Page 13 of The Collector
“Here in Italy, of all places.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Whyever not?”
“The painting was discovered late yesterday afternoon by another division of the Carabinieri. If it is indeed the work in question, I will contact the relevant authorities and begin the process of repatriation.”
“Is there some doubt?”
“It certainlylookslike the genuine article,” said General Ferrari. “But as you know, the art market is awash with high-quality forgeries. Needless to say, it would be most embarrassing if we were to announce the rediscovery of a missing painting only to have it turn out to be a fake. We have our reputation to uphold.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I was wondering whether you knew someone who could assist us. Someone whose expertise runs the gamut from Caravaggio to Van Gogh. Someone who could walk into an art gallery in, say, Paris and spot several forgeries within a matter of minutes.”
“I know just the expert,” said Gabriel. “But I’m afraid he’s rather busy at the moment.”
“I would advise him to find time in his schedule.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a friendly reminder that you are a guest in this country, and I am the innkeeper.”
It was General Ferrari, in his capacity as chief of the Art Squad,who had arranged for Gabriel to receive apermessodisoggiorno, a permanent Italian residence permit. Revocation of the document would threaten his livelihood, not to mention his marriage.
“A simple authentication? That’s all you require?”
Ferrari shrugged noncommittally.
“Where is the painting now?”
“In situ.”
“Wherein situ?”
“Amalfi. If we leave now, you’ll be home in time for a late dinner with Chiara.”
“Will I?”
“Probably not. In fact, it might be wise to pack a bag.”
“Gun or no gun?”
“Gun,” said General Ferrari. “Definitely bring a gun.”
7
Amalfi
While crossing thelagunain a Carabinieri patrol boat, Gabriel considered how best to explain the morning’s developments to Chiara. He reflected upon the matter further while changing into suitable attire and tossing a change of clothing into his overnight bag. In the end he decided to employ a version of the general’s original fiction, that the Art Squad required his connoisseur’s eye to authenticate a recovered stolen painting. He spun this tale by text message because he no longer possessed the ability to lie convincingly to his wife using any other form of communication. She accepted his story without question, including his false assertion that he would be back in Venice in time for a late dinner. If anything, she seemed relieved that her hopelessly amorous husband would be away for a few hours.
The patrol boat ferried them next to the airport, where they boarded an AgustaWestland AW109 helicopter. With a cruising speed of 285 kilometers per hour, it covered the distance down to Naples in just under three hours. They made the winding trip over the hills of the Sorrento Peninsula, with its nausea-inducing switchbacksand hairpin turns, in a Carabinieri Alfa Romeo, piloted, surely, by an aspiring Formula One driver. It was half past two when he turned through the open security gate of a palatial cliffside villa overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. Three additional Carabinieri cruisers were parked in the forecourt, along with a crime-scene van.
“Nice crib,” said Gabriel.
“Wait until you see the interior.”
