“At leastsomeone still appreciates me.” They set off toward the Grand Canal. Julian’s gait was loose-limbed and precarious. “I don’t need to remind you, petal, that two people have been murdered because of this painting. Needless to say, I’d rather not be the third.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll have me looking over your shoulder. And Sarah, of course. We can’t possibly run an operation in Amsterdam without a skilled field agent like Sarah.”
“Your dear friend Sarah is still in the prime of her life. I, however, have entered the autumn of my years. And I would feel better if you accompanied me to the meeting with Van de Velde tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t invited. And if I walk into that gallery, you can be sure the painting will magically disappear.”
Julian slowed to a stop at the edge of the Riva degli Schiavoni. A flotilla of gondolas swayed on the evening tide. “Where exactly did you find her?”
Gabriel pointed to the moonlit waters between the Punta della Dogana and the church of San Giorgio Maggiore.
“The poor girl,” said Julian quietly. “The poor, poor girl.”
“She was murdered because she tried to warn the art world about the Leonardo. The least we can do is finish what she started.”
“One last fling in Amsterdam?”
“Why not?”
“It might end disastrously, you know.”
Gabriel smiled sadly. “The good ones always do.”
23
Galerie Van de Velde
Gabriel had saved few reminders of his decades-long career in the secret world, only a pair of false German passports, a Beretta pistol, and a copy of the world’s most formidable cell phone hacking malware. The passports and the gun were locked in the safe in his dressing room. The malware, which was known as Proteus, was hidden beneath a deceptive icon on his laptop computer. Its most insidious feature was that it required no blunder on the part of the target, no unwise software update or click of an innocent-looking photograph or advertisement. All Gabriel had to do was enter the target’s phone number into the application, and within minutes the device would be under his complete control. He could read the target’s emails and text messages, review the target’s browsing history and telephone metadata, and monitor the target’s physical movements with the GPS location services. Perhaps most important, he could activate the phone’s microphone and camera and thus turn the device into a full-time instrument of surveillance.
He unleashed Proteus on Peter van de Velde’s mobile phone when he returned to the apartment, and at nine o’clock that evening, after a pleasant dinner with Chiara and the children, he settled onto the loggia with his laptop to review the art dealer’s digital debris.He began with the emails. There were more than thirty thousand, divided equally between incoming and outgoing. Most were in English, the semiofficial language of the international art trade, and the rest were in Dutch, German, or French. Gabriel spotted the names of a few noteworthy dealers and collectors but found no correspondence with one Giorgio Montefiore or any reference to a lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.
The same was true of the text messages, which included a lengthy thread with Julian. Their last exchange had occurred at 3:42 p.m. that afternoon. It seemed that Van de Velde had taken the liberty of hiring a car to collect Julian at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, no minor expense for a small independent dealer. Julian had once again requested a photograph of the painting. Van de Velde, in declining the request, had promised that it would be well worth the wait.
The only direct air link between Venice and Amsterdam was a KLM flight that departed Marco Polo at the dreadful hour of seven. Gabriel and Julian traveled to the airport in separate water taxis and boarded the plane as though they were strangers. Their seats were on opposite sides of the first-class cabin. Gabriel spent the nearly two-hour flight working his way through the remaining data on Peter van de Velde’s phone. Julian sipped champagne and flirted with his neighbor, an attractive Dutch woman of perhaps forty who seemed to find him utterly charming.
Upon arrival in Amsterdam, Gabriel’s travel document received additional scrutiny at passport control, delaying his admission to the Netherlands by several minutes. He hastened to ground transportation in time to see a dark-suited man helping Julian into the back of a luxurious Mercedes sedan. Gabriel had a car waiting as well, though it was an economical Renault hatchback. The woman behind the wheel had shoulder-length blond hair, skin the color of alabaster, andeyes like a cloudless summer sky. They regarded Gabriel coolly as he dropped into the passenger seat.
“Long time no see,” she said, smothering a yawn. “Now, please tell me why we’re back in Amsterdam.”
***
It was Gabriel, not the Central Intelligence Agency, who had schooled Sarah Bancroft in the basics of tradecraft. He had taught her how to lie, how to steal, how to fight, and how to use a gun—a skill she put to good use one cold winter’s afternoon in Zurich when she fired two bullets into a Moscow Center assassin. She had received no training, however, in vehicular surveillance, an oversight Gabriel always regretted, never more so than at that moment.
“You’re too damn close. We might as well be sitting in the back seat next to Julian.”
“I don’t want to lose him.”
“We know where he’s going. Therefore, we cannot possibly lose him.”
Sarah reduced her speed and allowed a gap to open between the Renault and the black Mercedes. They were hurtling northward along the A10, Amsterdam’s circular motorway. Their destination, Galerie Van de Velde, was located in the historic Canal District. The gallery’s owner and namesake was sipping coffee at the café next door, scrolling through the morning headlines on his compromised phone. Gabriel was monitoring the feed from the device on his laptop computer, which was connected to the Internet via a mobile hot spot.
“I assume you had a look at the photos stored on his phone,” said Sarah.
“Only the ones he’s taken since the painting was stolen from the Vatican.”
“And?”
“There were no photos of the Leonardo.”
