Page 18 of The Collector
“A close business relationship with a certain notorious criminal organization based in Calabria.”
“’Ndrangheta?”
Ferrari nodded. “As you know, the ’Ndrangheta are the primary European distributors for the South American drug cartels. And for the past decade or so, LVD Marine Transport has served as the transatlantic conveyor belt.”
“Wonderful,” said Gabriel. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me before I begin my investigation?”
“Thief killed Van Damme, thief stole painting.”
“Not a chance.”
“All right,” said Ferrari. “Let’s hearyourtheory of the case.”
Gabriel looked down at the photograph of the woman sitting at the terrace bar of the Santa Catarina Hotel. “Thief didn’t know the score when she took the job. Thief is in over her pretty little head.”
9
Rue de Miromesnil
There was an ITA Airways flight to Paris leaving Fiumicino at half past eight. With General Ferrari’s assistance, Gabriel was permitted to sidestep the body screeners at security. He rang Chiara from the departure gate.
“You’ll never guess where I am.”
“I know exactly where you are, darling. More important, I know where you’re going.”
“How is that possible?”
“I just got off the phone with the general.”
“You’re not angry?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But I’m prepared to grant you a few days’ leave to pursue the matter. Unpaid, of course.”
“How generous of you.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?”
“I promise not to visit any art galleries.”
“You’re staying somewhere dreadful, I hope.”
“Actually, I was planning to borrow a friend’s pied-à-terre.”
The friend was the Swiss billionaire venture capitalist MartinLandesmann, and his luxurious pied-à-terre was located on the Île Saint-Louis. Gabriel had utilized the apartment—as well as the services of Martin’s ethically challenged Geneva-based firm—during his last major operation as chief of the Office.
“How long do you need it?” asked Martin.
“Two nights. Three at the most.”
“Not a problem. I’ll have my property manager stock the fridge. I believe there’s a bottle or two of Château Pétrus in the wine cooler. Your life will never be the same.”
Gabriel drank a glass of the extraordinary Pomerol wine late that evening with thepoulet rotiandharicots vertshe ate for his supper. He passed a restful night in Martin’s guest room, and at nine fifteen the following morning he was walking along the pavements of the rue de Miromesnil in the Eighth Arrondissement. At the northern end of the street was a shop called Antiquités Scientifiques. Its proprietor, a man named Maurice Durand, was drinking a café crème across the street at Brasserie Dumas. Gabriel joined the Frenchman uninvited and, signaling the waiter, ordered a coffee for himself.
Durand folded his copy ofLe Mondewith inordinate care and placed it on the table. He wore a tailored suit, undertaker gray, with a striped dress shirt and a lavender necktie. His bald head was polished to a high gloss.
“What an unpleasant surprise, Monsieur Allon. I didn’t realize we had an appointment this morning.”
“It must have slipped your mind, Maurice.”
