“The way Mossad kidnapped Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires,” Colette said. “Took him out when he got off the bus, returning home from work, kept him in a house in the city for a week. To get him out of Argentina they drugged him and dressed him in an El Al uniform, saying he’d had too much to drink as they boarded a plane bound for Israel. The Israelis were surprised how cooperative Eichmann was. It was as if he was expecting them.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’, grab him off the street.” Cordell sipped his drink.
“There’s that bakery just down the hill from the villa,” Harry said. “We can wait there till he drives by. I agree with Cordell, it might be easier to surprise him.”
Colette said, “What will we do with him?”
“Take him out. What do you think?”
“I think we should bring him to the police.”
Cordell glanced at her. “What’re they going to do?”
“Arrest him.”
“As far as they know he’s a French citizen named Vincent Chartier,” Harry said. “You think they’re going to take our word over his? They’re going to let him go, and he’s going to disappear again.”
“Harry, we have proof he’s a war criminal. You’re the survivor. Tell them your story.”
“What do I have that proves I’m a survivor? And what do I have that connects me to Hess?” Harry paused, sipped his whisky. “Hess has a French passport. According to the tax records he’s owned property in Nice since ’48. He’s a solid citizen.”
They were parked on corniche des Oliviers at eight the next morning in front of the bakery, car facing down hill, Cordell behind the wheel, Colette next to him and Harry in back, training binoculars on every driver and passenger in every car that passed them in a steady stream of traffic. The small parking lot was crowded. He saw the dark-haired woman from Hess’ villa come out of the bakery carrying two baguettes and a white bag of pastries. She got in the Fiat and drove back up the hill.
By ten there was hardly any traffic, just an occasional car or truck passing by. Looking through the rear window Harry could see a dark sedan come over the hill. He waited till it was about fifty yards away, raised the binoculars, put them on the grill, it was a Renault, put them on the windshield, sun glinting off making it difficult to see in. Tried to focus on the driver’s face but the car was moving too fast. He adjusted the viewfinder, pulling back as the car closed in on them, held on the driver’s face till he was sure. “There he is.”
Colette turned in her seat.
Cordell started the car, glanced in the side mirror. “I see him.”
The Renault sped by. Cordell started the Peugeot and took off after it. They followed Hess down the steep winding roads to boulevard Gambetta and all the way to the promenade des Anglais, then around the harbor and up the coast.
“Where you think he’s goin’?”
“Maybe he knows we’re on to him, he’s leaving the country. The Italian border’s right up here. Head down the Riviera, reinvent himself in Rapallo.”
A few minutes later they were in Monaco, Harry looking at the marina filled with pleasure boats and yachts, and highrise apartment buildings built around the harbor. Hess turned and they followed him into the city that reminded Harry of Palm Beach with its wide boulevards, palm trees and Greco-Roman architecture.
Hess parked in front of Galerie Broussard, got out, closed the door, moved to the trunk, opened it and took out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Harry pictured the painting he saw on the dresser in Hess’ room and now it made sense. “That’s the painting you found in the locker, I’ll bet.”
Colette said, “The Painter on the Road to Tarascon by Van Gogh.”
“Describe it.”
“It’s a self portrait — Van Gogh on the road, carrying artist’s supplies — showing himself as an alienated outsider.”
“The painting in Hess’ villa was signed Vincent.”
“That’s how Van Gogh signed his paintings. Harry, you saw it and didn’t say anything?”
“It didn’t occur to me till now.”
Hess was thinking about the value of the painting as he walked into the gallery. Based on what he knew, and he was no expert, the Van Gogh would sell for somewhere between five and seven million dollars. The sale would be confidential and discreet. Absolutely no publicity. No one except Broussard would know his identity. The money would be paid to Broussard, and Broussard would deduct his fee and send the balance to Hess. He would deposit the money in his account at Société Générale, and at the appropriate time, transfer the money to his Swiss account. When he needed additional funds he would sell another painting.
Broussard saw Hess enter the gallery and came right over. “Bonjour, Monsieur Chartier. I see you have brought the painting. How exciting. Shall we unveil it in my office?”
Hess followed Broussard across the gallery floor to a hallway that led to offices. Broussard’s was big and open, simple chrome-and-glass desk, black leather chairs, a wall of bookshelves. The only thing that looked out of place was a chrome easel set up on the floor next to the desk.
Hess unwrapped the painting. Broussard took the discarded paper from him, folded it and placed it on the desk. Hess set the painting on the easel and now Broussard came over and stood close, smiling.
“The Painter on the Road to Tarascon.” Broussard’s grin faded and he held Hess in his gaze. “It is impossible. This painting was destroyed when the Allies bombed Magdeburg, setting fire to the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Where on earth did you get it?”
“I can’t tell you anything about how the painting came into my possession. The sale has to be completely confidential. The buyer can’t know who I am.”
“But M. Chartier, this is a missing masterpiece. There is a story behind it, a mystique that will add to its value. Prospective buyers will want to know, not to mention the art world.”
“What is it worth?”
“I can’t say with certainty. We will have to establish a selling price based on what other paintings by Van Gogh have sold for.” Broussard turned to the painting. “But this, I can assure you, will command a very high price. I would think eight to ten million dollars. What were you expecting?”
“Somewhere in that range.”
“I assume you have a bill of sale from the original owner, gallery or auction house.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“M. Chartier, we cannot in good conscience trust its authenticity unless you have authentication credentials. Van Gogh has been forged more frequently than any other modern artist. Before we can establish a price the painting has to be authenticated. So you won’t mind leaving it with me?”
“Authenticated? You can see it is original. Look at the signature.”
“Signatures can be forged.”
“Maybe I should take it to another gallery,” Hess said, even though he had had a similar experience selling the Durer to the broker in New York. That had had to be X-rayed to prove its nature and origin.
“They will tell you the same thing. Without authentication you will not be able to sell the painting.”
“Do you know someone? I want to make this happen quickly. I will be leaving France soon for an extended vacation.”
“The only person in Nice who can give an absolutely trustworthy and acceptable attribution is M. Givry. He is an art expert who intimately understands Van Gogh. M. Givry worked at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, and he has curated exhibitions of his paintings at museums around the world. Let me see what I can do. Please make yourself comfortable.” Broussard waved his arm indicating the leather couch. “May I offer you coffee?”
Hess shook his head and sat on the couch. Broussard moved to the desk, took an address book out of a drawer, opened it and made a phone call.