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“Roddy lacks your star power. I need someone who can move the needle.”
“For what?”
“I’d like you to sell a few paintings for me.”
“Anything good?”
“A Titian, a Tintoretto, and a Veronese.”
“What’s the source?”
“An old European collection.”
“And the subject matter?”
“I’ll let you know the minute I finish painting them.”
The first challenge for any art forger is the acquisition of canvases and stretchers of appropriate age, dimensions, and condition. When executing his copy of Vincent’sSunflowers, Gabriel had purchased a third-tier Impressionist streetscape from a small gallery near the Jardin du Luxembourg. He had no need to resort to such methods now. He merely had to ride the lift down to Julian’s storerooms, which were crammed with an apocalyptic inventory of what was affectionately known in the trade as dead stock. He selected six minor Venetian School works from the sixteenth century—follower of so-and-so, manner of such-and-such, workshop of what’s-his-name—and asked Sarah to express-ship them to his apartment in San Polo.
“Why six instead of only three?”
“I need two spares in the event of a disaster.”
“And the other one?”
“I’m planning to leave a Gentileschi with my front man in Florence.”
“Silly me,” said Sarah. “But how are we going to explain the missing paintings to Julian?”
“With any luck, he won’t notice.”
Sarah instructed the shippers to arrive no later than nine the following morning and advised Julian to take the day off. Nevertheless, he wandered into Mason’s Yard at his usual time, a quarter past twelve, as the crated paintings were being loaded into a Ford Transit van. The tragicomedy that followed included yet another collision with an inanimate object. This time it was Sarah’s shredder, into which Julian, in a spasm of self-pity, attempted to insert himself.
Gabriel did not witness the incident, for he was in the back of a taxi bound from Fiumicino Airport toward Rome’s Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. Upon arrival he took a table at Le Cave, one of his favorite restaurants in thecentro storico. It was located a few steps from the ornate yellow-and-white palazzo that served as the headquarters of the Art Squad.
The palazzo’s door swung open at half past one, and General Cesare Ferrari emerged in his bemedaled blue-and-gold uniform. He crossed the gray cobbles of the square and without uttering a word of greeting sat down at Gabriel’s table. Instantly the waiter delivered a frigid bottle of Frascati and a plate of friedarancini.
“Why doesn’t that happen when I arrive at restaurants?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m sure it’s only the uniform.” The general plucked one of therisotto balls from the plate. “Shouldn’t you be in Venice with your wife and children?”
“Probably. But I needed to have a word with you first.”
“About what?”
“I’m thinking about embarking on a life of crime, and I was wondering whether you would be interested in a piece of the action.”
“What sort of misdeed are you contemplating this time?”
“Art forgery.”
“Well, you certainly have the talent for it,” said the general. “But what would be my end?”
“A high-profile case that will shake the art world to its core and ensure that the generous funding and personnel levels of the Art Squad remain unchanged for years to come.”
“Has a crime been committed on Italian soil?”
“Not yet,” said Gabriel with a smile. “But soon.”
