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“To the Mandarin Oriental?”
“No,” said Anna. “To Munich.”
“I avoid it whenever possible, if you must know.”
“Even now?” Anna smiled sadly. “It took me an age to get the story out of you.”
“Actually, it took you about a day and a half.”
“You wanted to tell me about your past. My God, you were a wreck back then.”
“So were you, as I recall.”
“Still am. You, on the other hand, seem deliriously happy.” She drew the curtains. “You mentioned something about needing a favor. But I have a terrible feeling it was a rather transparent ruse on your part to get me into bed. If that was indeed the case, your plan worked to perfection.”
“You promised to behave yourself.”
“I said no such thing.” Anna returned to the couch. “All right, you have my complete and undivided attention. What do you want from me this time?”
“I would like you to dispose of six of the paintings that you inherited from your father.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Anna exclaimed. “To tell you the truth, I’ve wanted to sell those wretched paintings for years. But tell me, which six did you have in mind?”
“The Modigliani, the Van Gogh, the Renoir, the Cézanne, and the Monet.”
“That’s only five. Furthermore, I own no works by any of the artists you mentioned.” She regarded him over her wineglass. “But then you already knew that. After all, you were with me the morning I found the last sixteen paintings from my father’s collection of looted Impressionist and modern art.”
“It turns out there were six additional paintings that we didn’t know about.”
“Really?” Anna raised a hand to her mouth, feigning astonishment. “And where were they hiding?”
“In a bank vault in Lugano. The Rolfe family lawyer told you about them after the scandal over your father’s wartime conduct had died down. You instructed the lawyer to smuggle the paintings out of Switzerland and deliver them to your villa in Portugal.”
“How naughty of me. Are they still there?”
“Yes, of course.”
“In that case,” said Anna, “I’m obligated to report them to the Swiss government immediately. Otherwise, I will face stiff fines. You see, Canton Zurich taxes the wealth of its residents annually. Each year I must submit a detailed list of my possessions, including an inventory of the paintings I own. And each year the government pockets a not insignificant portion of my net worth.”
“What is it these days, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s possible it starts with the letter B.”
“And the number before the B?”
She delivered her answer with raised eyebrows. “Could be a two.”
“I never realized there was that much.”
“I am the only surviving heir to the Rolfe banking fortune. I’ve also earned a considerable sum of money throughout my long recording and concert career. But the last thing I would ever do is conceal my wealth to avoid paying taxes. That’s the sort of thing my father did.”
“It turns out that you’re more alike than you realized.”
Anna frowned. “If you keep talking like that, my love, you will never get me into bed. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. When, exactly, did my father acquire these mysterious paintings?”
“In the fifties, mainly in France. They don’t appear in the Lost Art Database or any other registry of looted artwork. But given your father’s deplorable wartime conduct, most reputable dealers and collectors would steer clear of them. Which is why you’re going to place them with a certain Edmond Ricard in the Geneva Freeport.”
“And why would I do that?”
