by Daniel Silva
There were more brushes with the authorities—his name appears in the police records of Rome five times in 1605 alone—but none more serious than the incident that took place on May 28, 1606. It was a Sunday, and as usual Caravaggio went to the ball courts at the Via della Pallacorda for a game of tennis. There he encountered Ranuccio Tomassoni, a street fighter, a rival for the affections of a beautiful young courtesan who had posed for several of Caravaggio’s paintings. Words were exchanged, swords were drawn. The details of the mêlée are unclear, but it ended with Tomassoni lying on the ground with a deep wound to his upper thigh. He died a short time later, and by that evening Caravaggio was the target of a citywide manhunt. Wanted for murder, a crime with only one possible punishment, he fled into the Alban Hills. He would never see Rome again.
He made his way south to Naples, where his reputation as a great painter preceded him, the murder notwithstanding. He left behind The Seven Acts of Mercy before sailing to Malta. There he was admitted into the Knights of Malta, an expensive honor for which he paid in paintings, and for a brief time he lived as a nobleman. Then a fight with a fellow member of his order led to yet another spell in prison. He managed to escape and flee to Sicily where by all accounts he was a mad, deranged soul who slept with a dagger at his side. Even so, he managed to paint. In Syracuse he left The Burial of St. Lucy. In Messina he produced two monumental paintings: The Raising of Lazarus and the heartbreaking Adoration of the Shepherds. And for the Oratorio di San Lorenzo in Palermo he painted The Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. Three hundred and fifty-nine years later, on the night of October 18, 1969, two men entered the chapel through a window and cut the canvas from its frame. A copy of the painting hung behind General Cesare Ferrari’s desk at the palazzo in Rome. It was the Art Squad’s number-one target.
“I suspect the general already knows about the connection between the Caravaggio and Jack Bradshaw,” Maurice Durand said. “That would explain why he was so insistent you take the case.”
“You know the general well,” said Gabriel.
“Not really,” replied the Frenchman. “But I did meet him once.”
“Where?”
“Here in Paris, at a symposium on art crime. The general was on one of the panels.”
“And you?”
“I was in attendance.”
“In what capacity?”
“A dealer of valuable antiques, of course.” Durand smiled. “The general struck me as a serious fellow, very capable. It’s been a long time since I’ve stolen a painting in Italy.”
They were walking along the gravel footpath of the allée centrale. The leaden clouds had drained the gardens of color. It was Sisley rather than Monet.
“Is it possible?” asked Gabriel.
“That the Caravaggio is actually in play?”
Gabriel nodded. Durand appeared to give the question serious consideration before answering.
“I’ve heard all the stories,” he said at last. “That the collector who commissioned the theft refused to accept the painting because it was so badly damaged when it was cut from the frame. That the Mafia bosses of Sicily used to bring it out during meetings as a kind of trophy. That it was destroyed in a flood. That it was eaten by rats. But I’ve also heard rumors,” he added, “that it’s been in play before.”
“How much would it be worth on the black market?”
“The paintings Caravaggio produced while he was on the run lack the depth of his great Roman works. Even so,” Durand added, “a Caravaggio is still a Caravaggio.”
“How much, Maurice?”
“The rule of thumb is that a stolen painting retains ten percent of its value on the black market. If the Caravaggio were worth fifty million on the open market, it would fetch five million dirty.”
“There is no open market for a Caravaggio.”
“Which means it’s truly one of a kind. There are some men in the world who would pay almost anything for it.”
“Could you move it?”
“With a single phone call.”
They arrived at the boat pond where several miniature sailing vessels were careening about a tiny storm-tossed sea. Gabriel paused at the edge and explained how he had found three stolen paintings—a Parmigianino, a Renoir, and a Klimt—concealed beneath copies of lesser works at Jack Bradshaw’s villa on Lake Como. Durand, watching the boats, nodded thoughtfully.
“It sounds to me as though they were being readied for transport and sale.”
“Why paint over them?”
“So they could be sold as legitimate works.” Durand paused, then added, “Legitimate works of lesser value, of course.”
“And when the sales were complete?”
“A person like you would be hired to remove the concealing images and prepare the paintings for hanging.”
A pair of tourists, young girls, posed for a photograph on the opposite side of the boat pond. Gabriel took Durand by the elbow and led him toward the Louvre Pyramid.
“The person who painted those fakes was good,” he said. “Good enough to fool someone like me at first glance.”
“There are many talented artists out there who are willing to sell their services to those of us who toil at the dirty end of the trade.” The Frenchman looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to forge a painting?”
“I might have forged a Cassatt once.”
“For a worthy cause, no doubt.”
They walked on, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.
