"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm just looking."
"Is there a problem?"
He smiled. "None at all."
She furrowed her brow. "You need something else to occupy your thoughts other than my body."
"Easier said than done. How long before dinner?"
"Not long enough for that, Gabriel."
"I wasn't suggesting that."
"You weren't?" She pouted playfully. "I'm disappointed."
She opened a bottle of Chianti, poured two glasses, and pushed one toward Gabriel. "Who steals paintings?"
"Thieves steal paintings, Chiara."
"I guess you don't want any of the veal."
"Allow me to rephrase. What I was trying to say is that it really doesn't matter who steals paintings. The simple truth is, they're stolen every day. Literally. And the losses are huge. According to Interpol, between four and six billion dollars a year. After drug trafficking, money laundering, and arms dealing, art theft is the most lucrative criminal enterprise. The Museum of the Missing is one of the greatest in the world. Everyone is there—Titian, Rubens, Leonardo, Caravaggio, Raphael, Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir, Degas. Everyone. Thieves have pillaged some of man's most beautiful creations. And for the most part, we've done nothing to stop it."
"And the thieves themselves?"
"Some are bumblers and adventurers looking for a thrill. Some are ordinary criminals trying to make a name for themselves by stealing something extraordinary. But unfortunately a few are real pros. And from their perspective, the risk-reward ratio is weighted heavily in their favor."
"High rewards, low risks?"
"Extremely low risks," Gabriel said. "A security guard might shoot a thief during a bank robbery, but to the best of my knowledge no one has ever been shot trying to steal a painting. In fact, we make it rather easy for them."
"Easy?"
"In 1998, a thief walked into Room Sixty-seven of the Louvre, sliced Corot's Le Chemin de Sevres from its frame, and walked out again. An hour elapsed before anyone even realized the painting was missing. And why was that? Because Room Sixty-seven had no security camera. The official postmortem proved more embarrassing. Louvre officials couldn't produce a complete list of employees or even an accurate accounting of the museum's inventory. The official review concluded that it would be harder for a thief to rob the average Paris department store than the most famous museum on earth."
Chiara shook her head in amazement. "What happens to the art after it's stolen?"
"That depends on the motive. Some thieves are just out to make a quick score. And the quickest way to convert a painting into cash is by handing it over in exchange for a reward. In reality, it's ransom. But since it's almost always a small fraction of the painting's true value, the museums and the insurance companies are only too happy to play the game. And the thieves know it."
"And if it's not a ransom job?"
"There's a debate within the art world and law enforcement over that. Some paintings end up being used as a sort of underworld currency. A Vermeer stolen from a museum in Amsterdam, for example, might fall into the hands of a drug gang in Belgium or France, which in turn might use it as collateral or a down payment on a shipment of heroin from Turkey. A single painting might circulate for years in this manner, passing from one criminal to the next, until someone decides to cash in. Meanwhile, the painting itself suffers terribly. Four-hundred-year-old Vermeers are delicate objects. They don't like being stuffed into suitcases or buried in holes."
"Do you accept that theory?"
"In some cases, it's indisputable. In others..." Gabriel shrugged. "Let's just say I've never met a drug dealer who preferred a painting to cold hard cash."
"So what's the other theory?"
"That stolen paintings end up hanging on the walls of very rich men."
"Do they?"
Gabriel peered thoughtfully into his wineglass. "About ten years ago, Julian was putting the finishing touches on a deal with a Japanese billionaire at his mansion outside Tokyo. At one point during the meeting, the collector excused himself to take a call. Julian being Julian, he got out of his seat and had a look around. At the far end of a hallway he saw a painting that looked shockingly familiar. To this day, he swears it was Chez Tortoni."
"The Manet stolen in the Gardner heist? Why would a billionaire take such a risk?"
"Because you can't buy what's not for sale. Remember, the vast majority of the world's masterpieces will never come on the market. And for some collectors—men used to always getting what they want—the unobtainable can become an obsession."
"And if someone like that has Julian's Rembrandt? What are the chances of finding it?"
"One in ten, at best. And the odds of recovery drop precipitously if it isn't recovered quickly. People have been searching for that Manet for two decades."
"Maybe they should try looking in Japan."
"That's not a bad idea. Any others?"
"Not an idea," Chiara said carefully. "Just a suggestion."
"What's that?"
"Your friend Julian needs you, Gabriel." Chiara pointed to the photographs spread along the countertop. "And so does she."
Gabriel was silent. Chiara picked up the photograph showing the canvas in full.
"When did he paint it?"
"Sixteen fifty-four."
"The same year Hendrickje gave birth to Cornelia?"
Gabriel nodded.
"I think she looks pregnant."
"It's possible."
Chiara scrutinized the image carefully for a moment. "Do you know what else I think? She's keeping a secret. She knows she's pregnant but hasn't worked up the courage to tell him." Chiara glanced up at Gabriel. "Does that sound familiar to you?"
"I think you would have made a good art historian, Chiara."
"I grew up in Venice. I am an art historian." She looked down at the photo again. "I can't leave a pregnant woman buried in a hole, Gabriel. And neither can you."
Gabriel flipped open his mobile phone. As he entered Isherwood's number, he could hear Chiara singing softly to herself. Chiara always sang when she was happy. It was the first time Gabriel had heard her sing in more than a year.
8
RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
The sign in the shop window read ANTIQUITES SCIENTIFIQUES. Beneath it stood row upon row of meticulously arranged antique microscopes, cameras, barometers, telescopes, surveyors, and spectacles. Usually, Maurice Durand would spend a moment or two inspecting the display for the slightest flaw before opening the shop. But not that morning. Durand's well-ordered little world was beset by a problem, a crisis of profound magnitude for a man whose every waking moment was devoted to avoiding them.
He unlocked the door, switched the sign in the door from FERME to OUVERT, and retreated to his office at the back of the shop. Like Durand himself, it was small and tidy and lacking in even the slightest trace of flair. After hanging his overcoat carefully on its hook, he rubbed an island of chronic pain at the base of his spine before sitting down to check his e-mail. He did so with little enthusiasm. Maurice Durand was a bit of an antique himself. Trapped by circumstance in an age without grace, he had surrounded himself with symbols of enlightenment. He regarded electronic correspondence as a disagreeable but obligatory nuisance. He preferred pen and paper to the ethereal mist of the Internet and consumed his news by reading several papers over coffee in his favorite cafe. In Durand's quietly held opinion, the Internet was a plague that killed everything it touched. Eventually, he feared, it would destroy Antiquites Scientifiques.