The Heist. Daniel Silva

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      They entered the church through the main doorway off the campo and made their way to Bellini’s famed San Zaccaria altarpiece. A tour group stood before it while a guide lectured sonorously on the subject of the painting’s most recent restoration, unaware that the man who had performed it was among his audience. Even General Ferrari seemed to find it amusing, though after a moment his monocular gaze began to wander. The Bellini was San Zaccaria’s most important piece, but the church contained several other notable paintings as well, including works by Tintoretto, Palma the Elder, and Van Dyke. It was just one example of why the Carabinieri maintained a dedicated unit of art detectives. Italy had been blessed with two things in abundance: art and professional criminals. Much of the art, like the art in the church, was poorly protected. And many of the criminals were bent on stealing every last bit of it.

      On the opposite side of the nave was a small chapel that contained the crypt of its patron and a canvas by a minor Venetian painter that no one had bothered to clean in more than a century. General Ferrari lowered himself onto one of the pews, opened his metal attaché case, and removed a file folder. Then, from the folder, he drew a single eight-by-ten photograph, which he handed to Gabriel. It showed a man of late middle age hanging by his wrists from a chandelier. The cause of death was not clear from the image, though it was obvious the man had been tortured savagely. The face was a bloody, swollen mess, and several swaths of skin and flesh had been carved away from the torso.

      “Who was he?” asked Gabriel.

      “His name was James Bradshaw, better known as Jack. He was a British subject, but he spent most of his time in Como, along with several thousand of his countrymen.” The general paused thoughtfully. “The British don’t seem to like living in their own country much these days, do they?”

      “No, they don’t.”

      “Why is that?”

      “You’d have to ask them.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph and winced. “Was he married?”

      “No.”

      “Divorced?”

      “No.”

      “Significant other?”

      “Apparently not.”

      Gabriel returned the photograph to the general and asked what Jack Bradshaw had done for a living.

      “He described himself as a consultant.”

      “What sort?”

      “He worked in the Middle East for several years as a diplomat. Then he retired early and went into business for himself. Apparently, he dispensed advice to British firms wishing to do business in the Arab world. He must have been quite good at his job,” the general added, “because his villa was among the most expensive on that part of the lake. It also contained a rather impressive collection of Italian art and antiquities.”

      “Which explains the Art Squad’s interest in his death.”

      “Partly,” said the general. “After all, having a nice collection is no crime.”

      “Unless the collection is acquired in a way that skirts Italian law.”

      “You’re always one step ahead of everyone else, aren’t you, Allon?” The general looked up at the darkened painting hanging on the wall of the chapel. “Why wasn’t this cleaned in the last restoration?”

      “There wasn’t enough money.”

      “The varnish is almost entirely opaque.” The general paused, then added, “Just like Jack Bradshaw.”

      “May he rest in peace.”

      “That’s not likely, not after a death like that.” Ferrari looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to contemplate your own demise?”

      “Unfortunately, I’ve had several. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather talk about the collecting habits of Jack Bradshaw.”

      “The late Mr. Bradshaw had a reputation for acquiring paintings that were not actually for sale.”

      “Stolen paintings?”

      “Those are your words, my friend. Not mine.”

      “You were watching him?”

      “Let us say that the Art Squad monitored his activities to the best of our ability.”

      “How?”

      “The usual ways,” answered the general evasively.

      “I assume your men are doing a complete and thorough inventory of his collection.”

      “As we speak.”

      “And?”

      “Thus far they’ve found nothing from our database of missing or stolen works.”

      “Then I suppose you’ll have to take back all the nasty things you said about Jack Bradshaw.”

      “Just because there’s no evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

      “Spoken like a true Italian policeman.”

      It was clear from General Ferrari’s expression that he interpreted Gabriel’s remark as a compliment. Then, after a moment, he said, “One heard other things about the late Jack Bradshaw.”

      “What sort of things?”

      “That he wasn’t just a private collector, that he was involved in the illegal export of paintings and other works of art from Italian soil.” The general lowered his voice and added, “Which explains why your friend Julian Isherwood is in a great deal of trouble.”

      “Julian Isherwood doesn’t trade in smuggled art.”

      The general didn’t bother to respond. In his eyes, all art dealers were guilty of something.

      “Where is he?” asked Gabriel.

      “In my custody.”

      “Has he been charged with anything?”

      “Not yet.”

      “Under СКАЧАТЬ