“And what about you, Maurice? Have you ever required the services of a forger?”
“We are getting into sensitive territory,” Durand cautioned.
“We crossed that border a long time ago, you and I.”
They came to the Place du Carrousel, turned to the right, and made for the river.
“Whenever possible,” Durand said, “I prefer to create the illusion that a stolen painting hasn’t actually been stolen.”
“You leave behind a copy.”
“We call them replacement jobs.”
“How many are hanging in museums and homes across Europe?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Go on, Maurice.”
“There’s one man who does all my work for me. He’s fast, reliable, and quite good.”
“Does the man have a name?”
Durand hesitated, then answered. The forger’s name was Yves Morel.
“Where did he train?”
“The École Nationale des Beaux-Arts in Lyon.”
“Very prestigious,” said Gabriel. “Why didn’t he become an artist?”
“He tried. It didn’t work out as planned.”
“So he took his revenge on the art world by becoming a forger?”
“Something like that.”
“How noble.”
“People in glass houses.”
“Is your relationship exclusive?”
“I wish it was, but I can’t give him enough work. On occasion he accepts commissions from other patrons. One of those patrons was a now-deceased fence named Jack Bradshaw.”
Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face Durand. “Which is why you know so much about Bradshaw’s operation,” he said. “You were sharing the services of the same forger.”
“It was all rather Caravaggesque,” replied Durand, nodding.
“Where did Morel do his work for Bradshaw?”
“In a room at the Geneva Freeport. Bradshaw had a rather unique art gallery there. Yves used to call it the gallery of the missing.”
“Where is he now?”
“Here in Paris.”
“Where, Maurice?”
Durand removed his hand from the pocket of his overcoat and indicated that the forger could be found somewhere near Sacré-Cœur. They entered the Métro, the art thief and the intelligence operative, and headed for Montmartre.
12
MONTMARTRE, PARIS
YVES MOREL LIVED IN AN apartment building on the rue Ravi
gnon. When Durand pressed the intercom button, there was no answer.
“He’s probably in the Place du Tertre.”
“Doing what?”
“Selling copies of famous Impressionist paintings to the tourists so the French tax authorities think he has a legitimate income.”
They walked to the square, a jumble of outdoor cafés and street artists near the basilica, but Morel wasn’t in his usual spot. Then they went to his favorite bar in the rue Norvins, but there was no sign of him there, either. A call to his mobile phone went unanswered.
“Merde,” said Durand softly, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket.
“What now?”
“I have a key to his apartment.”
“Why?”
“Occasionally, he leaves things in his studio for me to collect.”
“Sounds like a trusting soul.”
“Contrary to popular myth,” said Durand, “there is indeed honor among thieves.”
They walked back to the apartment house and rang the intercom a second time. When there was no response, Durand fished a ring of keys from his pocket and used one to unlock the door. He used the same key to unlock the door of Morel’s apartment. Darkness greeted them. Durand flipped a light switch on the wall, illuminating a large open room that doubled as a studio and living space. Gabriel walked over to an easel, on which was propped an unfinished copy of a landscape by Pierre Bonnard.
“Does he intend to sell this one to the tourists in the Place du Tertre?”
“That one’s for me.”
“What’s it for?”
“Use your imagination.”
Gabriel examined the painting more closely. “If I had to guess,” he said, “you intend to hang it in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nice.”
“You have a good eye.”
Gabriel turned away from the easel and walked over to the large rectangular worktable that stood in the center of the studio. Draped over it was a paint-spotted tarpaulin. Beneath it was an object approximately six feet in length and two feet across.
“Is Morel a sculptor?”
“No.”
“So what’s underneath the tarp?”
“I don’t know, but you’d better have a look.”
Gabriel lifted the edge of the tarpaulin and peered beneath it.
“Well?” asked Durand.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else to finish the Bonnard, Maurice.”
“Let me see him.”
Gabriel drew back the top of the tarpaulin.
“Merde,” said Durand softly.
PART TWO
SUNFLOWERS
13
SAN REMO, ITALY
GENERAL FERRARI WAITED NEAR THE walls of the old fortress in San Remo at half past two the following afternoon. He wore a business suit, a woolen overcoat, and dark glasses that shielded his all-seeing prosthetic eye from view. Gabriel, dressed in denim and leather, looked like the troubled younger sibling, the one who had made all the wrong choices in life and was once again in need of money. As they walked along the grimy waterfront, he briefed the general on his findings, though he was careful not to divulge his sources. The general didn’t seem surprised by anything he was hearing.
“You left out one thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Jack Bradshaw wasn’t a diplomat. He was a spy.”
“How did you know?”
