“SBL PrivatBank SA.”
“Is the Leonardo now hidden in that bank?”
“It might be,” replied Gabriel. “But I have a feeling it’s been on the move of late.”
“Why?”
“The plane’s flight records,” interjected Sarah. “It was in Dubai for three days last week. And the week before, it made stops in Tokyo and Hong Kong.”
“It sounds to me as if they’re showing the painting to prospective buyers. There are any number of extremely wealthy people in the world who would think nothing about plunking down a few hundred million for an authentic Leonardo, regardless of where it came from.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “We won’t let that happen.”
“What are we going to do? Break into that bank in Lugano?”
“We’re going to wait for them to make another mistake.”
“And then?”
Gabriel looked at the cast of art world characters lining the bar. “We’ll make our move.”
25
Lac Léman
At the time of its founding in 1873, it was known as Società Bancaria Lugano. It shortened its name a century later after acquiring several competitors and embarking on a rapid international expansion, one that left its balance sheet laden with debt. A series of scandals followed, including a costly scrape with the US Department of Justice for helping thousands of American citizens conceal their wealth from the Internal Revenue Service. Years of management chaos and heavy losses finally caught up with SBL, pushing the bank to the brink of insolvency. It was saved from collapse, though, by an eleventh-hour infusion of capital, the source of which remained a mystery.
This much about SBL’s history Gabriel was able to glean from nothing more painstaking than a simple search of the Internet. But having tangled with Swiss banks in the past, he was confident there was more to the story. Fortunately he had a trusted source at the pinnacle of the Swiss financial services industry, an ethically challenged billionaire venture capitalist named Martin Landesmann. Some years earlier they had worked together on an operation to smuggle dozens of explosive-filled centrifuges into Iran’s secret nuclear facilities. Martin’s participation in the affair, while pivotal, had not been voluntary.
Though he was a Züricher by birth, Martin dwelled in a palatial villa on the leafy northern shore of Lake Geneva. Gabriel arrived there in a taxi and was admitted by Martin’s beautiful French-born wife, Monique. Her greeting was formal but decidedly cool. Given the complexity of their history, it was the best Gabriel could have hoped for.
Her husband was outside on the villa’s terrace, a phone to his ear. He was dressed, as was his custom, like the lower half of a gray scale: slate-gray cashmere pullover, charcoal-gray trousers, black loafers. The attire paired nicely with his glossy silver hair and trendy silver spectacles. Spotting Gabriel, he raised a marble-white hand toward a circular table upon which a porcelain coffee service had been placed. Gabriel sat down and admired the view of the Mont Blanc massif, which had received a dusting of snow overnight. A passing motorboat opened a wound in the flat waters of the blue lake.
Several more minutes elapsed before Martin was finally able to extract himself from the phone call. “You must forgive me,” he said as he sat down. “But I’m afraid we have a rather serious crisis on our hands at One World.”
One World was Martin’s charitable foundation. It funneled billions in aid to developing nations, promoted democracy, protected the rights of journalists and political activists, and warned of the dangers posed by a warming climate. Mainly it provided Martin with a shimmering patina of corporate conscientiousness that blinded the press and Swiss regulators to the true nature of his business. Still, one had to hand it to Martin. He was one of the most fascinating criminals that Gabriel had ever met.
“And the nature of this crisis?”
“It involves our efforts to care for those displaced by the fighting in Sudan. Needless to say, it’s a dangerous place to operate.”
“Almost as dangerous as Geneva,” remarked Gabriel.
“Have you been causing trouble in our fair city again?”
“A minor incident at the Freeport not long ago.”
Martin poured coffee. “Notl’affaire Edmond Ricard?”
“Oui.”
“And what about the so-called Picasso Papers scandal? Were you involved in that as well?”
“It’s possible.”
“Those documents caused quite a sensation. A number of my less scrupulous colleagues lost a great deal of sleep.”
“But not you?”
