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The vestibule was unoccupied save the bronze life-size bust of a young Greek or Roman man perched atop its plinth of black marble. Gabriel called out Fleury’s name and, receiving no answer, led Sarahinto the ground-floor exhibition room. It was likewise uninhabited. The large Rococo painting depicting a nude Venus and three young maidens was gone, as was the Venetian scene attributed to a follower of Canaletto. No new paintings hung in their place.
“Looks as though Monsieur Fleury is doing a brisk business,” said Sarah.
“The missing paintings were both forgeries,” answered Gabriel, and headed for Fleury’s office. There he found the art dealer seated at his desk, his face tipped toward the ceiling, his mouth open. The wall behind him was spattered with still-damp blood and brain tissue, the result of two recent point-blank gunshot wounds to the center of his forehead. The younger man lying on the floor had also been shot at close range—twice in the chest and at least once in the head. Like Georges Fleury, he was quite obviously dead.
“Dear God,” whispered Sarah from the open doorway.
Gabriel made no reply; his phone was ringing. It was Yuval Gershon, calling from his office at Unit 8200 headquarters outside Tel Aviv. He didn’t bother with a greeting.
“Someone turned on the dead woman’s phone about one thirty local time. We got inside a couple of minutes ago.”
“Where is it?”
“The Eighth Arrondissement of Paris. The rue la Boétie.”
“I’m in the same location.”
“I know,” said Yuval. “In fact, it looks to us as though you might be in the same room.”
Gabriel rang off and located the number for Valerie Bérrangar’s phone in his directory of recent calls. He started to dial, but stopped when his connoisseur’s eye fell upon the aluminum-sided Tumi suitcase, 52 by 77 by 28 centimeters, standing in the corner of the cluttered office. It was possible that Monsieur Fleury had been planning to embark on a journey at the time of his death. But the more likely explanation was that the suitcase contained a bomb.
A bomb, thought Gabriel, that would be detonated with a call to Madame Bérrangar’s phone.
He did not bother to explain any of this to Sarah. Instead, he seized her arm and pulled her through the exhibition room to the entrance of the gallery. The glass door was locked, and the remote was missing from the receptionist’s desk. It was, Gabriel had to admit, a masterpiece of planning and execution. But then he would have expected nothing less. After all, they were professionals.
But even professionals, he thought suddenly, make mistakes. Theirs was the bronze life-size bust of a young Greek or Roman man perched atop its plinth of black marble. Gabriel raised the heavy object above his head and, ignoring the searing pain in his hand, hurled it against the glass door of Galerie Georges Fleury.
