing out the photos. There were four in all—one full shot, three detail images. Sam leafed through them skeptically.

“It looks a bit like the van Gogh that hangs above the bed in my hotel room.”

“It isn’t.”