“Does he intend to purchase the painting today?”
“That is our hope.”
“For how much?”
“The sale is private.”
“The buyer will nevertheless have to pay VAT taxes. And you and your bank, of course, will have to pay an import duty. For the full amount of the purchase price,” added Ménard. “Otherwise I’m going to fall on you from a very great height.” He turned to Van de Velde. “Close the case, please.”
The Dutch art dealer complied with the request. Ménard grasped the handle and lifted the case from the table. Franco Tedeschi reddened with anger.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to make some photographs of this painting for our records. And then you can be on your way.”
“In that case, I’m coming with you.”
“You will wait here on your beautiful private jet. Otherwise you can change your departure slot and return to Switzerland without completing the sale of the painting.” Ménard shrugged. “The choice is yours, messieurs.”
***
The two border policemen waited at the foot of the airstair while Ménard headed across the tarmac and into the terminal. Every square meter of the building was covered by CCTV cameras, especially the area around passport control and customs, but the windowless interior room where Gabriel waited was free of visual surveillance. Ménard removed the Leonardo from the transport case and laid it on the table next to Gabriel’s version. The two men stared at the paintings in silence for nearly a minute.
“I can’t tell the difference,” said Ménard at last.
“I can,” answered Gabriel gloomily.
“That’s because you painted it. No one else will be able to tell them apart.”
“It’s glaringly obvious.”
“Let’s have a look at the back of the paintings, shall we?”
Ménard lifted the Leonardo from the table as though he feared it might explode and gently turned it over. Gabriel handled his copywith far less care. Another moment passed while they examined the backs of the two paintings, side by side.
“Extraordinary,” whispered Ménard.
“A disaster waiting to happen.”
“It’s your call.”
“Actually it’s yours, Jacques. You’re the one who’s going to lose his head if this goes off the rails.”
Ménard placed the Leonardo in Gabriel’s solander case and closed the lid. “Au revoir, mon ami.”
***
Gabriel carried the world’s most expensive painting through the terminal to ground transportation, where an unmarked Renault sedan idled curbside in the brilliant Provençal sunlight. Inside were three Police Nationale officers in plainclothes. He slid into the back seat, and the Renault rolled forward at once. Five minutes later they were speeding eastward on the A8 Autoroute toward the Italian border. Gabriel pressed the case against his thighs to dampen the vibration. One last journey, he thought. Then she would be home.
***
Ingrid was tidying up the galley when Jacques Ménard came up the airstair with the art transport case. He moved past her without a word or glance and placed it with exaggerated care on the table in the cabin. Franco Tedeschi nodded toward Peter van de Velde, who popped the latches and lifted the lid. His examination was painstaking and included a check of the supporting panel.
“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Ménard.
“Damage.”
“You won’t find any. Here in France we know how to handle paintings.”
