“Sabine works for the company that manages my planes.”
“Executive Jet Services of Zurich?”
“Correct.”
“It’s the same company that manages SBL’s Dassault Falcon.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Martin. “They handle most of the Swiss banking industry’s private aircraft.”
“Do you always have the same cabin attendant?”
“Usually. I’m rather close to the man who runs the company. Whenever possible, he gives me the same cockpit and cabin crew.”
“Does he do the same for SBL?”
“I would imagine so.”
The Gulfstream eased away from the terminal.
“And what if I wanted to make a change to SBL’s cabin crew for a single flight?” asked Gabriel.
“Why would you want to do a thing like that?”
“Eyes and ears only.”
“Nothing illegal?”
“You have my word, Martin.”
“I think it can be arranged. Provided, of course, you have a presentable candidate in mind.”
“More than presentable.”
“Your friend the computer hacker?”
Gabriel nodded.
“She certainly looks the part. But she’ll have to undergo training before the flight.”
“How hard can it be to pour a glass of Dom Pérignon?”
“For a mobster banker and his heavily armed bodyguards? Harder than it looks.”
***
The flying time from Paris to Venice was one hour and forty-five minutes. Luca Rossetti whisked Gabriel through the arrivals process and gave him a ride home to San Polo in a Carabinieri patrol boat. He placed the painting in his studio and went into the kitchen, where he found Ingrid and his wife singing along to Eros Ramazzotti’s “Parla con me” at the top of their lungs. Receiving no greeting or acknowledgment of his arrival, he poured a glass of Barbaresco and helped himself to a crostini smeared with artichokes and creamy ricotta cheese.
“Is there any news?” he asked of no one in particular.
“It seems we have a new bidder for the Leonardo,” Ingrid shouted over the music.
“Really? Who?”
Ingrid smiled and sang, “Parla con me . . .”
34
London–Zurich–Venice
