Menard knew exactly who to call, and better yet, where to go. Within ten minutes they were inside a small café drinking steaming espressos, waiting on news about additional footage from the cameras around the Deutsche Bank. Mike was grateful for the warmth; the wind off the lake had her chilled through. Nicholas, Mr. Aren’t I Great, seemed unaffected.
He asked Menard, “Are you an expert on art crimes?”
“I am.”
“We are narrowing down a list of people who could afford to bankroll a theft of this magnitude. Let me ask you, in your experience, why would anyone steal the Koh-i-Noor? It’s one of the most famous pieces in the world, so they couldn’t resell it. It couldn’t be displayed without running the risk of someone telling the authorities. The buyer would surely know the British will never stop hunting for it. So why this stone?”
Menard tossed back his espresso in one gulp, and Mike stared. The coffee was steaming hot; his throat must be made of asbestos. He set the tiny cup on the counter so he could use his hands to help him speak. A very expressive man, Menard, and smart, she thought, very smart, and very committed. They’d lucked out. She was wondering when he was going to make it clear he really liked her, the American, best.
“You must think of art theft this way: there are usually three possibilities. In this case, for this particular diamond, and similar pieces which have such a strong historical path, there are four.”
He raised his hand and started ticking the list off on his fingers.
“One, to sell it. Then you are dealing with a profiteer, and they have no style, no panache. It is simply a transaction, and it is most likely already gone, out of your reach. Two, if it was taken to return it to its rightful owners. Then you’re looking for a zealot, who is very dangerous, for he will try to kill anyone who gets in his way. Three, for the prestige of having such a piece. A collector, then, who will be the hardest of all to trace, because he will quietly hold on to his prize and never share it with the world.”
“And the fourth?” Nicholas asked.
Menard’s face grew grim. “A man who has stolen the diamond because of the legend attached. This man would be unpredictable, dangerous, a man who would destroy the diamond before he gives it up.”
Mike said, “Which do you think we’re dealing with?”
Menard splayed his hands. “I do not know, mademoiselle, but we shall hope it is not the fourth, yes?”
Nicholas sipped his espresso, hot as fire, thick as tar, delicious. “Have you heard of the Fox working with someone?”
“No. Never. My understanding is that he—she—always works alone.”
Nicholas said, “She made two calls to the same number while she was flying from America to Europe. Neither was answered. Mike’s government is running the number, and we should know soon who it belongs to.”
“I am sorry. I have never heard of her working with anyone.”
“What about against someone? Who is her competition?”
Menard nodded vigorously, signaling to the barman for another shot of espresso. “Ah, this I can answer for you. There are three: a Frenchman from Algiers, dead now. He was shot by a security guard in a botched attempt on the Tate Modern and bled to death on the floor. He was called Goyo. The second is Ruvéne—he successfully lifted three Cézannes for the Russian government and was caught two years ago near Prague. He is in jail for life.
“The third is the Ghost. He has been in business far longer than anyone else I know of. No one knows his nationality, but he takes only the biggest jobs, the most prestigious, the most challenging and dangerous. He has either retired or died, for his name and his signature have not been seen in over ten years.”