Page 89 of An Inside Job
Which left Gabriel forty-eight hours to put the final pieces of his operation in place. He did so with a rapid series of four telephone calls. The first was to General Cesare Ferrari, chief of the Art Squad, and the second was to his French counterpart, Jacques Ménard of the Police Nationale. He caught Sarah Bancroft as she was walking along Duke Street toward Wiltons and reached Martin Landesmann at his villa on Lake Geneva. Martin quickly placed a call of his own, to Markus Vogel of Executive Jet Services, and Vogel informed Frau Huber, supervisor of the cabin staff, of a crew change for a forthcoming flight between Lugano and Nice. Frau Huber found this intriguing for any number of reasons, not least because there was nothing in the computer to indicate that such a flight had been scheduled.
She penciled in the change nevertheless and informed Ingrid, via a text message to a burner phone, that she would be making her maiden voyage on Wednesday morning. Unbeknownst to Frau Huber, her new employee spent Tuesday afternoon plotting to steal a lost masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci from the very men upon whom she would soon be waiting. Her partner in crime, for his part, informed Dottoressa Elenora Saviano that, owing to a scheduling conflict, he would not be able to keep his appointment that week with his fourteen art students.
That evening Ingrid joined the Allon family for dinner at Vini da Arturo, and at six the following morning, dressed in her new uniform and a navy blue raincoat, she boarded a train bound for Lugano. Gabriel had booked two seats on the nine o’clock flight to Nice, one for himself and the other for the solander museum case. Two plainclothes French policemen met him as he stepped from the jetway at Côte d’Azur Airport and escorted him to a windowless room near passport control where Jacques Ménard, in a sleek dark suit and tie, sat at a spotless white table.
He looked at the museum case. “What have you got there?”
“Nothing at all, Jacques.”
Ménard smiled. “Contrapposto?”
“Poof,” said Gabriel. “Like smoke losing itself on the air.”
35
Hotel Splendide
It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when Sarah Bancroft stepped from the Belle Époque entrance of the Hotel Splendide. Brushing past the doorman, she set off along the lakefront through the cold gray morning. There was snow on the surrounding mountain peaks and a few gritty flakes adrift on the wind. The city around her was postcard pretty but strangely inanimate and dated. She half expected to bump into Dick and Nicole Diver walking toward her along the promenade. Perhaps they would meet up with Rosemary Hoyt and Abe North for drinks later at the Grand Café Al Porto and talk about their plans for the summer in Cannes.
Sarah laughed quietly at the thought. She had arrived in Lugano the previous evening after making a brief stop in Zurich. There she had inspected several Old Master paintings—including works by Raphael, Rembrandt, and Rubens—at the home of a world-renowned violinist. Or so went the cover story she would tell the Swiss authorities in the event today’s caper went sideways. Her husband had traveled to Lugano under his SIS identity, the international business consultant Peter Marlowe. Presently he was in their suite at the Splendide making phone calls to clients, all of whom were sitting at desks at SIS headquarters in London.
Sarah had to admit it felt good to be back in the game. She had played it better than most during her brief career, but then Gabriel Allon had been whispering in her ear. She recalled the occasion of their first meeting—it had taken place in a CIA safe house in Georgetown—and the frigid winter’s night in Copenhagen when, unwisely, she had confessed her love for him. The spell was finally broken when she spent a few nights holed up in a hotel in Frinton-on-Sea with Christopher, who just happened to be one of Gabriel’s closest friends. They were wed in secret, with only a handful of senior SIS officers in attendance. Gabriel had given away the bride.
A gust of wind rattled the fronds of the palm trees lining the lakefront boulevard. Sarah thought they looked out of place in the mountainous setting. Then she recalled that a trick of the weather patterns had blessed Lugano with one of the warmest climates in Switzerland. But not today, she thought. The temperature was hovering around the freezing mark, and the clouds were leaden and low. She only hoped there were no weather delays at the airport. They were about to carry out one of the greatest heists in history. Timing, as the saying went, was everything.
She crossed to the other side of the boulevard and made her way to the Piazza della Riforma. Lights burned in the windows of SBL PrivatBank’s global headquarters. She entered the café opposite the bank and ordered a cappuccino. Twenty minutes later, at 10:50 a.m., a convoy of three Mercedes saloon cars appeared at the bank’s side entrance.
Right on schedule, she thought.
She rang Christopher and with studied indifference inquired as to his whereabouts. He informed her that he was waiting for the valet at the Splendide to deliver their car. He did so in Peter Marlowe’s public school drawl in the event Switzerland’s formidable signals intelligence service was monitoring the call.
“Here he comes now,” said Christopher. “I won’t be but a moment or two.”
“Take your time, darling,” replied Sarah and rang off.
Her detachment was as counterfeit as Christopher’s earlier phone calls. It was imperative that her husband collect her in the Piazza della Riforma at eleven o’clock sharp. That was when Franco Tedeschi, head of SBL PrivatBank’s asset management division, was scheduled to leave for the airport. Markus Vogel of Executive Flight Services had reserved a noon departure slot for the short flight to Nice. It was a drive of approximately twenty-five minutes to the home of Alexander Prokhorov in Antibes, with ground transportation arranged by Herr Vogel. If everything went according to plan, Franco Tedeschi and party would be back in Lugano by 5:00 p.m. At which point a second heist would occur. It was for that reason Sarah and Christopher were minding their manners on the phone. They would soon be accessories to a major international crime.
Sarah waited until 10:59 to settle her bill and leave the café. She paid little heed to the six men who poured from the side entrance of SBL PrivatBank a minute later. One was Franco Tedeschi, one was Peter van de Velde, and the other four were bodyguards, all officially licensed to carry firearms. It was Van de Velde who had possession of the painting. He joined Franco Tedeschi in the back seat of the second Mercedes, and the four bodyguards piled into the lead vehicle and the chase car. Several doors slammed in unison. Then the motorcade sped from the bank as though fleeing the scene of a crime.
Sarah, however, took her time making her way from the piazza to the lakefront boulevard, where Christopher, behind the wheel of a rented Audi, slowed long enough to collect her. A moment later he was directly behind the third Mercedes in the convoy.
“Slow down, darling. You’re too close.”
Christopher frowned. “You’ve obviously been hanging out with your old boyfriend again.”
She squeezed the back of his powerful sun-bronzed hand. “We were never lovers. You know that.”
“Not for your lack of trying.”
“It was a passing phase.”
“That lasted the better part of ten years, as I recall.”
The motorcade entered a traffic circle. “Pay attention, darling. Otherwise you’ll lose them.”
“Because I know where they’re going,” replied Christopher, lighting a Marlboro, “that’s not possible.”
“Spend much time here in lovely Lugano?”
