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On the opposite side of the bridge lay thesestiereof Castello. They hurried past the souvenir kiosks lining the Riva degli Schiavoni, then followed the passageway to the Campo San Zaccaria, home of the Carabinieri’s regional headquarters. Julian had once spent a sleepless night in an interrogation room on the second floor.
“How’s your old friend General Ferrari?” he asked. “Still pulling the wings off flies? Or has he managed to find a new hobby?”
General Cesare Ferrari was the commander of the Carabinieri’s Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, better known as the Art Squad. It was headquartered in a palazzo in Rome’s Piazza di Sant’Ignazio, though three of its officers were stationed full-time in Venice. While not searching for stolen paintings, they kept tabs on the former Israeli spymaster and assassin living quietly in San Polo. It was General Ferrari who had arranged for Gabriel to receive apermesso di soggiorno, a permanent Italian residence permit. Consequently, Gabriel tried to stay on his good side, no easy feat.
Adjacent to the Carabinieri headquarters was the church for which the square was named. Among the many monumental works of art adorning the nave was a crucifixion executed by Anthony van Dyck during the six-year period he spent studying and working in Italy. Gabriel stood before it, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side.
“You were about to tell me about the painting’s provenance.”
“It was good enough for me.”
“Meaning?”
“It depicted a portrait that had been executed in the late sixteen twenties and had made its way over the centuries from Flanders to France. There were no glaring holes and no red flags.”
“Did it require restoration?”
“Monsieur Fleury had it cleaned before he showed it to me. Hehas his own man. Not your caliber, mind you. But not bad.” Julian crossed to the opposite side of the nave and stood before Bellini’s majesticSan Zaccaria Altarpiece. “You did a lovely job with it. Old Giovanni would have approved.”
“You think so?”
Julian cast a glance of mild reproach over one shoulder. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, my boy. Your restoration of this painting was the talk of the art world.”
“It took me longer to clean it than it did for Giovanni to paint it.”
“There were extenuating circumstances, as I recall.”
“There usually were.” Gabriel joined Julian in front of the altarpiece. “I assume that you and Sarah got a second opinion about the attribution after the painting arrived in London.”
“Not just a second opinion. A third, a fourth, and a fifth as well. And all of our gold-plated hired guns concluded that the painting was the work of Anthony van Dyck and not a later follower. Within a week we had a bidding war on our hands.”
“Who was the lucky winner?”
“Masterpiece Art Ventures. It’s an art-based hedge fund run by one of Sarah’s old contacts from her days in New York. Someone called Phillip Somerset.”
“The name rings a distant bell,” said Gabriel.
“Masterpiece Art Ventures buys and sells an enormous number of paintings. Everything from Old Masters to contemporary. Phillip Somerset routinely shows his investors twenty-five-percent annual returns, from which he takes a substantial cut. And he can be quite litigious if he thinks someone has wronged him. Suing people is his favorite pastime.”
“Which is why you went running to Bordeaux when you received a rather ambiguous letter from a perfect stranger.”
“Actually, it was Sarah who convinced me to go. As for the letter,the men on the motorbike obviously thought it was in my briefcase. That’s why they tried to steal it.”
“They might have been ordinary thieves, you know. Street crime is one of the few growth industries in France these days.”
“They weren’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because when I got back to the hotel after being discharged froml’hôpital, it was quite obvious that my room had been searched.” Julian patted the front of his jacket. “Fortunately, they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“Searched by whom?”
“Two well-dressed men. They paid the bellman fifty euros to let them into my room.”
“How much did the bellman get from you?”
“A hundred,” answered Julian. “As you might expect, I passed a rather restless night. When I woke this morning, there was a copy ofSud Ouestoutside my door. After reading the story about a fatal single-vehicle accident south of Bordeaux, I hastily packed my things and caught the first train to Paris. I was able to make the eleven o’clock flight to Venice.”
