The walkie-talkie squawked. “Painting arrived?”
Morgane’s lips pursed. “Not yet,” she responded. Late. Even using the van, he was late for a simple snatch-and-grab. She hit the talk button. “Complications?”
“Unclear. We’re in a holding pattern.”
But the cargo plane wasn’t. This was their only chance until next week.
“Keep me updated.” The walkie-talkie channel went yellow.
“Something’s wrong,” Morgane said.
Flèche checked his watch. “I’ll say. He’s not the type to go drinking. But I’m going to find out.”
Dumb. How in the hell did he ever get the nickname Flèche, “sharp arrow”? Slow and dull were more like it.
“Wait until—”
“My cut disappears?” Flèche shook his head. Picked up his shearling jacket.
“You’ll ruin the plan, Flèche,” she said. “Screw up the timing.”
“Since when are you my boss?”
She wished he’d shut up. Hated working with a loose cannon.
“We all want this to go smooth, perform our roles. Yours is to.…”
She paused. They both heard the click from the courtyard door below. She put her finger to her mouth. Footsteps padded on the wet pavers, mounted the staircase until they stopped outside the door.
One knock. The signal. He was here.
Tuesday Morning
RAPHAEL DOMBASLE’S NOSE twitched as he studied the small painting in the Montparnasse gallery’s back room. His nose hadn’t twitched like this since he recovered the stolen Renoir in 1996 from a battered suitcase in the Gare du Nord left luggage. But he kept his face blank as he turned to the art dealer Luebet.
“No provenance? Or certificate of authenticity, Luebet?” he said, his fingers running over the painting’s carved frame. “So it’s stolen?”
“That’s why I alerted you, Dombasle.” Luebet gave a tight smile. Long white hair framed his hollowed face and brushed the blue jacket collar of his tailored pinstripe suit. A little phhft escaped his pursed lips. “The seller gave me a verbal agreement to furnish the painting’s provenance, of course, like they all do. But I knew right away.”
Of course he did. Small figure studies like this rarely came on the market or through an art dealer.
“But I’m acting in good faith, Dombasle.”
Dombasle figured Luebet had only alerted him because he’d been unable to sell the painting fast, before Interpol consulted the Art Data Registry. Luebet kept hands in both pots, as the saying went. The kind of informer who delivered when it suited him. Dombasle wondered at the timing.
“You’d rather a recovery fee than prison. Come out on the right side this time.”
“I thought we had an agreement, Dombasle.” Luebet’s voice tightened. “We share information, like last time. Why insult me when I follow the law?” Luebet shook his head.
“You haven’t heard me insult you. But I could.” Dombasle pulled out his tape measure and assessed the small canvas, but it was just a formality. He recognized the painting, which had been stolen during the bold daylight heist of a Left Bank townhouse. This painting was a perfect match, even to the stained signature. An early Berthe Morisot. A jewel of delicate brushstrokes, a charcoal-and-aquarelle study of a mother and child under a garden trellis—her signature subjects. The comtesse had allowed it to be photographed for the glossy architectural magazine’s ten-page spread of her townhouse collection—stupid. When the rich advertised what they had and where they kept it, what did they expect?
Luebet shrugged. Lit a cigarette and hit the air filter machine, which erupted in a whirr. “A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure,” he said. “Exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied, to quote Oscar Wilde. What more can one want?”
Dombasle watched the dealer expel a stream of smoke. “So the comtesse’s other stolen works.…”
“Went the way of the ghost. Vanished. Or so the rumor goes.”
“Care to elucidate, Luebet?”
Luebet shrugged. “Use your imagination.”
“Any Baltic accents attached to the rumors?” Dombasle asked. Eastern Europeans exchanged stolen paintings for arms or jewels or drugs—not so picky. Last year a Serbian militant was caught pulling Chagalls from his Zagreb basement to trade for a fleet of armor-plated Land Rovers. In turf wars, art was a gold bar of exchange for such gangs, who cared nothing for it but as a commodity.
Luebet, who had been prominent in the art world for forty years, sighed. “Or they’ve gone to Moscow-on-Thames.” The Russian oligarch billionaires bought up country manors around London with irritating efficiency. Kept the UK economy afloat. Too bad that hadn’t happened here since the eighties with the Japanese chateau-buying frenzy. “The young breed operates pipelines outside my sources.” Luebet shrugged. “We’re old, compris? There’s a new generation.”
True. Dombasle wanted to get this over with, but sensed Luebet had another agenda. “Bon, I’ll contact the chief, he’ll inform the comtesse.” Dombasle grinned. “The usual drill. Tell your seller you’ve found a client who wants a verbal provenance. Arrange a meeting. Say you’ll bring the money. We’ll do the rest.” A cut-and-dried sting operation.
Luebet seemed to weigh his options. “D’accord,” he said finally. That hesitation in the dealer’s look indicated he had more information—a tip, a name.
“Something else on your mind, Luebet?”
“Rumors.”
“Concerning what, Luebet?”
“That’s just it, rumors,” Luebet said. “Years ago a story surfaced about a Modigliani that went missing in 1920—only shown once. Whispers only, you understand. That it’s been found in France. Worth … well, for years its existence was the stuff of dreams. Now the whispers say right after it was discovered it went missing.”
Dombasle knew the art dealer was fishing for something. Teasing the story out to find what Dombasle knew. But he wouldn’t play.