The Heist. Daniel Silva

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СКАЧАТЬ your imagination.”

      Gabriel examined the painting more closely. “If I had to guess,” he said, “you intend to hang it in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nice.”

      “You have a good eye.”

      Gabriel turned away from the easel and walked over to the large rectangular worktable that stood in the center of the studio. Draped over it was a paint-spotted tarpaulin. Beneath it was an object approximately six feet in length and two feet across.

      “Is Morel a sculptor?”

      “No.”

      “So what’s underneath the tarp?”

      “I don’t know, but you’d better have a look.”

      Gabriel lifted the edge of the tarpaulin and peered beneath it.

      “Well?” asked Durand.

      “I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else to finish the Bonnard, Maurice.”

      “Let me see him.”

      Gabriel drew back the top of the tarpaulin.

      “Merde,” said Durand softly.

PART TWO

       13

       SAN REMO, ITALY

      GENERAL FERRARI WAITED NEAR THE walls of the old fortress in San Remo at half past two the following afternoon. He wore a business suit, a woolen overcoat, and dark glasses that shielded his all-seeing prosthetic eye from view. Gabriel, dressed in denim and leather, looked like the troubled younger sibling, the one who had made all the wrong choices in life and was once again in need of money. As they walked along the grimy waterfront, he briefed the general on his findings, though he was careful not to divulge his sources. The general didn’t seem surprised by anything he was hearing.

      “You left out one thing,” he said.

      “What’s that?”

      “Jack Bradshaw wasn’t a diplomat. He was a spy.”

      “How did you know?”

      “Everyone in the trade knew about Bradshaw’s past. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. But don’t worry,” the general added. “I’m not going to make things difficult for you with your friends in London. All I want is my Caravaggio.”

      They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.

      “You misled me,” he said.

      “Not at all,” replied the general.

      “How would you describe it?”

      “I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”

      “Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”

      “I’d heard rumors to that effect.”

      “Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”

      The general nodded.

      “Who is it?”

      “I haven’t a clue.”

      “Are you telling me the truth this time?”

      The general placed his good hand over his heart. “I do not know the identity of the person who’s been buying every piece of stolen art he can lay his hands on. Nor do I know who’s behind the murder of Jack Bradshaw.” He paused, then added, “Though I suspect they’re one and the same.”

      “Why was Bradshaw killed?”

      “I suppose he’d outlived his usefulness.”

      “Because he’d delivered the Caravaggio?”

      The general gave a noncommittal nod.

      “So why was he tortured first?”

      “Perhaps his killers wanted a name.”

      “Yves Morel?”

      “Bradshaw must have used Morel to knock the painting into shape so it could be sold.” He looked at Gabriel gravely and asked, “How did they kill him?”

      “They broke his neck. It looked like a complete transection of the spinal cord.”

      The general grimaced. “Silent and bloodless.”

      “And very professional.”

      “What did you do with the poor devil?”

      “He’ll be taken care of,” said Gabriel quietly.

      “By whom?”

      “It’s better if you don’t know the details.”

      The general shook his head slowly. He was now a party to a felony. It wasn’t the first time.

      “Let us hope,” he said after a moment, “that the French police never discover that you were in Morel’s apartment. Given your track record, they might get the wrong impression.”

      “Yes,” said Gabriel morosely. “Let us hope.”

      They turned into the Via Roma. It reverberated with the buzz of a hundred motor scooters. Gabriel, when he spoke again, had to raise his voice to be heard.

      “Who had it last?” he asked.

      “The Caravaggio?”

      Gabriel nodded.

      “Even I’m not sure,” the general admitted. “Every time we arrest a mafioso, no matter how insignificant, he offers us information on the whereabouts of the Nativity in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. We call it the Caravaggio card. Needless to say, we’ve wasted countless man-hours chasing down false leads.”

      “I thought you came close to finding it a couple of years ago.”

      “So did I, but it slipped through my fingers. I was beginning to think that I would never get another opportunity to recover it.” He smiled in spite of himself. “And now this.”

      “If the painting’s been sold, it’s probably no longer in Italy.”

      “I concur. But in my experience,” the general added, “the best time СКАЧАТЬ