“Everyone in the trade knew about Bradshaw’s past. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. But don’t worry,” the general added. “I’m not going to make things difficult for you with your friends in London. All I want is my Caravaggio.”
They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.
“You misled me,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied the general.
“How would you describe it?”
“I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”
“Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”
“I’d heard rumors to that effect.”
“Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”
The general nodded.
“Who is it?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Are you telling me the truth this time?”
The general placed his good hand over his heart. “I do not know the identity of the person who’s been buying every piece of stolen art he can lay his hands on. Nor do I know who’s behind the murder of Jack Bradshaw.” He paused, then added, “Though I suspect they’re one and the same.”
“Why was Bradshaw killed?”
“I suppose he’d outlived his usefulness.”
“Because he’d delivered the Caravaggio?”
The general gave a noncommittal nod.
“So why was he tortured first?”
“Perhaps his killers wanted a name.”
“Yves Morel?”
“Bradshaw must have used Morel to knock the painting into shape so it could be sold.” He looked at Gabriel gravely and asked, “How did they kill him?”
“They broke his neck. It looked like a complete transection of the spinal cord.”
The general grimaced. “Silent and bloodless.”
“And very professional.”
“What did you do with the poor devil?”
“He’ll be taken care of,” said Gabriel quietly.
“By whom?”
“It’s better if you don’t know the details.”
The general shook his head slowly. He was now a party to a felony. It wasn’t the first time.
“Let us hope,” he said after a moment, “that the French police never discover that you were in Morel’s apartment. Given your track record, they might get the wrong impression.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel morosely. “Let us hope.”
They turned into the Via Roma. It reverberated with the buzz of a hundred motor scooters. Gabriel, when he spoke again, had to raise his voice to be heard.
“Who had it last?” he asked.
“The Caravaggio?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Even I’m not sure,” the general admitted. “Every time we arrest a mafioso, no matter how insignificant, he offers us information on the whereabouts of the Nativity in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. We call it the Caravaggio card. Needless to say, we’ve wasted countless man-hours chasing down false leads.”
“I thought you came close to finding it a couple of years ago.”
“So did I, but it slipped through my fingers. I was beginning to think that I would never get another opportunity to recover it.” He smiled in spite of himself. “And now this.”
“If the painting’s been sold, it’s probably no longer in Italy.”
“I concur. But in my experience,” the general added, “the best time to find a stolen painting is immediately after it’s changed hands. We have to move quickly, though. Otherwise, we might have to wait another forty-five years.”
“We?”
The general stopped walking but said nothing.
“My involvement in this affair,” said Gabriel over the drone of the traffic, “is now officially over.”
“You promised to find out who killed Jack Bradshaw in exchange for keeping your friend’s name out of the newspapers. The way I see it, you haven’t completed your commission.”
“I’ve given you an important lead, not to mention three stolen paintings.”
“But not the painting I want.” The general removed his sunglasses and fixed Gabriel with his monocular stare. “Your involvement in this case isn’t over, Allon. In fact, it’s just beginning.”
They walked to a small bar overlooking the marina. It was empty except for two young men wh
o were grousing about the sad state of the economy. It was a common sight in Italy these days. There were no jobs, no prospects, no future—only the beautiful reminders of the past that the general and his team at the Art Squad were sworn to protect. He ordered a coffee and a sandwich and led Gabriel to a table outside in the cold sunlight.
“Frankly,” he said when they were alone again, “I don’t know how you can even think about walking away from the case now. It would be like leaving a painting unfinished.”
“My unfinished painting is in Venice,” replied Gabriel, “along with my pregnant wife.”
“Your Veronese is safe. And so is your wife.”
Gabriel looked at an overflowing rubbish bin at the edge of the marina and shook his head. The ancient Romans had invented central heating, but somewhere along the line their descendants had forgotten how to take out the trash.
“It could take months to find that painting,” he said.
“We don’t have months. I’d say we have a few weeks at most.”
“Then I suppose you and your men better get moving.”
The general shook his head slowly. “We’re good at tapping phones and making deals with mafioso scum. But we don’t do undercover operations well, especially outside Italy. I need someone to toss some bait into the waters of the stolen art market and to see if we can tempt Mr. Big into making another acquisition. He’s out there somewhere. You just have to find something to interest him.”
“One doesn’t find multimillion-dollar masterpieces. One steals them.”
“In spectacular fashion,” added the general. “Which means it shouldn’t be something from a home or a private gallery.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I do.” The general gave a conspiratorial smile. “Most undercover operations involve sending a fake buyer into the field. But yours will be different. You’ll be posing as a thief with a hot piece of canvas to sell. The painting has to be real.”
“Why don’t you let me borrow something lovely from the Galleria Borghese?”