“But this is no ordinary painting.”
“I must say, it was an honor to spend a moment or two alone with it. Imagine, a newly discovered Leonardo. As a Frenchman, I only wish you had sold it to the Musée du Louvre.”
Franco Tedeschi smiled coldly. “The Louvre couldn’t afford it.”
“A sad state of affairs, if you ask me,” said Ménard, and walked off the aircraft.
Peter van de Velde was still staring at the painting.
“Are you sure there’s no damage?” asked Tedeschi.
“None at all.” Van de Velde closed the transport case. “Shall we?”
Tedeschi looked at Ingrid. “Yes, I think we shall.”
38
Antibes
The formalities complete, Ingrid removed her overcoat and handbag from the forward storage closet and headed down the airstair. Two S-Class Mercedes sedans waited on the tarmac, along with a courtesy van for the crew. For some reason, Ingrid’s six passengers seemed in no hurry to leave the aircraft, so she stood outside in the cold blustery air and made small talk with the two French policemen. She was looking forward to a couple hours of down time in the crew room at Signature Flight Support. Bleary-eyed, she resolved to never again think an unkind thought about anyone who tended to the needs of the flying public. It was, she thought, a dreadfully difficult way to earn a living.
Another minute went by before the first two security men clambered down the airstair with the hypervigilance of commandos preparing to make a dynamic entry into a den of terrorists. Peter van de Velde, art transport case in hand, was next, followed by the other two security men. Van de Velde ducked into the back seat of the first Mercedes as though he were evading enemy gunfire, and the security men set a four-cornered defensive perimeter. The French border policemen rolled their eyes. It was all faintly ridiculous.
Franco Tedeschi, a phone to his ear, appeared last. His descentdown the airstair was unhurried. When he reached the tarmac, he headed not for the Mercedes but for Ingrid.
He killed the phone call and said, “This is your lucky day, Rikke.”
“Why is that, Mr. Tedeschi?”
“Because you are about to witness a historic event.” The Italian banker took her by the arm. “Right this way, please. We mustn’t keep our buyer waiting.”
Before Ingrid could object, he was ushering her across the tarmac toward the first Mercedes. She joined Peter van de Velde in the back seat, and Tedeschi squeezed into the space next to her. The car sank as the larger of the two Italian security guards, a behemoth with a shaved head and a tattoo on the back of his thick neck, wedged himself into the passenger seat. The other three security men hurled themselves into the second Mercedes. Then the two cars shot forward in unison and raced past a line of parked private aircraft.
Franco Tedeschi, CFO of Camorra Inc., calmly lit a cigarette. “Why did that French policeman photograph my Leonardo, Rikke? Why today of all days?”
“How should I know?” replied Ingrid.
“I was wondering the same thing.”
***
Gabriel and his three-officer escort had put ten kilometers behind them by the time his phone rang. It was Jacques Ménard calling to say that all had not gone according to plan at the airport.
“Where is she?”
“On her way to Antibes.”
Gabriel killed the call and ordered the driver to reverse course.Then he looked at the officer seated next to him and asked if he and his colleagues were carrying firearms.
“Oui, Monsieur Allon. Big ones.”
***
“Your passport, please,” said Franco Tedeschi.
“Why do you want to see my passport?”
“Don’t make me ask again.”
