“So it would appear.” Sarah started the engine of the Renault. “Can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”
“That depends on your performance behind the wheel during the next few minutes.” Gabriel watched the Mercedes sedan roll past his window. In the back seat were Julian and Peter van de Velde. “This is the part where you follow them.”
Sarah waited a few seconds before easing away from the curb. The Mercedes made a quick left turn and headed out of the Canal District. A moment later it was speeding in the opposite direction along the Overtoom.
Sarah settled in fifty meters behind it. “Where do you suppose they’re going?”
“I’m sure Julian is wondering the same thing.”
“Perhaps I should ring him. Just checking in, that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps you should concentrate on your driving. Otherwise you’re going to lose them at the next light.”
Sarah put her foot to the floor and followed the Mercedes across the busy intersection. It continued west on the Overtoom, then headed south on the A10 toward Schiphol Airport.
“You don’t think . . .”
“It’s beginning to look that way,” replied Gabriel.
“But why the airport?”
“What better way to view a stolen Leonardo?”
Schiphol’s general aviation terminal was located in a remote corner of the airfield. From a car park along the edge of the tarmac, Gabriel watched helplessly as Julian followed Peter van de Velde up the forward airstair of a Dassault Falcon 900LX. The feed from the Dutch art dealer’s phone died a few seconds after the cabin door closed.
Sarah snapped a photograph of the Dassault as it rolled slowlyacross the tarmac toward the runway. “Who do you suppose is on that plane?”
“A member of the Camorra,” replied Gabriel. “Or at least a reasonable facsimile.”
“Is Julian in any danger?”
“A little.”
“Let’s hope they don’t kill him,” said Sarah. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”
24
Wiltons
Julian Isherwood had examined paintings in cellars and salesrooms, in bank vaults and bonded warehouses, and on one occasion while engaged in the act of love with the widow of a wealthy collector. But never once during his storied career had he assessed a work of art while airborne. He supposed there was a first time for everything, even at his advanced age.
There were five other passengers aboard the Dassault—four security goons and a well-dressed man in his late fifties with a sharp-featured face, olive-complected skin, and thinning hair combed closely to his scalp. Julian extended his hand in greeting, but the man demanded his mobile phone instead. He did so in Italian-accented English. Julian surrendered the device under protest, then watched it disappear into a black nylon pouch. A pretty cabin attendant presented him with a glass of prosecco. From Peter van de Velde he received a muted apology.
“Sorry, Julian. My partner is a careful man.”
“Does he have a name, your partner?”
“Not one he wishes to divulge at this time.”
Van de Velde waited until the plane had leveled off somewhere over the Netherlands before finally fetching a shallow art transportcase from the cabin’s aft compartment. Inside, covered by two sheets of protective glassine paper, was a portrait of a beautiful fair-haired woman gazing directly at the viewer over her left shoulder—78 by 56 centimeters, or thereabouts. Van de Velde, after first pulling on a pair of protective white gloves, removed the panel from the case and laid it carefully on the cabin’s table.
“Do you recognize her, Julian?”
“Yes, of course.”
Van de Velde offered him a pair of gloves. “Have a closer look. I think you’ll see something special.”
Julian pulled on the gloves and, grasping the painting with both hands, turned it over and had a look at the back. The original walnut panel had been adhered to an oak panel, perhaps nineteenth century, with three scratched and dented horizontal supports—one along the top edge of the painting, one across the center, and one at the bottom. There were no stamps or markings of any kind, nothing that might identify a previous owner. Julian, inhaling deeply, thought he detected the faintest aroma of fresh rabbit skin glue.
