Page 85 of A Death in Cornwall

“Mrs. Bradley had found out about the affair?”

“That was the implication.”

“What time did Bradley want to see her?”

“Five p.m.”

“The cliffs above Porthchapel Beach?”

“Oui.”

“What did you do?”

“I sent the text,” said Lambert. “And two hours later Professor Blake was dead.”

***

Emanuel Cohen died three days later, the victim of an apparent fall down the steps of the rue Chappe in Montmartre. Lambert knew nothing of the doctor’s fate. He was hard at work on another matter, an overzealous Norwegian tax official who was targeting one of the firm’s most important clients. Lambert gave Trevor Robinson a mountain of compromising material—the Norwegian had a weakness for child pornography—and Robinson gave Lambert his next assignment.

“Hack the Geneva Freeport?”

Lambert nodded.

“Did Robinson tell you why?”

“The problem with the Picasso had resurfaced.”

This time, though, the threat was internal. Edmond Ricard had received a lucrative offer for the Picasso that he wanted to accept. The prospective buyer, interestingly enough, was Anna Rolfe, the world-renowned violinist. She intended to store the painting in the Geneva Freeport under Ricard’s supervision. He was confident the canvas would remain under lock and key and out of public view for the foreseeable future.

“I assume Harris Weber & Company was opposed to the deal?”

“Vehemently.”

“Why didn’t the partners simply tell Ricard that the painting wasn’t on the market?”

“They did.”

“And?”

“Ricard agreed to withdraw from the negotiations. But I was monitoring his phone, and I knew that he had no intention of backing out of the deal. It was to be a trade rather than an outright sale. The Picasso in exchange for works by Van Gogh, Modigliani, and Cézanne. Ricard planned to sell the three paintings and pocket the money. He was confident his partners at Harris Weber would never find out about it.”

“Because his partners intended to leave the Picasso in the Freeport forever.”

“Exactement, Monsieur Allon. As far as the firm was concerned, Ricard’s double-dealing was the final straw.”

Lambert was confident in his ability to crack the Freeport’s network undetected. Nevertheless, out of an abundance of caution, he carried out the hack from a hastily rented apartment in Cannes. Alone in his darkened room overlooking the rue d’Antibes, he was monitoring the Freeport’s security cameras when a man with an art transport case entered the stubby office block at 4 Route du Grand-Lancy, home of Galerie Ricard. Fifteen minutes later, after the man had left the building, Lambert made a single keystroke, and six months’ worth of Freeport security video vanished into thin air.

“Or so you thought,” said Gabriel, and clicked the trackpad on his laptop.

Lambert glared at the screen, then at Ingrid. “How were you able to resurrect it?”

“Quite easily, actually.”

They watched as the man with the art transport case stepped from the elevator on the third floor and requested admission to Galerie Ricard.

“What did you think was going to happen next?” asked Gabriel.

“Robinson told me that he was going to remove the Picasso from the gallery before Ricard could complete the transaction with Anna Rolfe.”

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