The Heist. Daniel Silva
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one of a kind. There are some men in the world who would pay almost anything for it.”
“Could you move it?”
“With a single phone call.”
They arrived at the boat pond where several miniature sailing vessels were careening about a tiny storm-tossed sea. Gabriel paused at the edge and explained how he had found three stolen paintings—a Parmigianino, a Renoir, and a Klimt—concealed beneath copies of lesser works at Jack Bradshaw’s villa on Lake Como. Durand, watching the boats, nodded thoughtfully.
“It sounds to me as though they were being readied for transport and sale.”
“Why paint over them?”
“So they could be sold as legitimate works.” Durand paused, then added, “Legitimate works of lesser value, of course.”
“And when the sales were complete?”
“A person like you would be hired to remove the concealing images and prepare the paintings for hanging.”
A pair of tourists, young girls, posed for a photograph on the opposite side of the boat pond. Gabriel took Durand by the elbow and led him toward the Louvre Pyramid. “The person who painted those fakes was good,” he said. “Good enough to fool someone like me at first glance.”
“There are many talented artists out there who are willing to sell their services to those of us who toil at the dirty end of the trade.” The Frenchman looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to forge a painting?”
“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.”