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Part Two
Underdrawing
25
Quai des Orfèvres
Perhaps not surprisingly, the French police assumed the worst when, at 2:01 p.m. on an otherwise pleasant spring afternoon, the elegant Eighth Arrondissement of Paris shook with the thunderclap of an explosion. The first units arrived at the scene moments later to find an Old Master art gallery engulfed in flames. Even so, the officers were encouraged by the fact that there appeared to be no large-scale loss of life of the sort associated with jihadist terrorist attacks. Indeed, at first glance, the only casualty appeared to be the life-size bronze bust of a young Greek or Roman man lying on the pavement, surrounded by blue-gray cubes of tempered glass. One veteran detective, after learning of the circumstances by which the weighty objet d’art exited the gallery, would declare it to be the first documented case in the annals of French crime that anyone had brokenoutof an art gallery.
The perpetrators of this most unusual act—a man of late middle age and an attractive fair-haired woman in her early forties—surrendered to police within minutes of the explosion. And at 2:45 p.m., after a series of hasty and incredulous phone calls between senior French intelligence and security officials, they were placed in theback of an unmarked Peugeot and delivered to 36 Quai des Orfèvres, the iconic headquarters of the Police Nationale’s criminal division.
There they were separated and relieved of their personal effects. The woman’s handbag and luggage contained nothing out of the ordinary, but her companion was in possession of several noteworthy items. They included a false German passport, an Israeli-made Solaris mobile phone, an Italianpermesso di soggiorno, a painting without a frame or stretcher, documents from Galerie Georges Fleury and Equus Analytics, and a handwritten letter from a certain Valerie Bérrangar to Julian Isherwood, owner and sole proprietor of Isherwood Fine Arts, 7–8 Mason’s Yard, St. James’s, London.
At half past three, the items were arrayed upon the table of the interrogation room into which the man of late middle age was led. Also present was a sleek creature of about fifty clad in a banker’s executive suit. Extending a hand cordially in greeting, he introduced himself as Jacques Ménard, commander of the Central Office for the Fight against Cultural Goods Trafficking. The man smiled as he lowered himself into his seat. It definitely sounded better in French.
Jacques Ménard opened the German passport. “Johannes Klemp?”
“A small man with a chip balanced precariously on his insignificant shoulder,” said Gabriel. “Much loathed by hoteliers and restaurateurs from Copenhagen to Cairo.”
“Do the Germans know you’re abusing one of their passports?”
“The way I see it, allowing me to occasionally travel on one of their passports is the least the Germans can do.”
Ménard took up the Solaris phone. “Is it as secure as they say?”
“I hope you didn’t try to unlock it. I’ll go blind reloading my contacts.”
Ménard reached for the sales documents from Galerie Georges Fleury. “TheAnna Rolfe?”
“She was in town last weekend. I borrowed her for a few hours.”
“She has a fondness for Aelbert Cuyp?”
“It’s not a Cuyp.” Gabriel nudged the report from Equus Analytics across the tabletop. “It’s a forgery. Which is why I purchased it in the first place.”
“You can tell if a painting is a forgery merely by looking at it?”
“Can’t you?”
“No,” admitted Ménard. “I cannot. But perhaps we should begin here.” He indicated the handwritten letter. “With Madame Bérrangar.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Gabriel. “After all, if you had taken her complaint aboutPortrait of an Unknown Womanseriously, she’d still be alive.”
“Madame Bérrangar was killed in a single-vehicle traffic accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Ménard. She was murdered.”
“How do you know that?”
“Her phone.”
“What about it?”
“The bombmaker used it to trigger the detonator.”
“Perhaps we should start from the beginning,” suggested Ménard.
Yes, agreed Gabriel. Perhaps they should.
