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“The shipment of those six paintings from Portugal to the Freeport was a violation of Swiss law.”
“The paintings weren’t genuine, though.”
“Yet another crime on your part,” said Bittel. He was tall and bald and bespectacled, with the cold demeanor of a Zurich private banker. “Needless to say, it is illegal to traffic in forged paintings here in Switzerland.”
“But I made no effort to profit from my work. Therefore, I engaged in no unlawful activity.”
“What about the sales agreement on Monsieur Ricard’s desk?”
“I was never going to allow Anna to sign it. The transaction was a ruse on my part to find the Picasso.”
“Which is now missing again.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“You should have come to me in the beginning,” said Bittel.
“And what would you have done?”
“I would have referred the matter to an investigating magistrate here in Geneva, and the magistrate would have conducted a thorough probe.”
“Which would have taken years, allowing the owner of the Picasso plenty of time to move it elsewhere.”
“We have laws, Allon.”
“And those laws make it next to impossible for the rightful owners of looted Holocaust art to reclaim their property.”
Bittel did not offer a retort, for there was none. He did, however, suggest that this case might have been different.
“Why?” asked Gabriel.
“Our tax and customs authorities have been concerned about the scale and legitimacy of Monsieur Ricard’s activities for some time now. Regrettably, there was little appetite to do anything about it.”
“I’m shocked to hear that.”
Bittel shrugged his shoulders to indicate dismay or resignation or something in between. “This is the business of Switzerland, Allon. We cater to the needs of the global superrich. The Geneva Freeport alone brings billions of dollars of wealth to our little landlocked country each year.”
“Which is why you and your friends from the Police Cantonale are desperately trying to find a way to cover up the fact that someone hacked into the Freeport’s computer network and stole a painting worth more than a hundred million dollars. Otherwise, the global superrich might decide to store their paintings and gold bars in Singapore or Delaware instead of Switzerland.”
“An all too real possibility.”
“How are you going to handle it?”
“The same way I’ve dealt with every other mess you’ve made in Switzerland.”
“I wasn’t there?”
Bittel shook his head. “And neither was your friend Anna Rolfe.”
“How do you intend to explain the dead art dealer?”
“The Police Cantonale will explore several possible theories, none of them involving a Picasso once owned by a Parisian Jew who was murdered at Auschwitz. You, however, will continue searching for the painting—and for Monsieur Ricard’s killer, of course. And you will report your findings to no one but me.”
“And if I were to decline your generous offer?”
“The Police Cantonale will have no choice but to arrest Anna Rolfe’s assistant. Evidently, she bears more than a passing resemblance to the suspect in a robbery that occurred not long ago at the Hôtel Métropole.”
“With good reason,” said Gabriel.
