Long lines stretched from the station’s entrance, where heavily armed police were searching handbags and suitcases and questioning anyone, especially young men, remotely Arab in appearance. The new normal, thought Gabriel as he was admitted into the soaring departure hall. The famous clock read five minutes past three, his train was boarding on Track D. Track Dalet, he thought. Why did it have to be that one? Couldn’t they have chosen another?
He made his way along the platform, entered one of the first-class carriages, and settled into his assigned seat. Only when the memories had subsided did he draw his mobile. The number he dialed was in Bern. A man answered in Swiss German. Gabriel addressed him in the Berlin-accented German of his mother.
“I’m on my way to your beautiful country, and I was wondering whether you might show me a good time.”
There was a silence, followed by a lengthy exhalation of breath.
“When are you getting in?”
“Six fifteen.”
“How?”
“The TGV from Paris.”
“What is it this time?”
“Same as the last. A quick peek, that’s all.”
“Nothing is going to explode, is it?”
Gabriel killed the connection and watched the platform sliding slowly past his window. Once again the memories arose. He saw a woman, scarred and prematurely gray, sitting in a wheelchair, and a man running wildly toward her, a gun in his hand. He closed his eyes and gripped the armrest to stop his hand from shaking. I’ll manage, he thought.
The NDB, like Switzerland itself, was small but efficient. Headquartered in a drab office block in Bern, the service was responsible for keeping the many problems of a disorderly world from crossing the borders of the Swiss Confederation. It spied on the spies who plied their trade on Swiss soil, watched over the foreigners who hid their money in Swiss banks, and monitored the activities of the growing number of Muslims who made Switzerland their home. Thus far, the country had been spared a major terrorist attack by the likes of al-Qaeda or ISIS. It was no accident. Christoph Bittel, the chief of the NDB’s counterterrorism division, was very good at his job.
He was also punctual as a Swiss watch. Tall and thin, he was leaning against the hood of a German sedan when Gabriel emerged from the Gare de Cornavin in Geneva at half past six. The Swiss secret policeman frowned. In Switzerland, six fifteen meant six fifteen.
“Do you know the address for the vault?”
“Building Three, Corridor Eight, Vault Nineteen.”
“Who’s renting it?”
“Something called TXM Capital. But I suspect the real owner is JLM.”
“Jean-Luc Martel?”
“One and the same.”
Bittel swore softly. “I don’t want any trouble with the French. I need the DGSI to protect my western flank.”
“Don’t worry about the French. As for your western flank, I’d be very afraid.”
“Is it true what they say about Martel? That his real business is drugs?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
They crossed the Rh?ne and then, a moment later, the mucus-green waters of the Arne. To the south lay a quartier of Geneva where tourists and diplomats rarely ventured. It was a land of tidy warehouses and low-slung office blocks. It was also the home of the secretive Geneva Freeport, a secure tax-free repository where the global superrich stashed away treasures of every kind: gold bars, jewelry, vintage wine, automobiles, and, of course, art. It was not art to be viewed and cherished. It was art as a commodity, art as a hedge against uncertain times.
“The place has changed since we were here,” Bittel said. “The last straw was that scandal involving the Modigliani, the one that had been stolen by the Nazis. A lot of the collectors pulled out after that and moved their holdings to places like Delaware and London. The cantonal authorities have brought in a new man to run the place. He’s a former Swiss finance minister, a real stickler for the letter of the law.”
“Perhaps there’s hope for your country after all.”
“Let’s skip this part,” said Bittel. “I like it better when we’re on the same side.”
A row of featureless white structures appeared on their right, surrounded by an opaque green fence topped with concertina wire and security cameras. It might have been mistaken for a prison were it not for the red-and-white sign that read ports francs. Bittel turned into the entrance and waited for the security gate to open. Then he pulled forward a few feet and slipped the car into park.
“Building Three, Corridor Eight, Vault Nineteen.”
“Very good,” said Gabriel.
“We’re not going to find drugs in there, are we?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because drug dealers don’t lock away their product in secure tax-free storage facilities. They sell it to idiots who smoke it, snort it, and inject it into their veins. That’s how they make their money.”
Bittel entered the security office. Through the half-open blinds of the window, Gabriel could see him in close conversation with an attractive brunette. It was obvious they were speaking in French rather than Swiss German. Finally, there were a few nods and assurances, and then a key changed hands. Bittel carried it back to the car and slid behind the wheel again.
“You’re sure there’s nothing between you two?” asked Gabriel.
“Don’t start with that again.”
“Maybe you can introduce me. It would save you the trouble of having to make the drive down from Bern every time I need to look inside some criminal’s vault.”
“I prefer our current system.”
Bittel parked outside Building 3 and led Gabriel inside. From the entrance stretched a seemingly endless hall of doors. They climbed a flight of stairs to the second level and made their way to Corridor 8. The door to Vault 19 was gray metal. Bittel inserted the key into the lock and, entering, switched on the light. The vault contained two chambers. Both were filled with flat rectangular wooden crates of the sort used to transport valuable art. All were identical in size, about six feet by four.
“Not again,” said Bittel.
“No,” said Gabriel. “Not again.”
He examined one of the crates. Attached to it was a shipping waybill bearing the name Galerie Olivia Watson of Saint-Tropez. He pulled at the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. It was nailed tightly into place.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a claw hammer in your back pocket, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“How about a tire tool?”
“I might have one in the trunk.”
Gabriel scrutinized the remaining crates while Bittel went downstairs. There were forty-eight. All had come from Galerie Olivia Watson. TXM Capital was the recipient of record for twenty-seven of the crates. The rest bore equally vague names—the kind of names, thought Gabriel, invented by clever lawyers and private bankers.
Bittel returned with the tire tool. Gabriel used it to pry open the first crate. He worked slowly, gently, so as to leave as few marks in the wood as possible. Inside he found a canvas wrapped in glassine paper, resting in a protective frame of polyurethane. It was all very professional looking, with the exception of the canvas itself.
“How contemporary,” said Bittel.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” replied Gabriel.
He opened another crate. The contents were identical to the first. The same was true of the third crate. And the fourth. A canvas wrapped in glassine paper, a protective frame of polyurethane. All very professional, except for the canvases themselves.